Loving the beginning of spring

Days like today are why I love Reno.

The sun is beating down on the pine trees in beautiful 61-degree weather, I'm sitting outside of Fritz Bar and Grill drinking Corona and hanging out with my friend Dave, and all the stress, specifically as it relates to the Big Freaking Paper, is gone for the moment.

Oh, and there's a cute girl in a tube top sitting just behind Dave, so I can check out her infant nurturing region and look like I'm making eye contact with Dave.

This euphoria will go away soon enough – at any moment I'll realize that I have about two weeks to learn Flash, a month to finish my thesis and two months to figure out what I'm doing with my life – but right now I can go back to the way I was when I was sophomore and life was only as complicated as deciding between hard alcohol and beer.

I think that when I look back at college when I'm old (in about a year), those are the days I'll remember. My entire life, I've felt a ridiculous amount of pressure to try to be successful – whatever that means – at what I was doing.

Except for my middle years of college when, quite frankly, I stopped giving a shit and started loving everything about life, especially the part where I could make fun of the drunk, slutty sorority girls to their faces and they didn't get it.

I used to spend almost everyday like I'm spending today, plus or minus the alcohol and cleavage (who am I kidding, it was usually plus alcohol and minus cleavage). During my first two years of college, I spent my spring days imbibing with the homies on the back porch of their house before heading inside for a night of beer pong or going out for a night of general and debauchery that would almost certainly end in our expulsion from one of downtown's fine establishments or one of us winning $200 and buying breakfast.

If we weren't shooting the shit or hitting a casino, we were usually doing normal things (like sneaking alcohol into the movies) or watching our buddy Stefan drive a 10-speed off a homemade ramp in the middle of the street (oddly enough, we always did the dumbest stuff when we were sober).

Somewhere over the years, all that ended. No doubt part of it has to do with the fact that most of the people in our crowd have graduated, and then there's that moment of self-awareness when I realized the real word was coming whether I took it seriously or not.

Whatever the reason, I don't think I've ever laughed like I did during those days, so I'm going to enjoy what's going on in the moment while it's all fresh in my head. All the work and decisions and responsibility will weigh down on me soon enough, but right now I'm just going to tip back another beer and accept that I can worry about everything else tomorrow.

Click Here to Read More..

The Big Freaking Paper

This, my final semester in college (hopefully), could have been so easy.

I could have enjoyed these last months with stress-free nights drinking beer, hanging out with my friends and playing video games.

But no, like a damn fool I decided to write my honors thesis instead. I decided to write a 40-page, behemoth paper that consumes my every waking thought and terrorizes my dreams. And for what?

Three Latin words that supposedly validate my delicate genius.

So, in summation, I chose to put myself through absolute pain and hell to do something that supposedly suggests a higher level of cognitive decision making and intelligence. Anybody else taste the irony?

So it’s just past 3:00 a.m., and there’s no way I’m sleeping tonight.

I have to write an essay by 2:30, an annotation for my Tolkien class, and I have to finish a significant amount of work on my thesis for a 9:00 meeting.

My thesis is a content analysis and a semantic network analysis among 10 newspapers to discover the differences in the way the victims of the Virginia Tech Massacre are portrayed compared to soldiers of the same age who have died in Iraq.

I’m sure this seems easy enough, but it’s a royal pain in the ass. Newspapers don’t keep physical archives for more than a few months anymore, so I had to print out a list of headlines from each newspaper I’m using for the week following the Virginia Tech Massacre.

At the moment I’m sifting through roughly 2,000 pages of data and highlighting any story that might possibly have anything to do with Virginia Tech, the Iraq War or, in a world where there’s a god smiling on me, both so I can go back and check them later.

I only have about 160 pages left, which should only take a couple hours. I’ve come to appreciate all the newspapers that write straightforward headlines, as opposed to the ones that try to get all cutesy with everything.

“America’s youngest victims”

Could be about Va. Tech, but it could also be about babies, puppies, kittens, prepubescent drug users, or fetuses.

On the up, I’ve come up with a really solid backup topic in case this one doesn’t work out. If I must, I’m just going to do the analysis of the Virginia Tech Massacre between the two Virginia-based papers, USA Today (a national news source) and The Virginian-Pilot (a locally focused news source). I’ve also noticed that there’s a lot of death and violence in the news, and that the Virginia Tech coverage is reflective of paper quality. For instance, The Cleveland Plain-Dealer and its three stories is total bullocks, while The Detroit Free Press rocked the shit out of its coverage.

Anyway, this is extremely boring, so I’ve started writing down all the headlines that amuse me. Here are a couple:

“Cheap drinks entice college students”

No shit?

“Boy, 7, turns in cocaine worth $10,000”

He should have sold it.

“Stairway to Heaven” (by Led Zeppelin, obviously) was playing on my iTunes a few minutes ago, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Wayne’s World. Luckily, after about 15 minutes, “Paint it Black” (by the Stones) started playing, and now I’ve overcome my Wayne’s World jones by putting on Talladega Nights.

And I swear my towel is moving on it's hanger in the bathroom.

I’ve also started laughing out loud at every headline containing some variation of the words “erect” or “penetrate” (of which there are many) and I’m also amused by the 50th Wedding Anniversary section and the tremendous number of obituary entries in the St. Petersburg (Florida) Times (talk about confirming stereotypes).

Actually, that’s a lie. I have to look through every obituary in hopes the deceased person was killed in Iraq and under the age of 25. So I was amused for about five pages, but now I’m sort of pissed off that I have to keep highlighting all of them.

Once the St. Petersburg Times is finished, I have to go through the LA and NY Times. Then I have to write an essay for class about peeing virtually everywhere there is to pee downtown.

Screw it, I’m taking a nap.

Currently Reading: “Don’t Kill Yourself Books” by Various Artists

Line of the Day: “Relax, take a deep breath, now flog yourself for making a stupid damn decision.”

Currently watching: Talladega Nights (And yes, I do wake up in the morning and piss excellence)

From the iPod: “Stronger” by Kanye West (sampled from the immortal Daft Punk)

Click Here to Read More..

The week in published writing - 02/26/08

Mom and dad, I'm bisectional.

This week I did two columns, one about the Wells earthquake for news and another about Nevada men's basketball player Marcelus Kemp for sports.

Earthquake

The Truth

The earthquake story was difficult for me to write. For whatever reason I had a hard time keeping my emotions focused.

As far as the Kemp column, I had to write something and I didn't have much time to do it, so that's what happened.

Also, my cousin Ty sent me some photos of the earthquake damage. They're all of his parents' house and store. I tried to get some from my parents, but they'd already cleaned up by the time I asked them.

Click Here to Read More..

Damn you Oscars voting committee, damn you

I'm keeping this short because I just got off work and I'm tired, but I'm pissed off at last night's Oscar presentation.

I ended up picking half the major categories. That's not so good, but it's not really that bad either. That's also not the reason I'm pissed off.

First of all, how in the Christ did Tilda Swinton win best supporting actress? Creepiest almost-albino woman in a movie? Sure, I could live with that. But she wasn't even that good in Michael Clayton. And, as my friend Colleen pointed out, it looked like she was wearing a Hefty bag for a dress to the Oscars.

Granted the category wasn't all that strong, but it still had Cate Blanchett (Almost There) and Saoirse Ronan (Atonement).

I guess it makes sense, though, that the most overrated performance would take home the only prize for the most overrated film of the year.

I'm also wondering what lucid state of consciousness possessed the academy voters to vote for the Golden Compass over The Trasformers for best visual effects. Don't get me wrong, I like the Golden Compass. But Transformers was incredible from a visual standpoint, yet it was completely snubbed in the smaller categories it was nominated for.

Thank you, committee, for taking the perfect manifestation of my greatest childhood fantasy, setting it up on a pedestal, and then puking your aging, dried up pretentiousness all over it.

The taint will never come out, and for that I will never forgive you.

I've also gone on the record saying Transformers is a visual accomplishment on par with Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings (which took a lot for me to say). Thanks also for making me look like an ass.

Finally, and this is a small thing, Norbit didn't win for best makeup. Norbit had to be the worst film of the year, and I was banking on walking into Wal-Mart in about a month and seeing "Norbit: The Oscar awarding-winning film featuring Eddie Murphy" stocking the $5 bin and laughing my ass off.

From the iPod: "Mother Superior" by Coheed and Cambria

Click Here to Read More..

For time-saving purposes

For those of you who don't feel like reading 2,000-plus words about the movies I've seen, here are links to a couple Oscar podcasts and a story I did for the Sagebrush this week.

Podcast 1. This is an Oscars discussion between me and the movie writer for the Reno Gazette-Journal.

Asinine Conversation: Oscars Edition. Prepare to be dazzled by my propensity to drop the f-bomb.

Oscar Predictions. These are my picks for the newspaper (although I'm officially on the Saoirse Ronan's darkhorse band wagaon for best supporting actress).

Click Here to Read More..

