Thursday, April 26, 2012

High School Reunions

 

My 20 year high school reunion is right around the corner which got me thinking about my 10 year reunion and reunions in general. What follows are a few observations in no particular order of importance.

1) Motivation to attend: This one’s pretty simple. People go to these things for one of two reasons: a) they want to flaunt how good-looking and successful they’ve turned out, or b) they want to see how bad-looking and unsuccessful their classmates turned out. I'm going for both.

2) Spouses’ experiences at the event: My wife attended my 10 year reunion and will never attend another of my reunions ever again. She spent the entire night sitting around watching me and my classmates “peacocking” (her words not mine), reminiscing about memories from high school, and exaggerating (lying) about their accomplishments ever since. I’d say her level of entertainment at the event fell somewhere between a mammogram and a root canal. Sorry, babe.

3) Memories of classmates: Either the alcohol has done more damage to my brain than I thought, or I just didn’t pay attention to the people I went to high school with. You know the awkward exchanges I’m referring to. Actual exchange: “Hey, you. Of course I remember you. We were in that class together and hung out together at that thing…” Simultaneous exchange taking place in your head: “Look it’s not you, it’s me. Scratch that, it’s you. It’s not that I’m not trying to remember you, it’s just that you’re obviously not that memorable.”

4) The Facebook effect: I’m a little concerned about the impact Facebook will have on my interactions with people. Seeing as how I’ve already Facebook stalked everyone prior to the event, what the hell am I going to talk to people about? I already know their marital status, if they have kids (and if so what those kids look like), what they do for a living, their political philosophy, their religious orientation, shit I probably even know what they had for breakfast (the over-posters anyway). So what’s left to converse about? Thank God for alcohol.

5) The epiphany moment: It didn’t hit me until about half-way through my 10 year reunion. That epiphany moment when you look back on high school and everything that happened during those four years, and realize that after you graduated none of that shit mattered. You could have been homecoming king, the prom queen, captain of the football team, head cheerleader, most likely to succeed, or just some nerd no one remembers. The fact is once you moved on and left the confines of that institution behind, the clock was reset and everyone got a clean slate. What you did with it from there had absolutely nothing to do with the person you were in high school. For a select few this was actually a bad thing but for everyone else, amen.

6) Nostalgia feels good: As much as you got dumped on, or picked on, or looked like a 12-year-old boy throughout your senior year (and well into college in my case), there’s something about the past that feels undeniably good. Whenever I drive down the I-5 freeway from OC to San Diego and hit the county line, I feel an intangible comfort wash over me (even though San Diego’s no longer my home). It’s hard to explain but I got a similar feeling walking into my 10 year reunion, and expect the same feeling walking into my 20 year. A common past unites us, and good, bad, or indifferent, we shared four years together during a very formidable time in our lives. This you cannot take away.

7) Awkward interactions w/ old flames: I would say awkward personal interactions w/ old flames, but I was a late bloomer and as such had very few high school hook-ups (don’t worry, life’s a marathon not a sprint), so instead I’m going to say observing the awkward interactions of other people who hooked up back in the day. This was an entertaining exercise at the 10 year reunion. At the 20 year reunion, I plan on enjoying the awkward interactions of those who hooked up at the 10 year (you know who you are).

8) The gift that keeps on giving: I bet when you ran for student body president your senior year, you had no idea you’d be on the hook for organizing reunions for the rest of your life. I actually feel bad for the student body presidents out there. Planning a reunion must be a lot of work (not that I would know). Every 10 years I say I’ll help out however I can, but just like when I offer to help someone move or drive them to the airport, it’s a completely empty proposition.

9) One-uppers are the worst: You know that person who always has a slightly better story to top your story, whose friends are slightly more interesting than your friends, and whose job is slightly more prestigious than your job? Man, I hate that guy/girl. And you’ll never find a higher concentration of these d-bags than at a high school reunion. Internal dialogue in your head: “Come on brain, let’s just get through this night without punching anyone in the face, we won’t have to see any of these assholes for another 10 years, and then I can get back to killing you with beer.”

10) No-shows beware: Kind of like at work when all hell breaks loose and the last person to join the conference call is inevitably blamed for the problem, so goes the plight of the reunion no-show. If you’re not there to defend yourself, there’s a high likelihood that you could and will be defamed. “Remember that slut? I heard she popped out a few kids and ended up a single-mom stripper in Reno.” “That guy? Yeah, my sister said his wife left him for the contractor and now he’s out of work and lives with his folks.” “That couple who got married right out of high school? Apparently he came out of the closet a few years later, married some dude from a boy band, and nobody ever heard from her again.” High school classmates talking shit about one another behind each other’s backs? I guess some things never change.

Looking forward to seeing my fellow Norsemen in August.

Cheers,

The Quinsey Blog

Friday, April 20, 2012

Confessions of a Closet Metrosexual

 

I watch the Food Network regularly and enjoy cooking. I find gardening to be therapeutic. I work out every day, watch what I eat, and take pride in my physical appearance. I’ve been known to occasionally watch “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Glee”. I own a 5 pound shih tzu who I say belongs to the kids, but is really mine. I prefer white wine to red. I’ve never changed my own oil or put on a spare tire. I eat chicken wings with a fork and knife, and I blot the grease off my pizza. I sometimes (always) shave my chest. My own wife loves to tease me and say if I wasn’t married to her she might have to question my sexuality. I realize I’ve just lost the respect of at least half of my readership, but full disclosure was necessary to make the point which I’ll eventually get to.

