Vicodin, love and other drugs

As time slips by, and my memory bank becomes cluttered, it has become increasingly evident that things are going to blur together. My college social life was not filled with individual parties, for example; it was one giant bash. There are events, of course, that are going to resonate more than others, and those particular memories are how we contextualize our pasts.

Like, this one night during my sophomore year. I don’t remember the totality of the evening; I just remember that before we went out, my buddy Brad washed down two Advil with a Miller Lite. For full disclosure, if memory serves me correct, we were sharing a six pack. 

I remember thinking, “Damn, that was incredibly stupid, dude.” 

Robert, our friend who watched the whole scene, shared my sentiment. But he definitely said something to him, because there was a half-hour long debate on whether Brad would become a “statistic.”

He didn’t, of course. And, truthfully, it was the last time I thought about mixing booze with pain medication.

Well, until the closing days of my college career, at least. There was this incident that took place at the final party I attended as an undergraduate. Because some of us were sensing our college mortality, there was definitely a weird vibe permeating the barely lit basement. What I didn’t know was that the party would double as one of those unforgettable memories and a night-long PSA for the dangers of alcohol. 

The night started off rather innocuously, in fact. Shots were poured, someone’s—probably my—manhood was challenged, and shots were imbibed. Standard fare at The Speakeasy. 

For whatever reason, I wasn’t interested in tailing along with my friends on this particular evening. Perhaps it was because, after four years of shared experiences, I already knew what their nights would be like. Brad would be bubbly and charming, and would do so while exposing all three of his chest hairs; Robert would find some way to stir the pot; Ted and Erin would dance, get into some kind of fight, resolve their issues, and be tucked into bed by 1 a.m. 

These storylines had played out so many times. 

With this in mind, a few of us decided to find some new blood. And I have to say, the following conversations were pretty forgettable. Three of us—Brad, Jordan and myself—had, after a few minutes of bouncing around, decided to talk to a girl wearing a blue dress. 

Quickly, we found out some interesting nuggets that helped make the following events make sense: she was a freshman, she appeared—and it was shortly confirmed—to be quite intoxicated and she had taken pain medication. This, ladies and gentleman, was the recipe for a shit show. 

Knowing this, I decided to proceed with caution, but I have to admit that I was intrigued by the whole scene. No, I had no real aesthetic interest in this girl, and I had no grand plan of seduction for someone I would probably never talk to again. That’s not really the way I operate. I had a sneaking suspicion, however, that something ridiculous would happen, because she kept mentioning the pain pills. 

And, boy, I was right. 

Brad would soon leave our little group, which if you know him is hardly surprising, because the man is a social butterfly. He had to spread his wings, I suppose. If anything exciting were to happen, it would have to be with Pain Pills (the girl) and Jordan. Now, with a clearer head—sans booze—I would have left immediately. Sure, some funny shit wouldn’t have happened, but Jordan could have used the one-on-one time. 

Instead, our trio stayed in tact as we bounced around the house, usually with Jordan bringing up the rear. This caused there to be some questioning of intentions. Now, I’m a little hazy on what immediately followed; however, I do know that certain people—Liam and Zach (enter laughs here)—were trying to forcibly detach Jordan from our mini-group. 

This certainly irked Jordan who was clearly interested in “trying” some Pain Pills, if you catch my drift. Again, this is where I should have exited stage left, though if I had, we wouldn’t have witnessed something unforgettable. 

Realizing that we had gone outside, Jordan focused on the target and made his move. There was one small problem, though. Taylor, another friend, was standing on the front porch and was in the way. Whether this was intentional or just mere coincidence, she’d have to tell you. But let’s just say, Jordan didn’t really give a damn, and he decided to shove her out of the way. 

Somehow—wait, no, it was definitely because he wasn’t drinking—Liam was able to lunge towards Taylor and make a perfect catch. It was a pretty surreal moment; I mean, mild-mannered Jordan Wood had just pushed someone down the stairs. If this wasn’t amazing enough, once we had decided to go inside, he jogged over to a tree, bent to one knee and crossed himself.

I almost lost it. Now, I fully support his attempts to be outgoing, and with a little more foresight, I would have done some more facilitating. But this was so over-the-top. Unfortunately, his quest would ultimately be cut short. You see, once Pain Pills made it inside, her condition had deteriorated to the point that she needed to rush to the bathroom. Kids, I hope you learned a lesson today: Never drink your body weight in Vodka after taking pain medication. 