Oscar time!

My favorite thing in the entire world is escaping reality, which probably explains most of my hobbies - napping, writing, drinking, etc.

I’m just not all that engaged by the mandates of every day life, so I take every opportunity I can to get away and do something else.

That’s why I love going to the movies. There’s something magic about the cinema, and the ability to get immersed in another world for 90 minutes or more really appeals to me.

So here’s a (lengthy) rundown of all the movies I’ve seen in the last month, just in time for the Oscars.

Caution: this post isn't for the faint of heart or anyone who has to be somewhere anytime soon (I don't even have the heart to proofread it).

There Will Be Blood
Score: 96

There Will Be Blood also confirmed to me that I’m a bad person.

The Paul Thomas Anderson flick, which is up for the Oscar for film of the year, chronicles a California oil man’s descent into madness as his greed and demons consume him and destroy his association to the rest of humanity.

It’s a very dark, twisted, serious movie with plenty of madness. No, that doesn’t do it justice. The movie is completely and uncompromisingly bat shit fucking crazy. And damn is it good.

Daniel Day-Lewis is flat out amazing in the lead role. He’s got to be the new case study for focused psychosis. There isn’t much in the way of a supporting cast in the movie, but Day-Lewis doesn’t need any help.

The cinematography matches the thematic darkness of the movie, and the score excels in its understatement.

At many parts, the film almost works like a silent film, which was very cool. Not only did the lack of sound help to focus and build the intensity as the film unraveled, but it also seemed to fit in with Day-Lewis’ solitude. Blood is as near to perfect as any film I’ve seen this year.

But aside from the movie’s general excellence, I also found the movie to be absolutely hilarious, and something tells me that wasn’t the intention intention.

Whether Day-Lewis was slapping around Eli, getting exorcised at some crazy church, or his son was trying to light him on fire, I seriously spent most of the movie laughing to the point of tears.

The rest of the audience started joining in the laughter about halfway through the movie, but I think they were mostly cracking up at what I was laughing at. I’d never been “that guy” before, but I couldn’t help myself.

I was particularly intrigued with the closing scene, which I rate as maybe my favorite all-time. I’ve never been privileged enough to watch a climax that achieves such comedic and dramatic heights simultaneously.

I won’t ruin it for the rest of you, but lets just say it involves a steak, a false prophet and a bowling pin.

That’s the stuff legends are made of.

Atonement
Score: 92

I happen to think that Atonement is one of the most absolutely moving and heartbreaking films of all-time, but I really don’t have much credibility on the subject.

You see, I would have loved Atonement regardless of its quality, which is actually very high.

Keira Knightley’s in it, so I’m helpless to dissent against her vast beauty and skill as an actress.

So while I think Atonement was excellent, I also happen to own movies like the Jacket, Domino, King Arthur, and Bend it Like Beckham despite my better judgment.

But this movie is really good. Knightley is spectacular, and hot, as usual, but James McAvoy and Saoirse Ronan are also really good. Actually, Ronan’s portrayal of Knightley’s demented younger sister is probably the best performance in the movie.

The movie is a tattered love story between Knightley and McAvoy, who is sent to prison and subsequently WWII after Ronan wrongly accuses him of rape. The end is tragic. Like epically tragic.

Like the other movies up for movie of the year, Atonement excels in cinematography, score, screenplay, and execution. It’s just very well done all around. It probably won’t get reward like Blood and No Country, but it’s deserving.

My friend Teal also tells me that the movie sticks closely to the novel, and I always appreciate that.

No Country for Old Men
Score: 90

No Country was the highlight of my recent double feature with Stefan.

You know what a double feature is, when you buy a matinee ticket for one movie and then sneak into another when it’s over. Don’t judge me, you’ve done it, too.

I’m not a big fan of participating in double features, but I no longer felt guilty by the time we plopped down to watch No Country.

After sitting the through The Bucket List, I sort of felt like the theatre owed me.

No Country was the nightcap for our double feature, but only two movies matched up for the matinee – Atonement and The Bucket List.

Because Stefan didn’t think it was kosher for two dudes to watch Atonement together, we went to see The Bucket List.

We had to have lowered the average age in the theatre by at least a decade, and the was boring, terrible, and definitely not funny.

No Country was a great reward, though.

Based on a mediocre novel, No Country’s film adaptation by the Coen brothers deserves all the praise and Oscar buzz it’s been getting.

It equals There Will Be Blood in cinematography and sound, and the cast is fantastic.

James Brolin plays the blue collar, rural cowboy trying to get by in a world that would prefer to forget his kind, Tommy Lee Jones represents a an aging lawman struggling to deal with a world full of malice and with little regard for law and order, and Javier Bardem plays the decade’s signature villain.

Jones and Bardem are particularly good, with Bardem playing a deranged hit man with his own twisted moral code, the world’s worst haircut, and world’s coolest murder weapon.

All three characters function as supporting character’s, but Bardem really carries the movie.

No Country is well done and well acted, but it’s also incredibly entertaining and cerebral at the same time. In today’s action landscape, that’s definitely a rarity.

The ending’s a bit week, but it’s true to the novel, so I’ll let it slide.

Juno
Score: 85

Juno is really funny, and Ellen Page gives what I think is the best leading actress role of the year. Her dry wit and humor is classic.

But while Juno has plenty of laughs, I’m not quite sure it belongs in the same class as Atonement, No Country, and Blood.

I’m not one of those people who thinks comedies can’t carry the same weight as dramas, it’s just that Juno has a few issues.

First off, the movie’s voice changes about 30 minutes in. It starts off with this ridiculously stylized, ultra-hip-in-a-nerdy-way dialogue, but tones down after just a few minutes.

The movie definitely carries a distinct voice throughout, but it’s almost like the writers decided it was too much after a few scenes and didn’t bother to change the beginning.

Also, the ending seems to demonize exactly the same audience it spends most of the movie trying to play up. I really like Juno (I saw it twice) but the inconsistencies sort of bothered me.

Michael Clayton
Score: 72

Micheal Clayton pisses me off.

It’s a decent enough movie, but it doesn’t deserve to be nominated for picture of the year. It’s like the Bourne Ultimatum without the action. Fucking lame.

Sweeney Todd should have gotten the nomination instead.

Screw George Clooney and his perfect face and charming wit.

Cloverfield
Score: 63

The success of movies like Cloverfield rely almost entirely on the degree to which they're able to shock and surprise.

The only real appeal to first person shooting is to make viewers feel like they're part of the chaos.

There’s no room for character or plot development. All that's left, then, is the entertainment factor.

I get it and I’m OK with it. I knew it heading into the movie.

The problem for me was that Cloverfield just wasn't all that shocking or surprising.

There was a self-awareness about the movie that prevented it from truly tapping in to the primal fear the trailers seemed to suggest. I know that might not make sense. But it didn't feed off the raw emotion or spontaneity of its predecessors, like the Blair Witch Project, enough.

It just seemed like the actors and the director were too aware of what they were trying to do to make it real. In other words, there was too much production value for it to work on me.

I also wasn't a big fan of showing the monster so much. It's always so much scarier for me when you're running from something without knowing what it is.

The monster never lives up to the height. This one sort of looked like a cross between a disfigured bird and the head-crab things from the Doom game.

I wouldn't call Cloverfield a waste of money. There were some suspenseful moments and plenty of thrilling sequences (what other movie shows people exploding?).

As a whole, though, it was only mildly entertaining.

P.S. I Love You
Score: 50

I actually like romantic comedies.

Despite their shallow and cliché natures, romantic comedies are simple, easy to follow, and usually have some decent laughs.

P.S. I Love wasn’t all that memorable, though. The soundtrack is killer – Flogging Molly, the Pogues, Steve Earle – and Kathy Bates is great, just like she always is.

But the movie also features Lisa “I haven’t been funny since the Friends pilot episode” Kudrow and managed to break the cardinal rule of the romantic comedy – though shalt be forgiven as long as thy pull on the emotional chords of the viewer.

My real issue with the movie is that what should be an extremely sad and tragic set of events just doesn't resonate. Swank's husband dies early in the movie, but it doesn't have the kind of emotional trauma needed to make the movie work.

What’s worse, I failed to connect with Hillary Swank on an emotional level. For a romantic comedy to work, that’s all it really has to do.

The Bucket List
Score: 30

Just an absolutely god awful movie.

Jack Nicholson’s signature is the quirky eccentric, but this version of him was too watered down to remember.

I also really like Morgan Freeman, but comedy isn’t his thing.

There was one good line amidst two hours of complete crap.

The movie was so bad that I was actually sort of excited to hear John Mayer’s song during the closing credits.

Jumper
Score: 30

I had no interest in watching Jumper. In fact, I have no interest in seeing a movie starring Hayden Christensen ever again.

Unfortunately, I was fucked over by an ice scraper.

