Up late, feeling weird

I find myself up at nights with this unfamiliar energy that I can't shake off. It's not something easily described, like most sensations rooted deeply into a psyche. It's like my brain is screaming at the rest of my body, “DO IT,” but never really explains to me what “it” is. So in many ways, my writing this is my way of trying to get my brain to shut the fuck up. I'm approaching 4:00 AM, and no matter how many times I highlight and delete full paragraphs from what you're reading, I'm still getting yelled at by my brain. The last paragraph with the Arrested Development reference actually wasn't bad, but by the end I was hit with a barrage of “is that what you want to say,” “that's not quite right,” “no, try again, you can do better.” My brain's a perfectionist, clearly the rest of me is not or I would have picked up that tissue that missed the garbage... three days ago.

Is this how you know you're going crazy? When your brain and the rest of you seem to be communicating on two entirely different wavelengths? The only thing I'm worried about is what kind of crazy I am. Am I crazy like the Wright brothers: “See that bird? Let's do that.” Or am I crazy like the Mansons: “See that bird? Let's go eat a hooker.” Considering I'm not smart enough to invent something like human flight, and not hungry enough for a whole hooker at the moment, I'm probably somewhere in between. But either way, I'd like to think that this is a similar sensation that many of the great creative minds have experienced. I guess I just feel better believing that Louis CK stayed up at night with a sense of undefined purpose before he started turning out the funniest jokes on the planet.

The last few days have been a complete waste. I've been stuck in a cycle of: wake up, walk to computer, overeat, go to bed, repeat. A less than ideal pattern of behavior for someone with big ambitions, probably too big. I'm not ashamed to admit that I value nothingness more than most people probably should, but I've started 2012 off with a complacent groan and it needs to change.

I've heard from successful people that the key to achieving what you want in life comes down to just doing it. Want to be a comedian? Get on stage. Want to write a book? Start typing. Want to make a movie? Find a camera. The world is made up of people that did it and people that kept saying “Well it's not that simple...”

People spend their entire lives just waiting for that spark of inspiration that sets them on the path they think they deserve. But the fact of the matter is that life doesn't give you that spark. What life gives you is a free night to think every now and then, and a decent bottle of wine. Then you're on your own. Asking for anything more is pissing in the wind.

Perhaps this is a trait of my generation. It seems like just about everything that's been invented since I was born was made to distract me from more meaningful endeavors. Of course Michelangelo could focus on painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he didn't have a Netflix queue to watch or access to pornography on his phone. Why wouldn't Beethoven compose those nine symphonies if the only alternative form of entertainment was playing hopscotch or dying of the bubonic plague. I don't intend to blame the shortcomings of this lethargic generation on the technological advances that are supposed to represent the forward thinking we so obviously lack. But it's impossible to even finish a thought, let alone an idea, when every time you blink there's a new shiny gadget offering instant satisfaction.

This is the hand we're dealt. And I don't feel like folding this one, at least not tonight. That's why I'm still up at a time when most people are just waking up for a productive little Wednesday. I'm awake because this itch wouldn't scratch itself. I'm awake because that twinge my brain is giving me is sick of being cast aside, and I decided that it had a good point. I'm awake because even though I don't have any idea what the hell I'm writing about, I know I had to write it.  

The Bachelor Party (2 of 3)

                Internet, last time we spoke, I was trying my best to be a poetic and heartfelt writer in describing my experience at a wedding. The reception to this writing was warm, and appreciated. But, from more than one of your constituents, I heard you were wondering where my crass childish side had gone. I assure you, that side is living well.

                The day after the wedding, I had to wake up early to drive home to begin another good excuse to start binge drinking, a bachelor party. This was the first bachelor party I had ever attended, so my only perspective on such an event has been from watching movies like The Hangover.

                This is my friend’s “last” night as a single man. So I was fully expecting to arrive at the cabin the party was taking place, and be welcomed by hookers with hardcore drugs. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find any hookers in Clear Lake, Minnesota (at least none that fit my strict criteria), and we didn’t have the courage to ask the neighbors if that was indeed a meth lab in their basement. Now we’ll never know.

                Instead, there was other manly, more legal, shenanigans. The first example of which was a game called “beer darts.” I had no idea that drinking games could be so dangerous. Basically, everyone sits in lawn chairs in a circle outdoors with their beer can sitting between their feet in front of them. Then, you take turns throwing steel-tipped darts at other people’s cans. If you hit the can, that person has to drink out of it until the can stops leaking from the hole the dart just made. Needless to say, I thought I was going to lose a toe on more than one occasion.

                We head out on the lake on a pontoon to play more drinking games. These got particularly interesting due to the fact that we had six people on a pontoon with a capacity of four. Trying to keep ourselves from nose diving and sinking the entire boat was a game in of itself.