As Jordan arrived, and subsequently surveyed the situation, he quickly realized that his lady friend was no longer there. No, love would have to wait until a later date. The big group that was assembled made sure that she and her friends made it home safely. We all felt bad that Pain Pills had lost her lunch, but now we had another story for anytime we felt like taking a stroll down memory lane. 

We’re going to get further away from that party, because time is always moving forward. Some of our collective memories of the following days and weeks are probably gone, in fact.

But, no worries, we’ll always be able to say, “Remember that one time Jordan gave Taylor the People’s Elbow…”

P.S.: We actually saw Pain Pills in July. It took me a while to remember who she was, but once I did, I laughed pretty hard. I kept saying, “The Return of Pain Pills!” Taylor thought this was pretty hilarious, and to her credit, so did Pain Pills. (Mackenzie, I believe) She was a good sport. And yes, Jordan was still interested. So if anyone finds this girl again, you need to set her up with him. Still looking out for you from the Sunshine State, Woody!

Our self-aware 'Entourage'

It’s almost time to say goodbye to our favorite bros.  

Well, the ones that have taken us on an entertaining—albeit, very glorified—ride through Hollywood, at least. There are only two episodes left for Vince and the gang to tie up all the loose ends that Doug Ellin, Entourage’s creator, has left hanging in the balance. For the show’s fans, next Sunday will mark the end of an era. 

Or so you would think.  

As I’ve reminisced the past few weeks, it’s becoming increasingly apparent that “Entourage” ended up being two different shows. Sure, it seems similar to what it’s always been, but the past few years have been fundamentally different, which makes the impending season finale feel stranger than it should.  

Not that it should carry any less emotional weight for the viewer; it just feels more like the summation of only the show’s second half. 

In the beginning, Vince, who was still an up-and-coming actor, was the impetus for everything that happened within the scope of Entourage’s fake Hollywood. In a realer sense, though, the word entourage seemed to have a negative connotation. These were supposed to be mooches and saps that gave a star short-term gratification, but didn’t really have anything of substance to give back. 

And on the surface, it would appear that Eric, Turtle and Drama fit into this categorization. But, of course, their bond with Vince has always remained true. Their connection has created a foundation for the show, and it has not changed over the course of the series. What has changed is Vince’s role as an enabler. 

It was always a half-hour of escapist television because Vince—given his celebrity standing—would get the “hookup.” That meant girls, parties, flat-screens, new kicks for Turtle, etc. Because of this, there was a huge emphasis on Vince’s career and the inner-workings of Hollywood. That was what made Entourage’s world possible. As the show has progressed, though, E, Turtle and Drama are no longer satiated by being handed everything. 

They want to escape from Vince’s shadow.

As a result, they’ve all become more self-aware. For some, this makes the show not as appealing, because the secondary characters, who were more interesting than Vince, anyway, are driven by different desires. There is a realization that who they were—Turtle’s penchant for pot-smoking and easy women, for example—isn’t what they want forever. (This type of self-realization probably would never happen with a real entourage.)

Instead of functioning as a unit, each individual member of the Entourage is forging his own path. This all makes the show feel less “Hollywood.” There has been a noticeable lack of celebrity cameos this season, and very little mention of Vince’s career. He’s still doing that Airwalker movie, right? 

We are now watching the final—and somewhat surprising—evolution of some unforgettable characters. 

Turtle: He was clearly the most comfortable being one of Vince’s lackeys at the show’s onset. For being Vince’s driver, he was given an unlimited supply of weed and got to live the good life. To outsiders—especially, Ari—he was pretty useless. And for a few seasons, Turtle had no problem with this; after all, he was banking in on a pretty sweet setup. This obviously changed, though. He had his failed managerial relationship with Saigon, the rapper, not the city, of course. Then, he tried and failed at a relationship with Jamie-Lynn Sigler, and his subsequent foray into the Tequila business. All of this has him still trying to break away from Vince. “I want to do it on my own, Vince,” he says repeatedly.  Watch an old episode of the show and compare that Turtle to his current incarnation, it’s somewhat unsettling. Will Turtle succeed at the Italian food game? 