You see, I was going to go watch Charlie Bartlett instead, but I forgot that I don’t have an ice scraper in the new vehicle. I had to wait 20 minutes for the defroster to soften things up enough to wipe it off, which meant I was late picking up my friend, which meant we had to revise our plans when we got to theatre.

It was Jumper or Step Up 2 the Streets, so I think we made the right choice.

Predictably, Christensen was terrible, the plot was stupid, and, to the chagrin of greater humanity, they set up a fucking sequel.

Jumper’s did have a couple redeeming qualities, though, namely the utter hotness of Rachel Bilson (her eyes are amazing). The movie was also incredibly entertaining and hilarious because it was so bad. It’s rare that movie can be so bad that you can’t help but keep watching.

Call it the Battlefied:Earth Factor.

More concerning, however, is the current status of Samuel L. Jackson.

He’s always been in shitty movies – Deep Blue Sea, Sphere, etc. - but he mixed them up with movies like Jurassic Park, The Incredibles, Shaft, Jackie Brown, and Pulp Fiction (and Star Wars and Kill Bill vol. 2, if you’re so inclined. I am.).

With the possible exception of Black Snake Moan, he’s currently on a craptastic run that includes Jumper, xXx: State of the Union, Coach Carter and Snakes on a mother fucking Plane.

What the hell happened, Samuel?

I want my Royale with Cheese back.

Click Here to Read More..

A birthday, a messed up grill, and the funniest thing ever said in a drunken stupor

They happen to all of us - nights when the powers of grandeur, chance, and mayhem align to create moments we keep forever.

We call them memories. Or drinking stories. Or whatever.

For good or bad, I remember sitting in a friend's closet for 3 hours as campus police raided a party downstairs. I remember running pants-less around my block after winning a game of ultimate beer pong. I remember hitting up 11 bars in one night with the Heterosexual Lifemate just after we turned 21. I remember the night one of my best friends almost died of alcohol poisoning.

But while those epic nights are what ring forever in our own eternity - to be passed on to others as microcosms of who we are - the nights that really matter are those that pass by without event.

We call them normal.

Moments of greatness are rare, but the normal nights – the ones that are good, but not quite good enough to register on any list – are the nights that bind us to our lives and the people we share them with.

Friday night was one of those for me.

That Agitator, my roommate, was celebrating birthday No. 23 at a bowling alley, so I headed over there after work with Scott and Dave.

We arrived just as they were finishing up a few frames and, after a few hellos and Stefan humping the ball machine, most of the party split, leaving my trio with AJ, his girlfriend Alex, Stefan, Vesco and Carl.

After a few minutes and a drink or two, the other group decided to stay and gamble. Not feeling in the mood to lose $40, Scott, Dave, and I decided to go downtown.

We stopped by Tonic first and I had a beer and a couple Jack and Diets while some horrible hip-hop act blabbered on the stage (I say Wolf, You say Pack. Boo.), at which point we moved across the street to Imperial.

The bar was packed, as usual, so we had to wait in line for about five minutes. I threatened the bouncer that I I’d go back to Tonic, but he didn’t seem to care much.

We did get to witness a near-fight between some unseen party and a tool-bag wearing a polo shirt with pegged sleeves (we get it, you work out. Congratulations.)

Once we finally did get in the door, I ran into a football player named Luke and chatted for a second. This isn’t that big of a deal, except that I have no idea how he knows me. I’ve never covered football for the newspaper. Oh well, I like Luke and he’s a good guy.

After that, we sat down at a table and marveled as the uneventfullness ensued. We drank, we talked, and we made fun of a redhead that was dancing in circles around the bar.

After a few such laps, she approached Dave and whispered some sweet nothings into his ear. She asked if he had a girlfriend, told him she was really into him, and basically made it very clear that he had to do was pay for a cheap cab ride back to his place (or find an alley) to do the bedroom bump.

This might sound good in theory, but let’s make one thing clear. This girl looked like she had sustained a face-first fall of significant distance as a child and never bothered to repair the damage.

As she left to make another round, Dave made it clear that he wasn’t really interested. Scott put a lot of effort into trying to convince Dave otherwise while I half-heartedly chipped in.

When Dave asked me, however, whether I would do it, I finally had to agree with him that it was a bad idea.

I think it's important at this moment to point out that I am no ladies man, as I'm sure most of my friends will attest to. As loud and forthcoming (which sometimes is more abrasive) as I may be, I am also pretty shy around women I’m interested in and I'm not good at "closing the deal."

But I do have a reasonable level of charm and intelligence, at least I hope so, and an extremely ridiculous set of standards. I recently stopped dating a girl because she had ridiculously horrible taste in movies (In my defense, though, she also disliked Anjelina Jolie and Kate Beckinsale, and I was dating her mostly out of boredom to begin with).

So when Dave asked me if I’d hit it at Imperial, I had to give an honest answer. My input validated Dave’s dissent, which baffled Scott to no end.

Scott’s phrase of “She’s not that bad” quickly replaced my (and formerly Ricky Bobby’s – if you’re not first, your last) “I’m too drunk to taste this chicken” as the night’s most repeated phrase.

It continued on to Tonic, where Scott continued to argue the merits of lowered standards while simultaneously proving that I am not the world’s worst dancer.

Dave’s mind couldn’t be changed, even after several more drinks, so we took the $6 cab back to Dave and Scott’s apartment.

At that point Scott and I’s argument took a turn toward heated, and Scott sprayed the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.

"That's why I've had sex with more girls than you, and some of them were bigger than you."

While I’m a man of rapidly-decreasing girth, I’m still on the large side of the scales, which makes Scott’s statement sort of baffling.

Calvert hit the floor laughing, I couldn’t breathe for about 10 minutes, and Scott started cooking some boneless buffalo chicken wings while wondering what he’d said.

Then we went to the Gold and Silver for breakfast before finally hitting the sack at about 5 a.m.

Just another normal night.

Currently reading: “The Lord of the Rings” by J.R.R. Tolkien, “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby, “Dreams from my Father” by Barack Obama, “I Hope they Serve Beer in Hell” by Tucker Max

Line of the Day: “Here is the heart of Elvendom on earth,” he said, “and here my heart dwells ever, unless there be a light beyond the dark roads that we still must tread, you and I. Come with me!” And taking Frodo’s hand in his, he left the hill of Cerin Amroth and came there never again as a living man.

From the iPod: “Blackbird” by the Beatles

Latest movie: “Jumper” (fucking terrible, predictably, and they’re going to make a sequel)

Click Here to Read More..

Shaken, not stirred

My parents might soon be the proud owners of beach front property.

OK, that wasn't funny. An earthquake - yeah, those tectonic plate-induced ground shaking thingies - of 6.0 magnitude rocked my hometown this morning.

Nobody wants to wake to the sound of their mother screaming and crying, especially at 6 in the morning, but that's what happened today.

My mom made it sound like sulfur was raining down on town, but it sounds like she had good reason. This is Wells we're talking about here. We don't get earthquakes. Sure, we get the occasional blizzard or smoky fire season, but never earthquakes - especially not that bad (a 5.9 killed like 52 people in Africa last year).

I'm told that 7.0 is the magic number for a really horrible earthquake, but from what I hear 6.0 isn't exactly a relaxing experience.

My dad had just brought my mom a cup of coffee in bed when the earthquake hit, and the mug flew about 15 feet in the air and hit the middle of a window during the quake.

Fortunately, nobody in my family was hurt and our home wasn't damaged. That would have been catastrophic. My mom and dad have built the house entirely on their own, and it's a point of pride for all of us. And, of course, we don't have earthquake insurance, because, well, it Wells and we never have earthquakes. So nice job with the construction, dad.

Gov. Jim Gibbons was in town to survey the damage. The RGJ also had coverage (and yes, they mentioned that Wells has not one, but two brothels) and photos (photo No. 3 was taken in my uncle's store and the "unidentified man" is my grandpa).

The damage looks pretty bad in the photos, but those are all of the "historic district" that was mostly heavily hit. The main loss in this is, obviously, the historic value of the buildings from when Wells was a booming (seriously) railroad town.

But those buildings were mostly old and decrepit anyway, and, to be honest, the earthquake probably took care of what should have been done long ago. Besides, nobody really lives in them, so it was the best place for it to happen.

Even though it doesn't sound like there are going to be many lost homes, the real damage is what all the people are going through. Most of the damage was in the form of collapsed chimneys, which can be fixed. But many home are without water and heat at the moment, which isn't a good thing when you consider that Wells is also going through its harshest winter in about 25 years and temperatures dip well below 0 at night sometimes.

And while the damage wasn't catastrophic in a life-taking, house flattening sort of way, it's still pretty bad. In our house, everything that wasn't screwed to the wall was destroyed. Translation - most of the stuff my parents have accrued during 20-plus years of marriage, and many of the relics from my childhood, are ruined.

I guess I'm fortunate that most of my stuff is here with me in Reno, but it was tough listening to my mom choke back tears as she started cleaning up inside. I feel so bad for her and dad, and all the other people I grew up around.

