Grace Under Badminton

I am not, nor have never I been, a graceful person. And, more than likely, I never will be. Usually this only affects me in minor ways. I trip a lot, fall down a lot, and generally make a damn fool of myself all over the place. Which is cool, you know, I’m at peace with it. No horrible results and I end up with a nice story to tell the next day, to the neverending amusement my friends, who like stories in which I fall down. They’re an interesting bunch

On the other hand, there are the times of ridiculous injury from my lack of grace that are less “haha, funny” and more “haha, damn yo, that sucks.” Over the course of my life, I have broken my nose on three separate occasions, all as a relatively young child. Back then I used to tend to fall down flights of stairs unlike now, when I just fall down for no apparent reason on flat surfaces.

Later in life, practicing football, I seriously broke my left leg, requiring a cast for 4 months and another month of little to no standing. Following that incident, I took the stance that, considering my inability to not die during physical activity, I would just bow out of all sports involving physical contact.

This was a good strategy, it seemed, and I didn’t have any real tough problems for a long while. Then, my senior year in high school, I decided that it would be a good idea to try out for the track team. I am a fast runner, when the occasion requires, and it really doesn’t require physical contact. I would be fine.

On the first night of practice (on the first sprint, for that matter) I took ten good strides, fell flat on my face and skidded across the track for ten feet or so. The result: the majority of the skin on the left side of my body staying behind on the ground that night, a huge bill for bandages, antibiotics, and two weeks of wandering around school looking like…well, like I had skidded down a track for ten feet. The scar from the incident still remains with me today, the three scars actually, along with a secondary mental scar that indicated that all sports, physical contact or otherwise, should be struck from the list of things that Jason is allowed to do. Refine “sports” to “physical activites of any kind” and you might have an idea of my mindset.

College brought on a whole new set of graceless injuries that are so numerous I’m wondering if there’s really a point to writing them all down. To save time, we’ll go with the list:

Chipped front tooth (my inability to high step march)
Near gouging of my left eye (ran over by bass drum)
Severely burned right hand (microwaves, soup and a klutz)
Extended fall down the steps of Dallas Hall (most embarrassing moment of my entire life.)
Etc (I’m too depressed to continue, really)

All this rambling on to say that, despite my inclination towards never leaving the room or walking around, I took up a new sport this semester. Badminton. Seriously, y’all don’t know what you’re missing. It’s frickin’ awesome. Small rackets, tiny little thing to hit (wonderfully called “the shuttlecock”), a little court, and it’s all indoors.

Fast-paced and full of ridiculous rules, Badminton is the bastard child of tennis and volleyball, only you don’t have to worry about fast moving rubber balls, hot sand, or crazed fans. Instead, you worry about taking a shuttlecock smash to the face and losing an eye, hitting yourself with your own racket, your partner hitting you with their racket, or the hard gym floor when you dive for a shot.

Because I dive for shots a whole lot. Okay, “dive for a shot” is a nice way of saying “fall down after lunging for a shot and losing my balance,” but the fact still remains. Um. Yes. Anyway. I look very dedicated, and no serious injuries have resulted yet. My knee is very sore and I bruised my wrist last week, but these are minor considerations in the hunt for badminton glory.

Wellness class has suddenly taken a competitive turn and I’ve got the fever to dominate. As the professor predicted on the first day, we have developed our own badminton nemeses, whom we constantly battle for bragging rights and small monetary wagers. And while I am near the bottom of the class in terms of badminton winning percentages, I’m still always very psyched to go out there and try my luck. Because until the day comes in which I am horribly disfigured in a shuttlecock related catastrophe: (and that day will come, of course. It’s only a matter of when.) I love this game.

Permanent Accessory

Glub, glub.
One Shot. Pour.

Glub, glub.
Two Shot. Pour.

Snap, fizz.
Coke. Pour.
Stir.

Quick drink.
Wince.
Throat on fire.

