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Up All Night |
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My mother used to always tell me that if I didn't get enough sleep I wouldn't be able to pay attention in school, and all hope of my leading a successful future would drown amidst the spittle pooling around the corner of my mouth next to the anarchy symbol I'd etched into my desk as an act of anonymous youthful rebellion. Unfortunately for me, our classroom had only fifteen kids and we were assigned desks. I had plenty of time to sleep though, as the experimental anti-depressant medication our unlicensed school psychiatrist prescribed to me slipped me into a pretty deep coma. I'm not allowed to ascend stairwells anymore due to my right leg's residual bouts with inertia, but I've come to conclude that most things which require walking up stairs for aren't worth the effort anyway. That means you, consentual sex!
I'm twenty-two now and I'm not in school anymore. I want to go back though. I've got it written on that same mental to-do list as propositioning a nefarious property baron to a Zeppelin race around the world, so one of these days! I mean, older relatives are always telling me I should go back. They'll make vague blanket statements addressing how surprised they are that a kid as smart as I am isn't in school and that they can't believe I'm letting so much potential go to waste. They'll then offer possible career advice like how since I know how to perform remedial tasks such as sending e-mail and winning at beginner minesweeper that I should maybe look into working with computers for a living. These are the same old aunts and uncles who don't use calculators "because you can never trust machines," and I'm positive that if I were to tell them that I knew how to make actual words appear on the computer screen, their eyes would probably revolve until two dollar signs popped up in place of the corneas and their tongues would pop out with a comical cash register noise to reveal a small canary holding a "NO SALE!" sign. There isn't much incentive for me to try and will my body out of entropy with the intent of acclimating myself in the ways of the world prior to lunchtime. Most of my friends hold actual jobs which require some degree of responsibility and post operating business hours more in line with what the rest of civilization would consider standard, so even if there were something to do it wouldn't be 'till later in the day anyway. I do hold a job though. I work in a video store, which falls somewhere between homeless grifter and the guy on the other end of the line as productive contributions to American commerce. Most days I'm not scheduled until five o'clock in the afternoon. And this time of year where there are mornings when even the sun decides "fuck it, it's not even worth rising today," every so often, it isn't uncommon for me to go days without being scalded by its blistering melanoma-tinted rays of death. I'm sort of like vampires. Except with less consumption of blood and more homoerotic slash fiction. I wouldn't go so far as to label myself a deterrent to the forward progression of society though. I provide an invaluable service to the community, after all. Kids are always going to try and rent quality films such as "King's Ransom" or "Hair Show," and I provide an outlet through which to do so. Some would argue that I'm doing more to corrupt the moral integrity of our nation's youth than both rap music and fetal alcohol syndrome combined, but I'd refute that it'd only serve to further the notion that baby boomers are just out of touch with the ever changing climate of American youth-culture. Nothing speaks to an impressionable middle-class white suburbanite quite like Mo'Nique cementing her status as an independent woman while jiving and sassing all over Kevin Bacon's cracker ass. And I'm sorry to disappoint you old-timer, but Billy doesn't want to spend his Saturday night at home chuck-farthing or husking corn with an old fogie like yourself anymore. This is the twenty-first century; pops. He's got to jam his Vespa on down to Bristol and tussle with some skins! As you may have already ascertained, I don't vest much faith in a good night's sleep or its supposed "medical benefits" either. If I want to subscribe in superstitious mumbo jumbo, I've got a perfectly good copy of the bible for kids sitting on my bookshelf. An average session of sleep begins for me anywhere between seven and nine in the morning and ends come three in the afternoon. I don't feel as if I'm missing much during those hours. The only programs on TV during the day center around white and/or black trash arguing in front of a sassy judge who doesn't take any guff over such pressing issues as "how he goin' sit there an' say he aint do that," or "he aint just TELL me he aint do that, is he," so I'm pretty sure I'm not missing out on the next great cultural revolution anytime soon. No, late at night is when I'm at my most productive. There's nothing quite like the serene blanket of darkness to get one's creative juices flowing. Why, I've come up with a million ways to help pass the time where the only noises you'll hear emanating from the streets are the ear-piercing screams of murder victims and the miscreants looting the body for liquor money. What's that? You want me to share a few of them with you? Nah, I couldn't. No, really! Stop asking! Dude! You're embarrassing me! Oh all right! Set a World's Record By staying up all night trying to set a World's Record, you're setting the record for worst time management skills in recorded history. Have we really reached the point in human evolution where it's necessary to celebrate the shameless degradation of others? Congratulations. You've got the world's hairiest nostrils. I'm pretty sure the culmination of your life's work as the watermark by which all other aspiring dirtbags will be measured is doing your parents proud. You do remember Steve and Donna, right? She gave up a promising career as a paralegal secretary to stay home and raise you, and he worked fingers to the bone down at the foundry to make sure you always had dinner on the table and a roof over your head. They may not have planned for you, but they loved you and sacrificed their own happiness and ultimately the sanctity of their marriage to provide you with every opportunity to make something of yourself. You didn't even bother to show up to the funeral. But hey, years from now, you'll be remembered by drunks as a piece of pointless bar trivia. So I guess in the end you've done their