From what I can gather, most every family in Wells is going through the same thing.

The town's main water lines broke and the high school is pretty heavily damaged, and I guess a few dozen families have to stay in shelters.

Most of my friends are heading home from various places to help clean up, but my parents want me to stay in Reno. I guess I'll just have to follow along on the internet and news.

I didn't think Wells would ever be the main story on CNN.com, even if the Serbians did cut our time in the spotlight short.

Click Here to Read More..

The long-awaited explanation

My name is Garrett Hylton, and I go to gay bars.

To be more accurate, I don’t mind going to gay bars. I went to a gay bar called Homme in Phoenix a few times this summer, I’ve been to Tronics in Reno, and I went to The Balcony in Boise this weekend, so I wouldn’t exactly call myself an aficionado.

I don’t get why it matters to begin with. I don’t get why the entire gay community has to have cuddies (oh wait, AIDS, I forgot). I have plenty of gay friends, and they’re no different than my straight friends (except the chick watching aspect of the relationship is flipped).

And, no, the dudes don’t all try to check out each other’s junk in the bathroom.

But apparently going to a gay bar is a sin greater than baby-punting, at least if the disgusted looks I get from most of my friends are any indicator.

Who cares that I am, in fact, straight and very interested in women?

And never mind that I’ve always gone in the company of at least one single female (even if some weren’t so sure of that at the time :) ).

It’s just all the grinding and sweat and techno is so hard to resist.

I’m kidding. Not that you’d care, but don’t worry dad, your son’s not gay. I just happen to think that gay bars offer a surprisingly appealing set of perks.

First off, I'll go pretty much anywhere that allows me to hang out with my friends (obviously the ones who are either gay or whose fun isn't impeded by to guys kissing).

Second, men get served first. At gay bars, there’s no waiting 35 minutes for a weakly-mixed Jack and Pepsi.

I like beer. I like alcohol. I don’t like anything that prevents me from drinking beer and/or alcohol. Gay bars are like a fucking carpool lane to drunkenness.

I also usually get at least one free drink. What’s that, you say? Doesn’t that mean another dude is hitting on me?

So what. I’m an extremely vain person, so I’ll take the admiration. I’ll also take free alcohol from anyone. I’d let Jeffrey Dahmer buy me a beer (granted it weren’t roofied), so I’ll definitely take one from somebody who acknowledges my killer eyes and fantastic hair. Oh, and then there’s the part where it doesn’t really make a difference to begin with.

Finally, and this cannot be understated, there are almost always tons of straight women at gay bars, and I thought that was sort of the point to begin with.

Why?

Football players and obnoxious frat boys, as near as my experiments gather. At some point women get tired of dealing with horned up dudes drunkenly trying to coerce them back home, so they pack together and head somewhere they know no straight douche bag would dare tread – the gay bar. And they’re right.

So what’s the end result of this?

A ratio of straight women to straight men that’s extremely agreeable.

And here’s the thing, these women still make stupid decisions when they drink. As much as I can, I want to be that stupid decision.

So you can call me a freak, or a homo, or whatever you like. I think I’m an innovator.

In short, all of you who doubt my motivations can fuck right off.

I’m going to keep going to gay bars for the reasons I’ve already discussed, and if I ever get married, God forbid, I hope the first time I see my wife is at a gay bar while she makes out with another chick (preferably either really hot or super butch).

Click Here to Read More..

A good day

GPS navigators do not always come up with the quickest routes, especially where tiny Podunk roads are concerned.

I discovered this on the way home to Reno from Boise, when, after waking up, I discovered that my dad had driven about an hour out of our way on a route ordained by the almighty GPS.

Rather than dropping straight down through McDermott, we were set to navigate the winding path of the Mountain City Highway through Owyhee. Oh wait, most of you don't know where those places are, but you're probably better for it.

So we left Boise at 11:00 a.m. (MT) and didn't get back to Reno until 6:20 p.m. (PT). That was more than 8 hours of driving on shitty, boring, low-speed roads. And to make matters worse, I think my previous illness has developed in strep throat (And I know what you're thinking, but I was sick before getting tanked on Friday night).

Those two factors would have normally created an outbreak of Cranky, Angsty Teen Garrett, but they didn't today. I actually loved every minute of it.

Why, you ask?

Because I was driving my new car home from Boise. I'm now the owner of a 2006 GMC Envoy. Not only am I stoked about finally being able to drive to school whenever I need to or take a trip to Wal-Mart at 3 a.m., if I so choose, but I rather like the new wheels.

Also, as promised, here's a link to last week's asinine conversation, where the Heterosexual Lifemate and I discuss the romantic comedy:

Asinine Convo, Part Deux

Sorry it's not funnier, but I was (and am) sort of sick. Also, in talking about the recent quality of romantic comedies, we forgot to mention the splendor and excellence of "Knocked Up".

Apologies to Jude Apatow.

Click Here to Read More..

An epic night in the BoDo

So I was hammered last night. Big surprise, right?

I'm in Boise for the weekend to cover a basketball game, buy a new car, and visit the immortally awesome Amanda J.

Amanda's a little less than 3 years older than me, but we basically grew up playing golf and hanging out with my cousin, Amanda H, in Wells. AJ was also going to the U of N for my first three years in Reno, so you're correct in assuming that she's a familiar and willing participant in a great deal of my debauchery.

Anyway, I'm staying at her apartment, but we didn't go out after the basketball game on Thursday. I was tired from traveling, she had just finished her work week, blah blah blah. But she did plan for dinner and an evening out with Allison, who did her grad in Reno and also is well-acquainted with the fiasco I call life, and her husband Seth, who is kickass because (A) he likes soccer, (B) he was already pimping Vampire Weekend when I was still stuck on The Decembrists and (C) he's fucking hilarious.

We were joined after dinner by Amanda's coworker Married L - skip down a few lines mom -she's 29 and married, but I'd totally hook up with her.

We all shared in some stir fry eating and Corona drinking, then headed downtown to a little pub called Grainey's. The five hours that followed were filled with drinking, craziness, and, of course, fun.

Here are the key observations and highlights:

- We did a majority of our consumption at Grainey's, a little Irish Pub that's one of the popular downtown spots. The girls mostly chatted with each other while Seth and I discussed writers like Chuck Klosterman and Rick Reilly, among other topics. After a few beers and a conversation with Allison on the homely nature of native Idaho girls, the night had reached the "Fun" zone, but we were looking for a little bit more. We went across the street to Roddie's

-Roddie's is one of the dreaded country bars that plague most once-rural Western towns (Pure Country, anyone?). I hate bars like Roddie's. Who the fuck said it was OK to dance to Shania Twain like you dance to Kanye or Daft Punk? I know I know "You just don't get it. Big & Rich is country, but they're upbeat so you can shake to it." Whatever, nobody gives a shit.

But as much as this bar sucked, I did see the most amazing thing I've ever seen while drunk. Ever, and I'm including the week on Bourbon Street where there were two exposed boobs for every 3 people.

After a Miller Lite and a vodka soda, I watched a college girl ride the mechanical bull. On high speed. With no hands. NO HANDS.

Let's take a few seconds to think about that...

Watching this girl ride the bull was absolutely amazing - I didn't even talk to her and I think she's ruined me for all other women - and I don't feel like I have to explain why. And it's not as if I was some stupid, drunken, perved up college kid ogling her unnecessarily from the side of the stage.

I mean I was, but I wasn't alone. Allison was standing there watching with me, and she was equally speechless. When I leaned over to comment, she whipped out an aghast "I know" before I could get a word in.

-When our group couldn't figure out how to dance to Kenny Chesney, we left and went to Hannah's. Other than drinking another vodka soda and taking a shot of Patron with Seth, Hannah's was entirely uneventful - or so I thought. As we were leaving the bar, AJ and Married L brought it to the rest of the group's attention that there was a dude getting a hummer from some random girl on the dance floor.

This is normally the kind of thing that catches my attention, but somehow I completely missed it this time. I was actually sort of baffled.

How could AJ and Married L be sure? What kind of girl services a guy's package orally on a dance floor (I mean, the bathroom is one thing, but the dance floor?)? How does one go about convincing a girl to service said package? How difficult is performing in front of a bunch of gawking/dancing strangers? How did I not notice?

I discussed the possible answers to this quandary at length and in detail rather loudly on our walk to the next bar.

-I've officially been to gay bars in three states now. After hitting up Grainey's, Roddy's and Hannah's, Seth and Allison headed home.

But Married L was adamant about stopping at a gay bar called The Balcony before going home. I'm not going to defend why I've gone to gay bars in the past. I have a very rational argument to defend myself, and, for those of you who haven't heard it, I'll blog about it in a day or so.

The Balcony actually had about as many straight couples as gay couples when we walked in at about 1:30 (right before last call). Of course there were several men making out with other men, but I was there with two attractive females and there were enough frail gay boys grinding on portly straight women to keep me entertained, so I was comfortable.

