This weekend my brother partied in true Bobcat style at Ohio University’s Halloween festivities. He drunk-dialed me at about 4:30. In the afternoon. Clearly well off.
My favorite costume was the year I was a movie theatre box of popcorn. My dad and I sprayed painted this big box yellow and stenciled the word “POPCORN” on all four sides. We then popped lots of popcorn and glues it to the top. (We sprayed it with something so it wouldn’t get nasty.) My head stuck out the top of the box, me legs out the bottom and my arms out the side. It was sweet.
UNTIL I went trick or treating and sat down inside the box (it was warmer in there) and got stuck.
You know when there is something that makes you angry but you have become so accustomed to it that you don’t even bring it up in conversation anymore? And then someone gets you started and you get ALL FIRED UP and you remember why you were irritated in the first place?
My friend was telling me about his not-that-new-anymore-job doing some sort of reporting on the hill. At least in some respects he has the kind of reporting job you envision for yourself when you are in college studying journalism. He has attended press conferences and asked questions to senators or congressmen or whomever. The only point to be made here is that his job is at least quality enough that it gives him access to fairly high-ranking people.
And then he goes back to his office to work on his computer. That is running on Windows 98. And uses dial-up internet. And has a five inch floppy drive. This still makes me snicker to think about. Practically to the point of tears. He can barely open up .pdfs! Seriously, I know you don’t know him, but if I ever introduce you to a friend and say he works in DC, you should immediately ask him about dial-up internet in the workplace and be prepared for rib-hurting laughter.
Sometimes you travel along in life and, without meaning to, end up losing touch with some of your friends. Then one of them picks up the phone and calls you and, like on a train on Space Mountain, you are hurtled back to five years ago in college sitting at a bar with a pitcher of beer between you. You’re on the phone completing each other sentences and getting each worked up into annoyed fury about things like dial-up internet and plastic bracelets for a cause – more on those things at a later date. And the next night, while drinking beer from the beautiful glass you rightfully stole, you remember how much that friendship means to you.
I have this collection of beer classes – okay, three of them don’t make a very big collection, but no matter – that are all stolen. In fact, they are all stolen from locales across Europe and all while in the company of my friend Dave.
Glass number one if by far the best, though.
Our first night in London visiting Ricky, after my killer nap on the double-decker bus tour through the city, we are sitting in a pub have beers and discovering the joy that is Stella Artois. Our Stella is served in these beautiful pint glasses that are a little taller than normal and have this little lip around the top. After hours of sleep and the disorientation of jetlag, we are promptly drunk – the kind of drunk where I am easily convinced to get and fetch cigarettes from random people. I am dared to go and get a fag off the boys at the bar – to see if I am willing to say fag, and be Brit enough to use their slang for cigarettes. I am not. At all. But I am American enough to enjoy being the drunk foreign girl with the accent. I had an accent in London! Why did this not occur to me before going there? In Cincinnati I know I have an accent and say my O’s funny and probably bagel too. I can’t say “monster” and tend to say “alls.” But that does not, in my mind, an accent make. But to the boys at the bar who gave me some cigarettes, I was a drunk yank. Back at the table, sharing stolen cigarettes, Ricky, Dave and I ogled are glasses. I can’t speak for Ricky. Maybe as a resident of London he felt wrong stealing from that fabulous little pub. Us yanks though, we slipped those glasses right into our bags.
And beer in a stolen Stella Artois glass, if you have not had it, is wonderful.
Remember when you would never consider going out without pre-gaming it first? Remember when pre-gaming it meant splitting s case of beer with a friend? Remember when you could drink a whole case if beer by yourself? And still remember the evening? And wake up feeling fine? And start partying at about 11 a.m. the next day?
This is an email my brother Jake sent to the family, parents included. As a point of reference, he is twenty. I could have deleted the first paragraph, where he is basically bragging about the 12,000 mp3s he has on his computer, which by the way he didn’t even download himself but which were given to him by my BF. But it’s funny to me. The second paragraph, though, might make you feel old.
So people have been giving me shit about how I have way more music on my computer than I could ever listen to. I went ahead and used the Play Count feature to check the songs I’ve listened to at least once. After crunching some numbers, I discovered I’ve listened to 2.7% of my music. The song that’s been played the most? None other than Will Smith’s “Miami,” with 9 plays. Tied for a close 2nd are “Summer of ’69” by Bryan Adams, “Money For Nothing” by Dire Straits and “Bust a Move” by Young MC.
In other news, I know you guys all love to play Power Hour, the game where you take a shot of beer every minute. Or maybe you even like to tackle Century Club, the extended version of the same game. Well now you can make your own Power Hour mixes with iPowerHour. iPowerHour plays the first minute of every song on your playlist. It’s really great and the desktop icon is a mug of beer.
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