Another quick drink.
Wince.
Throat on fire.
Hmm. Must get better soon, right?

Repeat as needed.

[20 minutes later]

Face is flushed.
Tendency to smile a lot.
But that’s my normal expression, right? Right.
Bottom of my drink.
Damn.

Glub, glub.
One Shot. Pour.

Glub, glub.
Two Shot. Pour.

Hmm.

Glub, glub.
Three Shot. Pour.

Snap, fizz.
Coke. Pour.
Stir.

Quick drink.
Less wincing.
Must be good stuff.

Sharp turn back towards the action.
Whoops, little dizzy.
Definitely good stuff.

[20 minutes later]

Dancing despite knowledge that I should never dance.
Perhaps I was wrong all this time about my dancing skills.
Am obviously a much better dancer than I remember.
Fantastic, really. Could be on television.

Damn.
Drink is gone.
Dancing must stop, sadly.
To the kitchen.

Hmm.
Shot glass presents difficulties, as there seem to be two.
Will not be deterred, am excellent judge of shot sizes, do not need special measuring device – that’s why I have eyes.

Glubglubglubglubglubglub.

Perfect. Should be bartender, really.

Quick drink.
Woah.
[thinks]
Oh yes. Coke.

Snap, fizz.

Hmm, doesn’t taste very strong.
Hmm, doesn’t taste like anything, really.
Oh well.
The dance floor calls.

[probably 20 minutes later]

“Ha. You’re drunk.”
“Heh. No, you’re drunk.”
Am indignant.
How could this completelydrunk person dare to say that I am drunk.
Drunken fool.
Whoops. fellover.
Okay, perhaps am slightly inebriated.
But still know the word inebriated.
That means more drinking is still allowed.

[even later]

I love you.
I love that chair.
I love everyone.
I love my drink.

Sigh. Drink is gone.
Feel bad for the drink.
Hmm, quick shift in emotion – could possibly be the alcohol talking.
Vaguely remember usually hating most everyone.
No, no. Surely not. Am fun-loving person all the time.

Still, need a drink.
Kitchen seems very far away.
Have sent someone off as my emissary.
Love him. Who was he?
Ooh, love this song. Perhaps some more dancing…

[yeah, later]

Ah, sweet nectar of life. Ever so tasty.
Am discussing something with somebody, but all details seem to be very slippery. Seems to be some sort of delay between mind and mouth. Is this normal? Will have to test this.

Crap. Definitely did not mean to say that.
Perhaps it was not heard or understood.

Nope.
This could be trouble.
Drinking will help ease the mind for now.

[much later]

Hmm. Must get home.
Where is home?
[thinking]
Hmm.

Oh yes. I remember now.
But how to get there?
Hmm.

Hey! A car.
Car = road. Perhaps home is down the road.
I’ll follow it.
Hmm. Oh yes. Sidewalk.
Excellent.

[who knows, really]

Erm. Where am I?
Bright lights, lots of white.
Hospital?
Heaven?
No. There’s toilet.
Bathroom.
Yes, definitely a bathroom.
Powers of deduction still intact.

Thought is less comforting as urge to vomit overwhelms.
Oh well.
Kind of remember an excellent party.
Totally worth it.

[5 hours later]

Totally not worth it.
Will never drink again.
Swear to it upon this dirty towel and this December edition - Vanity Fair.
Alcohol will never pass by these lips again.

[Roughly 7 days later]

Glub, glub.
One Shot. Pour.

Glub, glub…

Annoy Me

I’m writing this thing at 3:00 in the morning, because today has been weird and I have a test tomorrow and am all kinds of wired, nervous, and frustrated. So it’s gonna be short and make little sense. Sort of like Gary Coleman. (Yeah, I’m coming from a very strange headspace right now.)