A few important things happened here. First, after drinking several (we'll call it about seven) beers, a couple vodka and sodas, and a shot of Patron throughout the night without being so much as dizzy, I declared myself impervious to the effects of alcohol.

Another shot of Patron from Married L proved my previous statement to be absolutely erroneous.

I also confirmed something I've been suspecting for quite some time - I'm the worst dancer ever. It's not that I'm a spaz or that I don't dance enough, I've just gotten so used to a little move called "The Pole."

You ladies know what I'm talking about. As a man of substantial size, I've never been expected to actually move. Instead, I pretty much just have to stand on the floor, gently rock my shoulders, puff my lips and let you do your thing. That was my job, at least until recently.

Actual dancing is hard, though, and I'm pretty sure if any authority figure saw me, they'd make me wear a helmet.

-The 2 a.m. hotdog with AJ and Married L just outside The Balcony was quite literally the best thing I've eaten in my entire life, and I think it's pretty safe to say that my qualifications give that statement some weight.

Good christ, that hot dog was good. They even grilled the buns, and I'm told not all the vendors do that. Reno really needs late-night hot dog carts.

-I made fun of an emo kid in a rather loud fashion while we were waiting for a cab. I'm a pretty tolerant guy, but I'm not a huge fan of the emo persuasion. Seriously, your life's not that god damn bad, buck up and wear some dude pants.

Anyway, this guys had his blond streaked hair flopped over an eye and chick pants on, and he totally dove in front of a couple girls who were getting ready to get into a cab. A couple guys next to us started yelling at him, and he paused before getting in.

"Hey douche bag, why don't you go listen to Dashboard and cry over your black, broken heart."

Yeah, I know, the people around me laughed, too. My mom's convinced that my propensity to run my mouth is going to get me stabbed or beaten some day, but not by kids like that.

I probably should have been nicer to the guy, but, then again, I'm not a nice person. And I'd been saving that Dashboard joke forever.

Click Here to Read More..

Airport fun

The old people who work airport security for TSA are assholes.

They're like Wal-Mart greeters with just enough authority to take their heightened sense of bitterness out on any unsuspecting soul who forgets to remove the nail clippers from their at ache case.

I hate to stereotype an entire group of people, but an old dude in a red vest just confirmed my suspicion by screaming at a 20-something during a bag check.

Now I'm sure that checking bags and being generally disregarded by everyone can't help with the decreasing self-worth that many geriatics struggle with, but this guy straight Walter Matthau on a young woman who tried to touch her bag during a search.

She was trying to explain to this guy that she'd just found out her grandma was about to die, that she was sorry for forgetting to bag a few items while she hurriedly packed, and that the items of suspicion were in the back pouch of her bag; but when she touched the bag to show him this guy just went off on her.

So now this poor girl is balling as the old prune takes his time rummaging through her bag, tormenting her for every little slip up.

I'm actually not sure whether I want to laugh or get angry. I feel bad for the girl - but it's honestly sort of funny.

Plus, I'd never seen someone cry over airport security before, so I guess I can cross that one off the list.

I'm boarding in about 5, so I've got to get going (like you care). I'm heading to Boise to cover a basketball game and stay with my friend Amanda for a few days. Oh, and I'm picking up my new car, too!

Idaho is a generally shitty place, but I love Boise's downtown. It's easily the best in the conference, so this a trip I look forward to every year.

Click Here to Read More..

Barack Obama - Will you be my Valentine?

If it were possible, I would totally have Barack Obama's lovechild.

Not only is Obama a dreamy combination of inspiration and handsomeness, but he speaks straight to my heart and he stands for all that is good in universe.

And just think, the kid would have enough sex appeal to kill a saltwater crocodile.

Some people say that this love is impossible; That it can't happen.

But to all those naysayers, I have just three words - "Yes we can."

Alright, so that was sort of a joke. But I'm all about Obama and I'm stoked about today's events, a little something I'm going to call The Great Potomac Ass Kicking of 08.

The race for the Democratic candidacy is still close, even after Obama taking the weekend and three states today, but I'm going to go ahead and call it - Obama will win.

His momentum is probably going to mean a sweep of the rest of February, and there's real trouble in Hillary Clinton's camp. She's saying now that she's making a stand in Texas and Ohio, but that tactic worked real well for Rudy Giuliani.

Plus, I was scouring the internet earlier and found out that Obama has celebrity backing from Will Smith, Tom Hanks and Scarlett Johansson.

Big Willy, Forrest Gump and Scarlett "God I hope she makes out with Natalie Portman in that one movie coming out this spring" Johansson? Yes please.

You just don't fuck with that kind of karma.

On Super Tuesday, I didn't think this would happen. I was aware that Obama had a big day in the smaller states and that he showed, yet again, that he had closed the gap considerably, but Clinton's ability to take the bigger states concerned me.

Now I have a hard time believing that she can stop the Obama Train before it hits the White House next January.

I remember how much I cared about getting Bush out of office in 2004, and how disappointed I felt watching TV in my dorm room and seeing how the young people failed to turn out and get the job done.

I was afraid that was going to happen again, but now the race to the White House is on.

So watch your ass John McCain, because you're getting Obamanated next.

Speaking of celebrities. Here's an example of brilliant viral marketing:


and here's the message that hooked me on Obama for sure:

Click Here to Read More..

The Soul Suck II - Revenge of the Disgruntled Employee

God I love Monday college basketball.

I don't love it like I love Barack Obama, Bourbon Street, sushi, movies, or beer. But it's pretty damn good, nonetheless.

It's because of Monday college basketball that I can honestly say that today was a good day.

But Garrett, I thought you didn't like sports very much anymore?

Good point, Cheap Literary Device Voice (It's Finnish, in case you're wondering), but want to know what I hate more?

The Nevada Sagebrush on production night. More specifically, I hate reading page after page of the abortion to writing that is news reporting (I don't mean that specifically about TNS, but in a more general sense that encompasses most of bare-bone shite that appears in the A section of newspapers).

And to be honest, I don't hate sports. I like them. They just don't get me all hot and bothered anymore like they did when I was 17 and thought everything important in the world could be explained by the movement of leather balls.

This week the leather balls helped me cheat the system.

The Nevada Wolf Pack usually has conference games on Thursday and Saturday, but the Pack played tonight against arch-rival and conference leader Utah State. The game was originally set for Jan. 5, but had to be rescheduled because of weather.

So instead of wasting away in the office, blocking out the babble going on around me by listening to Sublime and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, I spent most of the evening doing what I actually started working at the Sagebrush for - covering sports.

Here's the drill:

The games start at 7 p.m., so I show up around 6 p.m. Now I'd like to say that this is to do some research, or to get in the zone, or to accomplish something tangible to my job.

But really it's just an excuse to hit the pregame spread (which is usually Port of Subs, Jimmy John's, or Qdoba taco bar) and bullshit with the other journalists and athletic staffers. The press room is actually pretty chillaxed before games. It does get stressful and tense when everybody's trying to hit deadline, but beforehand it's mostly eating, telling lude jokes, and watching other games.

I usually do head out to the court for a few minutes about 30 minutes before tip to watch the shootaround and get a sense for how the teams compare. I go out for good about 10 minutes early to get situated and check out the crowd.

I've been covering the men's basketball team for four years now, so I've finally earned a spot on the main table courtside. This is cool because of all the dirty looks I get from some of the visiting press guys.

Them: "Why the hell is the student newspaper courtside when I have to sit baseline? I work for a real newspaper."
Me: "Yeah, I don't know, that's weird. Oh, and fuck you."

Most people think the biggest perk is the seats, and they're partially right. My seat is one of the best views of the court in the arena, but it really depends on the size of the opposing coach.

Tonight, for example, I had to try to see around Utah State coach Stew Morrill, and he's a big boy (about 6-5, 300-lbs).

It was like a basketball lunar eclipse on that side of the floor. I could see about 10 feet of the left baseline and then from the 3-point line back. Coincidentally, most of the action doesn't happen there. So while the rest of the arena was watching the two teams scrap for baskets, I was left to ponder the thread count of Stew's black blazer.

Tonight I had to write two stories - a main story about the game (a gamer), and a collection of smaller, but notable happenings (called a notebook).

The biggest complaint I get about sports writing is about how the gamers tend to be one of the worst written parts of the sports section.

Know why?

Because they're usually due about three minutes after the game's over, and It's pretty fucking difficult to paint the Mona Lisa when one of the teams decides it's a good idea to erase a 10-point deficit with five minutes left in the game before winning at the buzzer.

I usually start writing at halftime, and then I spend the rest of the game pounding out the important play-by-play details. You can't really create a theme until one becomes obvious, and you can't really pick a lead until you know who is going to win.

Tonight I had about 450 words when the final buzzer went off at about 9 p.m., and my gamer was finished and submitted about 10 minutes after the press conference was finished at 9:20. That's pretty good, and I think I was the first one out.