                At this point in the night, I thought we had done the status quo of what is expected at a bachelor party. We were drinking, we were yelling, and we were using the phrase “man-shit” just about any time someone threw something, caught something, hit something, broke something, flexed a muscle, or farted on someone. You know… man-shit.

                The evening took a turn for the weird when we made the decision to go to the local street dance. And I knew it was going to be a weird turn because when we got there, one of the bachelor’s friends, whom I’ve met only once before, looked at me and said “let’s get fuckin’ weird” when we arrived at the street dance.

                The details are blurry from this point forward, but I do remember the lead singer pointing to me in the crowd in admiration of the batman logo on the front of my shirt. And I’m not surprised, it’s basically the coolest shirt on the planet. After that, I just remember wandering on stage and dancing with a middle aged woman in a Jared Allen jersey while singing along to “I Got Friends In Low Places” by Garth Brooks… I’m not proud. But, the locals certainly seemed to appreciate my moves.

                Somehow, I ended up leaving the dance with a near-life-size cut-out of Snoop Dogg advertising a new flavor of malt liquor from Colt .45. This racist joke pretty much writes itself.

                I know I usually try to find some sort of heartfelt meaning behind these trivial life experiences, but I’m struggling to find one here. If there’s anything I took away from it, it’s that men need very little excuse to behave like total jackasses. Essentially, all it took for us to get out of hand was a wedding coming up in three weeks and our appreciation for farting in crowds of strangers.

                I’ll finish off these epic trilogy in the coming days. In the meantime, remember that it’s not all a joke, but it’s all funny.

The Wedding (part 1 of 3)

                Over this past week, I’ve experienced an odd spectrum of experiences. It just so happens that two different couples I know were going through their processes of getting married. One couple got married this Friday, while the other was having their bachelor and bachelorette parties on Saturday.

                So, in essence, I witnessed the final celebration of my friend’s life as a single man, and the first moment of my other friend’s life as a married woman. But, I saw them in reverse order, so it gave me an odd perspective.

                First, let’s talk about the wedding.

                I’m at the point in my life where many my friends are graduating college and moving on to the next phase of their lives, adulthood. Yes, the time in your life that you stop thinking about essays, drink specials, and getting laid. And you starting worrying about taxes, blood pressure, and some horrific thing called a “colonoscopy.” I’m not quite there yet, and I’m not sure if I ever will. I just don’t see a time in my life that I wouldn’t love cartoons.

                The wedding was preceded by me having to rush out and go buy a gift for the soon-to-be newlyweds. I’m not sure what made me feel more adult, buying a coffee maker, or printing off a registry at a Macy’s. The answer is neither, I felt more adult when I got really excited about the coffee maker being on sale.

                The wedding was beautiful, of course. The bride was gorgeous, of course. And the dance floor was an absolute train-wreck, of course. It’s a celebration.

                Looking out on the dance floor, I continued to ask myself, “will I ever be that uncool?” At what point in your life do you lose all rhythm and start dancing like you just found out you had functioning arms and legs. I’m guessing it’s the same time you decide to have the same haircut the rest of your life. But, who am I to judge? After a few (19) trips to the free bar, I became one of those dopes.

                I also had the pleasure of bringing a date to the event, my girlfriend. And thanks to having so many photographers as friends, I now have clear visual evidence that I can show my friends to prove I’m not gay. These are the sorts of things you value after being single for a while.

                There was a moment in the night when the reception was just winding down and the aforementioned abomination of a dance floor had pretty much cleared out. People were paying little attention to the music at this point, and people were ready to head home for the most part. The bride and groom were practically the only ones left on the dance floor, because the DJ had finally put on a song the bride actually requested, Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” The smiles on their faces were like something you’ve seen in a picture frame at Target. The only difference was that these two people were experiencing real, genuine happiness, unlike the models.

                The groom picks up the bride from behind her knees and lays a big dramatic kiss on his wife. There is something moving about seeing love that up close. I know it sounds a bit cheesy, but it’s true. They didn’t do that because a photographer told them to, or because they thought it would be cute for everyone to see, they did it because they just decided to spend the rest of their lives together and couldn’t be more excited.

                That’s really what it comes down to. When all the hoopla of being young and in love and surrounded by people is over, what matters most is the two of them. If I’ve learned anything from watching my parents be together, it’s that making a relationship work is far from the easiest thing in the world, but it’s worth it if you’re right for each other.

                I know, allow me to give you a moment while you grab a tissue…

                If you’ve had enough of my clear influences from romantic comedies, the look for the next post in the next couple days. We will be discussing a bachelor party that… well… got a little weird.

                In the mean time, I will ask you to join me in my hunt to destroy the people responsible for claiming that Amy Winehouse is in any way comparable to Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix.

                And remember, it’s not all a joke, but it’s all funny.