There are a whole lot of things out there that annoy me to no end:

Pets in clothes,
People who use the word ‘impetus’,
Bad drivers,
The phrase ‘lol’,
Stupid drunks,

and Carrot Top, just to name a few. But there is one thing in the world that drives me absolutely nuts. I become filled with a seething rage and feel the need to throw things. Not only that, but strangely enough, I am the only person in the world bothered by it. It kind of sucks, because I know it shouldn’t be such a big deal in my mind, but I just can’t get over it.

Why are there big orange signs on the highway that say “Guardrail Damage Ahead”?

Okay, that’s it. But, seriously? It drives me nuts. What possible purpose could they serve?

“Hey, if you were thinking about driving off the road soon, don’t do it up here, ‘cause there ain’t no guardrail to keep yo’ ass on the highway.”

Or maybe it’s the exact opposite:

“Dude, if you were thinking about taking a header off the road, why not wait a second and do it up here where the guardrail is already damaged, save us some time?”

WHY?!?

It’s insane. The Texas government is paying people to go around, find places with guardrail damage, put up warning signs and then head off on their merry way. Where is the logic?

“Why fix the damage when instead we could put up a sign alerting the world to the problem that will have no bearing on them at all, except in case of an accident, at which point the sign really only adds more variables into the equation?”

You can tell I’m strangely bitter and crazy about the whole thing. I can’t explain why it annoys me so much. It’s just another ridiculous thing that will never be explained, like why people yawn, or how many licks it takes to get to the center of a really bad kind of sucker. But it will continue to eat away at me so long as I live.

So there you go, yet another strange and creepy tidbit that makes up my insanity. I keep telling people that it’s not a good idea to try and understand why I tick, because you start finding out things like this. I’ll stop here, before I get to the grammar and spelling annoyances and alienate everyone I ever knew. (One quick one: Definitely. Definite - LY. Definitely. Say it with me.)

All right, I’m out.

Bitter

Have I mentioned lately that I hate February? Because I do. So much so that it causes me physical pain on occasion (and it’s not just the freezing rain). It’s always cold, wet, and dreary. Classes become a huge drag and midterms appear out of nowhere to suck the life out of me, like a large life-sucking machine. And I always get sick for at four days somewhere around the 21st. But no other occasion in this hateful month causes me more pain than everyone else’s favorite day: Feb. 14th, the dreaded V-day.

Every year the stores take on that tell-tale pink-and-red hue and I start to die a little inside. Soon, there are hearts everywhere, the jewelry stores kick the advertising into overdrive (“Buy her a ring or she’ll dump your sorry ass, you miscreant.”), and chocolate prices skyrocket. Meanwhile, I slowly develop a new ulcer and up my stockholding in Rolaids. Before you know it, the little themes of love are everywhere: hanging from the ceiling in the student center and The Market, on my RA’s door (“Give us money and we’ll give your special someone a painful, artificially flavored beverage that tastes suspiciously like goat urine!”), and even in the law library (In the form of heart shaped comment cards. Sigh.)

I’m not really sure why I hate the day so much. Do I really begrudge my fellow human beings one day of the year in which to honor their loved ones with a romantic gesture and/or a tastefully written Hallmark card? In a single word: Yes. I have apparently been in training to be a bitter old man for the last 4 years of my life. Soon you will see me in my room grumbling about the damn kids with their damn loud music and their damn lack of respect for common decency, dammit.

Crap, I already do that. Apparently, I am that bitter old man.

Moving on.

It’s not that I hate hearts, or people in love. I don’t long for Cupid’s head on a pike. It’s not the gross commercialism that pervades the very essence of Valentine’s Day (right there on par with Christmas and Arbor Day as most media-saturated yearly event that does not involve Janet Jackson’s breast) It’s not even the fact that I’m currently alone (in true bitter-old-man style). I didn’t liked it when I was all relationship-y and the hate endures through the single life too.

Hmm, suddenly I’m at a loss for an actual reason for the focused hatred. I fear for the cohesiveness of the column.