I had my notebook finished by 10 p.m., at which point I finally had to walk the 100 yards or so from Lawlor to the office to do some actual work. But I was in too good a mood at that point to let it bring me down.

I mean I basically showed up four hours late for work because I was watching a basketball game, and my boss couldn't get mad. The only difference was that I wasn't laying on my couch and I had my pants on.

The Stories:
Gamer
Notebook

Click Here to Read More..

I think I get it

I finally understand "The Existential Crisis" I've been struggling through for the last few months.

I actually think I knew what was wrong all along, but it was so obvious and clear that I never really took the time to consider it. It seems like most of life's problems work out that way, at least for me.

Anyway, I just got back from a bar, and yes, I understand that's probably not the best place for soul searching and self-discovery, but tonight was different.

The Cattlemen's Convention was in town this week - I don't expect most of you to understand this - and some people who I haven't seen in a really long time, but who are very dear to me, were partying it up.

My freshman year roommate and a guy from my hometown who inspired me to go after most of the things I did in high school were in town, and I got to spend some time with them. Both of them talked to me about my impending internship with The Miami Herald, which was sort of surprising because I haven't really shared that with that many people yet.

But the discussion gave me some perspective on my problem.

The future I've worked so hard for is one that most people in my situation and most of the people that mean something in my life think is a good thing.

My dilemma is that I'm not so sure that's what I want for my life anymore, and I can't explain why. I've discovered that the twisting feeling in my stomach is because I'm scared to turn away from something because I can't think of a good reason to justify it (not the internship, I want to do the internship, I'm just not sure what to do after it's over).

This is hard, because until this year, I can honestly say that I've never really been scared of anything (except for, you know, like vampires and zombies).

Anyway, this realization doesn't simplify anything. I still don't know the answer to my situation, but at least I know what the real issue is.

Maybe I don't need a reason to choose my own path. Maybe the real choice isn't about fear at all but for me to find the courage to pursue the things that really matter to me despite what I might be giving up.

Or maybe I should just drink more beer. The world is a mysterious place.

Click Here to Read More..

I had an accident last night

The beard is gone again, leaving my face soft and innocent to the hazards of the world.

I've been asked about three zillion times today about why I shaved, and here's the simple answer: I fucked up shaving last night and had no choice but to start over.

You see, my intention over the last month has been to rock the goatee. It seems that just about every dude in the world (and, scarily, some of the women) are sporting beards these days, so I wanted to change it up and go with the chin landscaping.

But I got lazy and didn't shave, so it turned into a beard again. Last night I finally found the ambition to shave off the cheek music and form the goatee. Except I lost focus in the middle of the task and took a swipe out of my goat.

At that point, I didn't have much of a choice - start over or look like a special olympian.

I chose to go baby-faced for the three days it's going to take to get some stubble back again.

Click Here to Read More..

The One Mess

Three piles of laundry that somehow blot out the sky
Seven empty boxes that complete the battle zone,
Nine pairs of shoes lost in the pig sty,
One path leads perilously to the porcelain throne
In the room of Garrett where the insane lie.
One mess more epic than all, one mess to deride him
One mess to cover all and in the clutter hide him
In the Room of Garrett where the insane lie.

My room is a disaster.

I have a narrow path that leads from the door to my bed and bathroom, but the rest of the room looks like a scene eerily reminiscent of downtown Kabul. My floor is filled with dirty laundry, empty boxes, and stacks of assorted crap that hurts my feet whenever I step on it in the middle of the night, and my sink is covered with empty tooth paste tubes and enough bottles of Scope to cure halitosis in the Western United States.

This is a bit frustrating, because I’m normally a fairly clean person. Alright, now that you’ve all had a good chuckle, I’ll admit the previous statement was a lie.

But although I’m traditionally a very messy person because I hate cleaning and doing laundry and I save everything (like press passes and movie tickets, not three-week old apple cores), for the last year or so I’ve made a concerted effort to tidy up my room on a regular basis.

It’s pretty safe to say that my old habits have reclaimed their grip on my life.

The situation started last December when I got super busy during finals weeks and didn’t take the time to clean my room before going home. When I cam back in January with a carload of crap, I seriously made an effort to clean up to make room for the new stuff.

But I decided to quit before completing the job (probably because Rock of Love II was on) and since then the mess has snow-balled into a foreign landscape of intimidating power that imposes its will on me to the extent that I cannot even begin to deal with it.

It’s actually sort of like the one ring. I realize there’s nothing small or golden about the mess in my room, but the similarities are still shocking.

1. Despite my hatred for the mess, I cannot unmake it. Thing is, it’s just too imposing. The mess is so large, so all-encompassing, that I can’t even begin to figure out where to start. I’d put stuff away, but all the space is already crammed with junk, so it’s a never-ending cycle of brutal dirtiness. There’s a giant stack of suitcases and boxes stacked inside my door, there’s a never-ending mountain range of dirty laundry that stretches from the front of my entertainment center to the window, and the silver-framed futon in the middle of my room that once passed as a couch is crammed two feet high with school books and clean laundry waiting to be hung up. I suspect there might even be a hobo living between the stacks of laundry behind my futon, but I have not seen him to confirm.

2. The power of the mess is growing. Surely this situation is a product of my own lax house keeping practices, but sometimes I’m not so sure. The mess seems to shift and change every night as I sleep so that I trip and fall whenever I try to navigate the darkness. And it’s steadily expanding its borders. Already the dominant theme in my room, the mess is steadily taking every bit of my the remaining space under my free will. Pretty soon I’m going to have to jump from my door to my bed, and we all know, given my sub-NBA leaping skills, that’s going to end badly for me and all my possessions involved.

3. I can become invisible by “putting it on.” All I have to do is fall down at any given spot in my room, and I’m no longer visible to the naked eye.

Please, someone be my Samwise Gamgee, for I have not the will to rectify my problem and get rid of this mess.

Click Here to Read More..

The SuperFlu

Forgetting to eat before working out is stupid.

It means your body is running on empty, you drag ass through lifting, and it's generally about twice as painful.

Therefore, that's exactly what I did last night - unless you count a small bowl of yogurt and granola.

To make matters worse, last night was eccentric lifting night. For those who don't know, that's where Alex the Bastard loads up way more weight than I can handle, helps me lift it, and then laughs while my face explodes as I let it down as slowly as possible.

Whereas normal lifting is refreshing and fun, eccentric lifting rips the absolute shit out of your muscles. The soreness actually feels like the soreness from a car accidents.

So doing this on an empty stomach would have been bad enough, but my body also decided last night would be a good time to get the flu. After I got done lifting I came home and ate a quick sandwich, took a shower, and then decided instead of finishing dinner I'd just go to bed.

This was about 10 p.m., and I woke up about midnight feeling like shit. I hate the flue - you throw up, you ache all over, and moving becomes an even bigger inconvenience than usual.

Couple that with not eating and already being sore from working out, and I spent the entire night in bed feeling like I'd been beaten from head to toe. And because I threw up without really having anything in my stomach to begin with, the pain just got worse because I was dehydrated and couldn't keep fluid down.

That was a semi-graphic description, although I did leave out the part about the projectile stream of water and smoothie (wait, whoops), but, hey, I have nothing else to blog about today because A) I was sick all day, and B) because it hurts to think.

I did sign some loan papers today, so I'm one step closer to a new vehicle.

Click Here to Read More..

VIking goes to Qdoba and Wal-Mart

Most of my friends are gone.

About half of them graduated last May and the rest graduated in December. Some others have left, too, for various reasons.

It’s actually really strange. Last May I was having a blast and hanging out with different groups almost every night. It was perfect, it was the time of my life, it’s over now.

I was partially prepared for this because I started my sequence about a year earlier than usual and most of the people I had classes with were older. But I had spent so much time with these people from the time I got to Reno that I never really took time to think someday they’d be gone, but now they are.

Enough of the reflection, though, that’s not really my point here. The point is that I don’t have as many people to hang out with anymore, which means that I’m bored an awful lot.

So let me start over:

Earlier in college me and a few friends decided to start a Scandinavian death metal band. The idea started one day during winter break when some friends came over around noon to find I was still asleep.

When I stumbled out on the balcony in sweat pants and a pancho with a messed up mop of hair on my head, three weeks of stubble and a look of baggy-eyed confusion on my face, and an almost-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand, a legend was born.

No longer was I Garrett, but Olaff, the lead singer of Ruptured Scrotum, a fusion of melody and guttural screaming fresher than the glacial streams of the motherland.

OK, so the Scandinavian death metal thing was just an inside joke with a few friends, but Olaff is back.

Because of my newfound boredom, and because I have a Viking helmet laying around from being Flava Flave at Halloween, I’ve taken to wearing to going out in public as Olaff the viking, complete with a fake WWE Championship belt (an oft-overlooked part of Vikingdom), for the amusement of me and my friends.

It started with a trip to Qdoba and Wal-Mart a couple weeks ago.