legacy proud. Things are startin' to look up, kid! Cultivate a Drinking Habit Nothing resonates that aura of motivated young up and comer quite like slugging stale two-week old vodka & coke out of a Big Gulp come two in the morning. And nothing compliments solitary alcoholism quite like AOL Instant Messenger! AIM is one of theGreat Inventions of Our Time. It affords self-conscious social neophytes such as myself the luxury of fine-tuning our witty rejoinders to perfection before sending them to girls we like in an attempt to garner even the slightest micron of praise and affection. The only way you're going to possibly increase your chances of coercing xSeXySaLlYx into meeting you and the gang for burgers and milkshakes down at the Surf Shack is by getting absolutely plastered before doing so. It’s common knowledge that nothing makes you quite so irresistible to the opposite sex as the stagnant aroma of cheap booze and inflated sense of self-esteem one accrues through the moderate to heavy intake of liquor, so combining alcohol and AIM would theoretically render you even more masculine and appealing to women than some sort of horrifying genetic mutation of John Wayne, Bruce Willis and Sylvester Stallone. The moral of the story is that science has gone too far and man is the true monster. But hold on there, champ! Before you hike up your britches, drop a few octaves and rope you a dame you’re going to need to make a few practice runs. Much like anything else probably not worth doing, practice makes perfect. So steal that bottle of Dewar’s from your old man’s liquor cabinet, hope he doesn’t beat you in the morning and get to work! Rome may not have been built in a day, but crippling addiction can be coaxed out of recession in a matter of hours. Write a Series of Increasingly Creepy Letters to a Celebrity There's nothing a person of even minor importance loves more than having their ego placated by an adoring piece of fan mail. Check out these excerpts from some recent late-night correspondence I sent to former The Single Guy star Joey Slatnick, for example! 9/15/2005 Dear Joey, Hey man, I just want to start by saying I'm a huge fan of yours. I've been with you since your breakout performance as "Doris' Fan #2" in "A League of Their Own." I had high hopes for "Boston Public" when I heard they'd cast you as the charismatic teacher Milton Buttle and you could only imagine my dismay when they wrote you out of the show after only a few episodes. Believe me, I sent Fox a letter giving them a piece of my mind. I think you should show them and pitch a spin-off of "Boston Public" to one of the major networks in which you reprise your role as fan favorite Milton Buttle! You could call it "Buttle's Buddies," and it could follow the continuing adventures (or dare I say misadventures!!!) of everybody's favorite cradle-robbing teacher as he gets into and out of all sorts of wacky situations! Maybe there could even be a walk-on cameo by your former boss and mentor, Stephen Harper! I think that'd be a real treat for your long-time fans! Anyway, I know you're busy, but shoot me back when you've got the chance. I can't wait to tell all my friends that I got a letter from Sam Sloan himself! We love you here in Massachusetts! Your #1 Buttle Buddy (lol), Justin 9/17/2005 S'up Joey, What's goin' on, bro? I haven't heard back from you yet, but you're probably busy working on all sorts of top-secret projects, so it's all cool in the pool. I was thinking about your character Joe from the hit UPN sitcom "Rock Me Baby," the other day and I got to wondering about how much fun you guys had on the set. Dan Cortese seems like a really cool guy and I'll bet you two had a lot of laughs poking fun at Carl "Cockroach" Anthony Payne! I don't know, maybe after a long day on the set you guys would go to a bar or somewhere just to unwind and watch the game with a few cold brewskies. I was imagining myself sitting in a corner booth with you guys, swapping stories about crazy nights out with the guys and getting advice from you about girls I like. Then, afterwards, we'd all head back to your place to just chill out and watch one of your movies. Maybe we'd pop in "Hollow Man" and you'd be embarrassed whenever your character, Frank Chase, was onscreen and I'd be there to tell you not to worry and that you rocked! Okay, I've gotta jet man. Be sure and get back to me soon, okay? Unless you've got "Idle Hands" of course (you were awesome in that movie, by the way). Your pal, Justin 9/19/2005 It's me again man! What's goin' on? I've been sitting at my computer all night hitting F4 every thirty seconds just in case you'd decided to write back. I know you're a busy Hollywood celebrity and all, but I hope all of your fame hasn't twisted your sense of propriety. You're probably a big deal from the small town you're from, but I'm pretty sure the simple people of Chicago wouldn't think too highly of you ignoring your biggest fan like this. I've gotta say, it isn't very becoming. I'm starting to worry. Are you okay? Maybe I should come and check up on you. Don't worry about giving me your address, either. Finding it wasn't much of a brain "Twister," if you know what I mean.
See ya soon man, Justin 9/22/2005 Dear asshole, Look out of your bathroom window, Joey. I've got a laptop now. Are you scared? Because you should be. I just wanted to talk with you, Joey. Maybe grab a bite to eat. We could've caught a flick or something. It would've been nice. You and I could've made real nice. It's too late for that now, though. You had to go and be Mr. Bigshot Celebrity, didn't you? I thought you were above all that, Joey. I thought you were different. But you're not. You're just like the rest of them. And you'll end up just like the rest of them, too. They all wrote me off, but let's just say I've got my own personal "walk of fame" in my basement. I wouldn't sleep tonight if I were you, Justin 9/26/2005 I'll see you in five to ten years, dick. Hoping to get out early on good behavior, #25034 Well, that just about covers things, I guess. The first beam of the sun's morning glow is peaking over the horizon and pretty soon the blue bird will sing the song of a coming morn' as the sunlight dances around with the morning dew. I should try and get some rest. Actually, I'm feeling sort of sleepy already. Maybe I'll just put my head down for a min-fffffffffff aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ppp igho;shgiespahgeopgsjaghropegehrjg90ergher90hhgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg |
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