To prove my manhood and illustrate my keen understanding of how the manly mind works, I’ve put together a check list of 10 things a real man would never say:

1) Tell me how you feel about that.

2) I’ve decided to give up drinking.

3) Can I get my dressing on the side, please?

4) I’m too tired for sex tonight.

5) What time does “American Idol” come on?

6) I’ll go with the veggie burger.

7) What’s the thread count on those sheets?

8) I’m just going to pull over and ask for directions.

9) That’s a good color on you.

10) Is this the new Katy Perry song?

Wait. I’ve said 7 of those very things in the past week alone. Shit, now I’m confused. What was the point I was trying to make again?

Seacrest, outed.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Vegas Inspired Prose

 

I’m a big fan of T.S. Eliot and an even bigger fan of Las Vegas, NV. A recent trip to Vegas inspired me to wax the poetical, a la T.S. Eliot style. I call it:

The Greatest Freak Show on Earth

Simultaneously the most exciting and disgusting city in the world, festering paradise

Fat chick with tattoos in high heels and short skirt, slump buster

Mysterious Asian dude in cheap leisure suit with huge stacks of black chips, gambler

The perfect destination for the white trash honeymoon, red states

Gold chain and affliction t-shirt wearing guy, crying on the inside

Old guy w/ oxygen tank smoking while playing slots, spontaneous combustion

Random dude on strip charging tourists for pictures with his parrots, huh?

Non-English speaking Euro who insists on hitting 12 even though the dealer shows 6, chain smoking asshole

Guy who’s figured out how to beat the odds and wants to tell you all about it, MIT student

Homeless teenagers with cleverly written signs squatting on the bridge, “I just want to be like you

Lame bachelor party tools reciting lines from “The Hangover”, justified sucker punch

Dude on “business trip” over-drinking and unsuccessfully hitting on waitress, call your wife douche bag

Ugly Nebraskans snapping uninspired pictures in front of everything they pass by, inappropriate family vacation

Creepy old guy out to expensive dinner w/ Russian prostitute, don’t stare

Guy in “I love porn” t-shirt barely able to form a sentence, inside voice buddy

Burned out hippie playing electric guitar for spare change on the bridge – “And she’s buying the stairway to heaven

I’m here for 3 days, why do you ask? Cheap show tickets, a trip to the Grand Canyon, a timeshare at the Hard Rock, Russian prostitutes? Tempting, but no thanks

Short Mexican dudes snapping pictures of naked chicks at you on the strip, timeless

Vigilant black guy pimping original CD’s for a song and bottles of water for a dollar, the new American entrepreneur

Vomit, sex, drugs, money, adrenalin, celebrities, homicide, bright lights, broken dreams… a f*cking cat with sunglasses?

Must be Vegas

Thursday, April 5, 2012

As Nasty As I Wanna Be – My First Attempt at Freestyle Blogging



It’s been a while since my last post (over 3 weeks to be exact) and I’m starting to jones for some blogger love. The problem is I haven’t had any time to formulate a theme or motif for this post (my damn day job’s getting in the way of what’s really important). Therefore I’m just going to ramble / shoot from the hip. Like a “freestyle” rap, only delivered by a white guy with no rhythm who doesn’t think society’s against him. Hit it.

• I know this fat lady who’s a personal trainer. So I ask myself why the f*ck would anyone go to a fat personal trainer? It would be like going to a hair stylist with f*cked up hair. Or taking financial advice from a person with a state school education.

• Is anyone else curious as to when Starbucks started putting crack in their iced coffee? I swear without my daily Starbucks reboot around 2:00 or 3:00 pm, I’m completely worthless for the rest of the day.

• Last week at the airport they let this really fat dude board the plane ahead of everyone else, which really pissed me off. I’m sorry but self-inflicted handicaps (like obesity) should not be recognized as legitimate handicaps. Back of the plane, fatty.

• I saw this lady pan-handling on the corner yesterday. Her sign read: “Homeless with disabled child. Please help.” I immediately was struck by two things:

1) She was fat – if she’s so poor where’d she get the money for all those calories?

2) She was alone – where’s the disabled child? Am I supposed to just take the word of a fat, homeless person at face value?

I know, I know I’m clearly missing that thing decent people call empathy. What can I say? I was born this way.

• Why are greeting cards so damn expensive? 6 bucks to tell someone you’re sorry for their loss? What the f*ck, Hallmark? It’s ink and paper – you should be ashamed of yourselves.

• Why do people who are new to fitness insist on talking / posting about it all the time? You’re finally exercising and eating right? Good for you, now shut the f*ck up.

• Ever notice how personal injury lawyers only advertise on billboards in the absolute worst parts of town? I guess low-life's prefer working with their own kind.

• One of my good friends recently sent me a copy of “The Drinker’s Dictionary”, which contains 220 expressions for “drunk” documented by Benjamin Franklin. I had a good laugh and thought I would share a few of my favorites:

o He’s Drunk as a Wheelbarrow

o He’s Wamble Crop’d

o He’s Taken Off His Considering Cap

o He’s Wasted his Paunch

o He’s Lost His Rudder

o He Carries Too Much Sail

o He’s Sold His Senses


No matter how you say it it’s hard to deny that the best stories always start and end with the famous last words: “Let’s get f*cked up.”

That’s all I’ve got time for now.

Word (whatever the f*ck that means).