Well I needed to grab something at Wal-Mart a couple hours ago, and the only way to convince A.J. to drive me at 11:15 p.m. was to dawn the Nordic garb again. Needless to say, I sort of stuck out.

Wal-Mart greeter dude: “I’ve got to ask, what’s with the helmet and the belt?”
Me: “I’m the champion.”
Greeter dude: “Of what?”
Me: “The world!”

After getting what we needed (and finding Dogma and Legends of the Fall in the $5 bin!), we ran into him again on the way out.

Greeter dude: “Just so you know, if you guys set the alarm off, I’m checking you two (points at A.J. and his girlfriend Alex). He looks scary (points to me).”

I’m so metal. And damn do I need to find a hobby.

Click Here to Read More..

The Nevada Sagebrush weekly staff meeting - A live blog experience

Ever wondered about the inner-workings of the press? Want to know how the big decisions are made? Can’t figure out what I do for 40-60 hours a week?

Well ponder no longer.

It’s Tuesday, and that means our weekly staff meeting. I usually live blog basketball games for my sports blog, so, for your pleasure, I’m live-blogging our staff meeting for this blog.

Brace yourself for the madness:

7:09 – We’re starting late, some people still haven’t shown up. Lucky bastards.

7:10 – We have a guest tonight. I don’t remember her name, but she’s talking about Teach for America. Good program. Plus, I could avoid the real world for another two years. Can you imagine me teaching kids English?

“Hi my name’s Garrett Hylton. I enjoy reading, writing, porn, and a stiff glass of Scotch. I’m here to educate delicate minds, so let’s get the reading revolution started.”

7:14 Her name’s Rosemary. She wants me to be a steward for the program. If I were a steward, I’d totally be more like Faramir than Denethor.

7:16 Let the funfest begin. Now it’s time to talk Sagebrush.

7:17 Apparently we had two misspellings on the front page. Go us. Somebody’s talking about margins and color printing. This is exciting shit.

The hetero lifemate is urging more enterprise stories. Ha, we’ve been trying that for like four years.

7:21 How can we cover Brianna Dennison’s kidnapping more in depth?

We're going to explore if the media attention would be the same if she was a minority from a poor neighborhood. Either way, that ought to piss somebody off.

7:23 Clint’s talking about something that probably involves Birkenstock's, so I’m not really listening. As I scan the room, I think it’s pretty safe to say that I have the best hair on staff. Granted, I don’t think most of the people have showered today (I have twice already), but somebody has to ramp up the staff’s sex appeal.

7:26 I just suggested we get a database of UNR employee salaries as soon as possible. I found out last night one of the toy-cops makes $124,000.

Me: “That’s some serious scratch. If all I have to do is pepper spray a few kids to make six figures, sign me the fuck up.”

We’re doing it in March.

7:27 Garrett’s meeting “fuck” count: 4.

7:32 We’re having a staff pot luck on the 23rd. Awesome (Sarcastic or not? You be the judge.).

7:38 The HL went in the other room, I tried to organize a walk-out. I got about seven to follow us.

7:40 Yay, the best part of the job. We’re talking about what newspaper to send to an award show. How we keep winning these things, I have no fucking clue.

7:41 Back to this week’s paper.

Diversity on the cover, blah blah blah…
We gave “Strange Wilderness” an F-, blah blah blah…
My column rules, blah blah blah.

7:46 Garrett’s meeting “fuck” count: 7

7:49 Yay, now I get to yell at people for not taking advantage of my services (don't be gross, pervs).

7:55 I didn’t get to yell. Part of my job is the paper’s writing coach, but that hasn’t been working out because people’s stories come in late. We worked out a new system where I talk to people before reporters do their research rather than after, which is smarter (it’s better to have a solid foundation than try to make a shack look like a mansion with interior decorating, but I digress). Doesn’t work well with my schedule, but we’ll see how it works.

8:00 Now we’re talking about becoming independent, which is good and bad. We obviously would have much better credibility by splitting with the student government and we’d be free of the all the bureaucratic mess we put up with, we would also be vulnerable to nonexistence if the paper goes through another run of bad editors like it did about 10 years ago.

8:15 The staff meeting's over, now we get to map out next week's paper. And I kept my "fuck" total under 10. That's pretty impressive.

8:30 We're talking about our Arts & Entertainment Valentine's Day centerpiece. This issue is usually pretty fun. Two years ago we managed to get a photo of a dildo and a fake vagina into the paper.

This year we're writing about our generation's dating trends, what original date ideas can be found in Reno for both straight and gay couples, and what there is to do for us singles.

8:45 We're still talking about A&E. I lost interest about 14 minutes ago. Now I'm at my computer looking at Super Tuesday shit. Looks like it's going to be pretty close. Hilary's taken a lot of the bigger states, but Obama's owning pretty much everything else. Hopefully he can hold his own in California.

9:00 Now we're on to news. I can't hear what they're talking about, but I'm sure it's important. All the networks are calling Hillary the winner Cali. Sonofabitch. I blame the young'ens for not voting.

9:15 Still talking about news

9:24 Still talking about news

9:37 Good fuck, still talking about news.

9:50 Meeting finally over. Obama took down Missouri after trailing early. The race is close and definitely won't be decided today. This is going to be exciting.

Sorry that was boring, But it had to be done.

Click Here to Read More..

The Soul Suck

Monday’s suck.

I’m not talking about beginning of the week, “Somebody’s got a case of the Mondays” suck.

I’m a journalist, so normal standards of time don’t really apply to me. I hardly ever get weekends off, I work mostly nights, and I’m constantly living in terms of what people need to know tomorrow. In other words, my sense of time is fucked far beyond normalcy (This is both good and bad. On the one hand, my warped internal clock is probably why I usually post these things between 3 and 4 a.m. On the other hand, I get to ride the “go to work out at 3 p.m., go out every night and then sleep until noon” train as long as I want.)

If anything, Monday is the end of my week, but it’s also the night that the Sagebrush comes out. That’s why I dread Sundays and Mondays. We spend most of the week writing and reporting, then Sunday and Monday are the heavy work load.

So yesterday was another soul-sucking day at the Nevada Sagebrush.

My main duty on Mondays is to read pages and check stories for errors and crapiness. This is by far the worst part of my job. It’s boring, monotonous, and sometimes makes me wonder if the college literacy rate is as high as university presidents claim.

I also don’t have a car at the moment, so I’m sort of dependent on friends for rides, which creates a surprising feeling of helplessness and isolation (America really needs to buy into public transportation).

This Monday, however, did get off to a better start than normal. And by better I mean I wasn’t ready to steal anyone’s Xanex when the clock hit 7 p.m.

First off, I don’t get out of class until 6:45 p.m., which is pretty late for getting things done on Monday. I have my J.R.R. Tolkien class last, and talking about “The Lord of the Rings” for an hour and 15 minutes usually puts me in a really good mood.

The Port of Subs in the Joe also opened yesterday, which is probably the coolest thing to ever happen in the history of higher education. Printing press, racial integration, freedom of express, blah frickity blah. Having a Port of Subs, the greatest sandwich restaurant of all time, two minutes away is easily cooler than all that nonsense.

Finally, I had to write a couple stories last night. I write a weekly column for the Brush, and this week I wrote about Nevada’s BracketBusters matchup with Southern Illinois, which wasn’t announced until about noon.

I liked writing the column for the first time in a long time. It’s not going to win a Pullitzer (unless, of course, they’re into nipple jokes), but it was fun. I’ve been trying to take the same approach with those stories as I do with this blog. I think it’s starting to work.

All that stuff meant I didn’t have to start reading until about 9:30 p.m. From then on, predictably, it all got worse.

Reading was infinitely frustrating, despite the Jamiroquai, Journey, and Rise Against blasting in the background, mostly because I’m generally disinterested in what goes into our newspaper. I feel like we’re stuck in our own little world, and that we don’t do a very good job of writing about things that students care about.

Translation: NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT THE STUDENT GOVERNMENT.

The reading process went on until about 12:30 or so, and I didn’t get home until about 2 a.m. I was too exhausted to do homework, so I just went to sleep.

The End

My column (forgive the mug)

Currently Reading: “The Lord of the Rings” by J.R.R. Tolkien, “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby, “Dreams from My Father” by Barack Obama

Line of the Day: “People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violentvideos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to the sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives.”

From the iPod: “King Without a Crown” by Matisyahu

Movie: “Across the Universe” (love it)

Click Here to Read More..

Asinine conversation

Sagebrush editor in chief Brian Duggan (henceforth referred to as Douglas, Dougie, Duggins, or my heterosexual lifemate) and I started a new feature for the paper last week called asinine conversation.

It's basically 10-20 minutes of us rambling on about movies, music, politics, or whatever else we feel like talking about any given week.

Here's a link to the first edition. It's a bit rough, but we're working on it:

Asinine Conversation

Click Here to Read More..

Super Bowl madness/Charles Woodson, you've been avenged

The angst had to stop somewhere.