Wait, I got something. I just hate the message it sends. You’re not complete if you aren’t with someone. Instead of the normal pressure to pair up (the desire not to be alone at the key times in your life: the major holidays, your eventual death, and the first time you beat level 25 of Tetris) you get the pressure that you’re missing out on the fundamental driving force behind life, happiness, and capitalism. Which could arguably be true, but it’s not like it’s a do-it-now-or-die-alone situation. I’ve got lots of time to decide what I want to do, who I want to be with and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let the greeting card industry guilt me into something just so they can continue their quest to encapsulate every possible human emotion into a pithy quotation that fits into a 5×6 envelope.(For the loss of a beloved pet on Valentine’s Day: Unlike your cat, my love for you will never die…)

So in conclusion, screw Valentine’s Day.

And on a completely unrelated note, I’ve started my Significant Other Search of 2004 (still cleverly nicknamed SOS2004). The ad:

WM, 22, 5'9’', 148 lb, blue eyes, blondish hair, very quiet, occasionally witty, not too bright, sarcastic (although-no-one-can-tell), and less than graceful seeks someone who: recognizes the majesty of the beaver, the brilliance of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the savory nature of Dr Pepper. Must be okay with my eccentric geekiness, my LotR addiction, like to dance, and have a healthy sense of humor. Winos, derelicts, and lawyers need not apply. Actually, scratch the last sentence. Go ahead and apply. There’s no time like the present.

Intro With Breasts

Guess what? I'm now an opinion columnist. Behold the amazing power of the internet. Actually, I guess it's more behold the power of Jason to do anything that is not: finding an apartment, finding a job, doing homework, or anything else productive. Frank has seduced me into his webpage of lies and tabloid like practices with promises of fame, fortune, and world domination.

But it turns out you also have to find things you have an opinion about to be a columnist. I made up a list of things that I have opinions on, but they all seemed pretty boring. So I came up with something much more racy and topical: Breasts! I actually have very little in the way of an opinion on breasts. I have nothing against them, per se, but I definitely don't see what the big deal is. This delightful bit of insight into the mind of Jason brings me to the opinion portion of today's column: Why is there such a big hoopla about Janet Jackson's breast, in The Halftime Debacle That Scandalized a Nation?

See, I was actually watching the halftime show, wondering if they'd actually sing a song that came out within the last two years, when the alleged 'boob showage' occurred. Justin Timberlake had finally managed to come up with one vaguely recent song (Rock Your Body or some such equally ridiculous beatboxing gibberish) and I was finally ready to switch back to the Queer Eye marathon. Suddenly, The Event That Shocked A Nation went down before my eyes. My entire reaction (which comprised 0.2 seconds of my life) went exactly like this: "Huh. I think Janet Jackson might have just flashed me. I wonder if they have gotten around to waxing the unibrow off that poor straight guy yet." Click.

Two hours later, people will not freaking shut up about The Tragedy That Will Linger Forever. "Won't someone please think of the children?! They may have seen a breast with a piece of metal strategically covering the naughty bits," said the entire American population apparently.

Now, I'm sorry to all the people in America who are not aware, but I'm willing to give you incredible odds that no one was forever traumatized by The Wardrobe Malfunction That Will Echo Across Time. Because if your child was watching the half-time at the Superbowl I think it follows that they have probably seen at least some MTV in their lifetime. And if they've seen some MTV, then they've seen the new Britney Spears video, Toxic, (because it is on continuous loop there these days) in which she wears nothing but body glitter and clever CGI animation for huge periods of time. And if they've seen that, Janet Jackson's breast has gotta be pretty low on the scale of Cool Smutty Things We've Seen Lately.

Despite this fact, I will continue to be barraged with in depth analyses of the event, microsecond by microsecond, along with probing questions about the destruction of the moral fabric of society and the downfall of television vis a vis the decline of Western Civilization as we know it. Seriously, ya'll, it was a breast. Shown for 1.7 seconds. Yeah it was kinda creepy and metal-looking, but look at all the good it has wrought: It gave me my first column topic.