I've been bitching for months about how disinterested I am with sports, and I was going to boycott the Super Bowl this year.

What? Shocked that I’d miss what used to be my favorite day of the year?

Well, up until yesterday, that was the plan, but then I realized that would be the stupidest idea I've ever had (except for, you know, vodka pong, running around the block with no pants on in the middle of winter, headbutting things, starting a fire with an expired can of bug spray, etc.).

I ended up tagging along with Alex the Bastard and his girlfriend Jessica to one of her neighbor’s parties. I’m glad I did.

What unfolded Sunday was a cruel, sick joke that played out in calculated splendor after months of set up.

Oh the beautiful taste of heart break.

You have to understand, I hate Tom Brady. When his fumble that would have advanced my beloved Raiders to the AFC Championship Game back in 2002 was ruled an “incomplete pass”, my junior year of high school was ruined. I became weary of ice, it affected my handicap during golf season, and I burst into tears and/or fits of rage whenever schoolmates dropped things on the ground.

Since then I’ve loathed every bit of Brady’s ascent as the supposed best quarterback ever. All of a sudden this ass hat, who was a backup in college, was winning Super Bowls, making Pro Bowls, appearing on the cover of GQ, and trading in one super model for another like Cher trades in noses (work with me, I'm too lazy to think of a better comparison at the moment).

I’ve also taken it as a general practice to dislike anybody who has the butt-chin thing going on.

So Sunday was a beautiful day for me, and the setup couldn’t have been more perfect.

America’s Golden Boy led the Patriots to 18 straight wins and a perfect regular season and set a ton of records.

All he had to do was beat the New York Giants, a team the Patriots beat in the preseason and the regular season, in the Super Bowl today and he would have been the best player on the greatest team, and dynasty, in NFL history.

But Brady got beat. He fucking lost to the Lesser Manning as the Greater Manning looked on and smiled from the booth.

It was fucking glorious. Brady’s legacy was about to be capped as untouchable, but it was taken right out from in front of him as a national audience watched. It's probably the coolest bit of Karma ever.

What’s better is that Brady played like ass. The Giants harassed him all game with pretty much a four-man rush, and Brady looked rattled. He made more bad throws today than I’ve seen him make all season.

This was actually one of the better Super Bowls I’ve ever watched. The game was tense and low-scoring, which most of the crowd described as boring, but you knew the Patriots would take the lead and LM would have to make something happen to win.

The spread was also amazing, the commercials were great, and I managed to get 8 Sierra Nevada Pale Ale’s deep in about three hours.

And Tom Petty was on at halftime. I’ve had dreams about that kind of Super Bowl before. It was awesome.

So, in short, stick it Tom Brady, I'm going to watch Transformers for the 9 millionth time and fall asleep with a smile on my face.

Click Here to Read More..

Stop humoring him with laughter and maybe he'll go away

Right now I should be showing greater Reno my superior beer pong skills.

I should be at a bar downtown with my friend Natalie and her roommates, unleashing a bearded, moppy-haired fury of small white balls landing in cups filled with beer reminiscent of God's sulfured rage on the sodomites.

I should be devastating frat boys with my feathery left-handed release and wondering why beer pong doesn't rake in the women like playing guitar.

But because I don't have a car, I'm stuck at home watching a Dane Cook special on Comedy Central, which is sort of like my 12-year-old female cousin throwing a temper tantrum at Christmas dinner. Except she's actually witty.

When the fuck is he going to shut up?

Maybe I'm the only one, maybe I'm an elitist prick, but Dane Cook hasn't been funny in about a decade. I sat through his two hour special and it was absolutely brutal. I didn't even chuckle.

I just don't get it. I don't get how yelling and flailing equals funny. Actually I do, but his name was Chris Farley.

It's starting to get ridiculous. He doesn't even have fucking punch lines to most of his jokes, and I thought that was sort of the point. Dane, nobody cares what super powers you want. You're painfully unfunny, your movies suck, and yet thousands of college-aged students all around America buy tickets to your show.

What does it say about higher education in America when more students are willing to pay money to watch a middle-aged convulse on stage than will probably vote for the next president of the United States?

Seriously, why can't I get some Patton Oswalt, Mitch Hedberg, Stephen Lynch, Lisa Landry, Daniel Tosh, or Zach Galifianakis.

Fuck, I'd settle for the Blue Collar guys.

At this point I think it would be a lot less painful to go sit in a running car in the garage. Unfortunately that's not an option, so I guess I'll check out the History Channel.

(On a lighter note, I just watched some Hedberg and Landry while finding the links, so I'm in a much better mood)

Click Here to Read More..

Grounded

The land yacht has been officially beached.

I filled up at the 7-11 next to my house this evening so I could head to the DMV and replace my broken driver’s license (not nearly as cool of a story as you might think) only to find that the Lincster wouldn’t start. Again.

If you’ll remember, this has happened before. It did the exact same thing on the way back to Reno from Wells and it’s happened a couple times in my driveway.

Each time I’ve been able to rub a piece of metal on both ends of the relay to give the starter enough charge to start (the first time I paid a mechanic $80 to do this), so other than the embarrassment of rubbing said piece of metal on said relay in the middle of rush hour on McCarran, I’m thinking no big deal.

Except this time it didn’t work.

When it became obvious that rubbing the metal screws wasn’t going to accomplish anything except for a slight tingly feeling, I called Alex (AKA Alex the Bastard) to come get me so I could grab my Triple A information and call for a tow.

The Triple A dude was nice, except that despite the clear skies and dry roads, Reno was apparently in the midst of some invisible blizzard that prevented the tow truck from getting to my car.

This “extreme weather warning: meant that Alex and I had to hang out at the 7-11 for an hour and a half.

So we chatted up the 7-11 lady. We stood and looked at the store’s Chapstick options. Then we sat in his car and waited. At first we made fun of the “handicapped” people that took advantage of the spot to grab a quick sixer on the way home from work.

Apparently public drunkenness counts as a handicap now.

After about an hour we realized the windows in his car had steamed up, so we rocked the car back and forth and did the Kate Winslett hand on the window thing from Titanic to see if we could freak anyone out.

Yep, we’re pretty mature.

This all went down at about 4:15. The tow truck guy showed at about 6:00.

We’ll call him Senor Dickface for anonymity, and this is the conversation we had:

Snr Dickface: “What’s the problem?”

I’m thinking: Well, I haven’t had a beer in about 15 hours and I’m jonesing for the sushi I ate earlier. Oh wait, and my car’s not starting, genius.

What I actually said: “My car isn’t turning over. I think I’m having a problem with my solenoid.”

Snr Dickface: “How do you know it’s not the battery?”

Thinking: Because I’m not an idiot.

Said: “Because I’ve been having solenoid problems for a couple weeks. Oh, and when I turn the key the radio and all the lights come on.”

Snr Dickface: “You know those little Christmas lights that you put on the tree? Well 10 seconds of microwave power can light a million of them, and your radio is the same way.”

Thinking: What the fuck does that have to do with my car?

Said: “Huh, interesting.”

(Senor Dickface goes to truck and gets powerpack, comes back, and tests my car’s battery. Then he tinkers with some other stuff for about 15 minutes – and by tinker I mean hits things with a metal bar and says “Mother fucking Ford bastard” before finally giving up.)

Snr Dickface: “Well, it’s not your battery. I think it’s your solenoid or starter.”

Thinking: No shit.

Said: “No shit?”

So the guy jacks the car on the back of his truck and starts for my house. Turns out he likes Led Zeppelin, so we actually struck up a little convo about the band’s immortal awesomeness and the possibility of an international tour this fall. He was also pretty stoked that I share a birthday with guitarist Jimmy Page.

The whole incident mostly sucked. For reference, waiting in front of a 7-11 for two hours isn’t nearly as fun as Jay and Silent Bob make it look.

And now the car is essentially a really heavy windbreak in front of the house and I’m not sure how I’m going to get to school on Monday. Mother fucking Ford bastard.

Oh, the only funny thing was when the middle-aged lady on the pump next to us locked her keys in her PT Cruiser while she was filling up. She waited like 30 minutes for Senor Dickface to get done with my car so he could get into her only to find out that the passenger side door was never locked.

Classic.

Currently reading: “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby, “Dreams from my Father” by Barack Obama, “Persepolis” by Marjane Satrapi, “Lord of the Rings” by JRR Tolkien

Line of the day: “Nobody – not Alison, or Kevin, or me, or the sexually uninitiated retards hanging off the end of the swingboat said anything at all. I stung, and I blushed, and I suddenly forgot how to walk without being aware of ever single part of my body.” High Fidelity.

From the iPod: “Buy You a Drank” by T-Pain

Latest movie: Superbad (I just can’t get enough)

Amusing internet video line: “Does anybody have the new Beastie Boys album, and if so could you share it on iTunes? Pitchfork says it’s the hotness.” (from Hardly Working…)

Click Here to Read More..