Johnny Drama: Remember when Drama was Vince’s personal chef. Well, he’s still just as irrational and prone to a bad anxiety attack. But in the interim he’s had some career success—a few roles that he got because of Vince turned into a regular spot on a network sitcom, which he lost because, well, he’s freaking neurotic. There was a moment in last week’s episode where this self-awareness theme was striking. After all the craziness with the Johnny Banana’s strike, he tells Dice that maybe this is who he is—you know, the crazy guy with a penchant for self-sabotage. Drama knows who he is now. Will his show new potential hit cartoon actually happen?

E: Because Eric was Vince’s manager, he always seemed the most self-aware already. He always obsessed about how to make people think he was actually skilled at his work. His neurosis hurt him at times, but he now runs a full-fledged agency with associate Scott Lavin, a great late-addition to the show. But he still has his fair share of problems. He is still in love with Sloan, and he seems to know it—even if it only became apparent after a sexual encounter with her former step-mother. What happens there? 

Ari: They were never going to put “consummate family man” on Ari Gold’s grave, but you’d never think his disintegrating personal life would ever affect his agency. Well, it may take it away from him. Another telling exchange from last week: Babs saying that two women now had L.A.’s biggest chauvinist by the balls. He finally seemed to come to grips with the divorce, as long as it didn’t threaten his agency, of course. He then saw Bobby Flay emerge from “his” kitchen when he wanted a word with Mrs. Ari (Melissa). I really thought he would bitch-slap Bobby Flay like he handled Adam Davies in the past. But this is an evolved Ari Gold. He seems to know his temper—among other vices—ended his marriage. What happens to Ari next? 

Vince: It was hard to imagine that A-list star—is he supposed to be A-list?—Vincent Chase would ever end up in drug rehab, but obviously that’s what happens when you date porn stars, right? Vince did drug rehab, and when he left seemed like a sterile version of happy-go-lucky self. What drove him to become more self-aware this season? A Vanity Fair profile. Go journalism! He spent last week’s episode realizing that he’s probably never had a deep, meaningful relationship with a woman. Viewers have  known this for years, but it’s finally bothering Vince. Does he come to grips with this in next few episodes?'

Next Sunday will bring an end to the character-driven second half of Entourage. It’s not really escapist television anymore; it’s all about what happens to our favorite bros when they face some real-life problems. I bet everything ends on happy note. 

But, please, we need more LLOYD!

Drunken scenes from an Italian restaurant

Authors note: Since the nature of the following story could be construed as damning, some names have been slightly altered. Not enough for anyone to notice the difference, though. Sorry, guys.

Jews are masochists.

There’s the whole indifference towards Jesus thing. Yeah, sure, they think he was a pretty cool guy, but he didn’t quite make the Messiah cut. No, they’re still waiting for the biggest thing, well, since Jesus.

But what happened on a chilly October 2009 night has nothing to do with JC. In fact, the possibility that a greater being was watching from upstairs is sort of unsettling. You see, what we initially intended to be a simple religious celebration, instead, turned into a night defined by petty crime.

For a practicing Jew, Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year; it’s an opportunity to strengthen one’s relationship with God by atoning for the past year’s sins. This is done by a whole lot of praying and fasting: no food, no water, no tooth brushing, etc. For us, it was an opportunity to watch our college friend, Steven Likener, stuff his face as he was “breaking the fast.”

Last year, he decided to take down a one-pound burger, washing it down with a big milkshake. Steven’s performance was Herculean, but in the grand scheme of things, it will prove to be utterly forgettable because of what happened the year before.

Nothing could ever top our romp through Olive Garden.

Because it was the time of year when they offer the Never-Ending Pasta Bowl, which is coincidently back for a limited time, it seemed like a logical place to gorge. There was—possibly due to some sort of divine intervention—a lengthy wait to get seated. Or maybe the rest of Bloomington’s Jewish community had the same idea we had.

When you’re there, you may be family—but let’s be real, you’re probably an angry family because you’re eating at Olive Garden.

Well, the wait was making us realize we were slowly becoming that irritated family. Roger Stranger, my brother for all intents and purposes, was getting quite restless. We needed to figure out a way to forget that we were still waiting at an Olive Garden, had already watched the sun set and hadn’t already consumed our body weight in pasta.

The answer: cheap wine, of course.    

Roger sauntered over to the bar and said, “Can I try one of your Chiantis?”

This later would become a staple of any of our visits to an Italian restaurant, but for now, it was brought on by sheer curiosity. The barkeep must have sensed that we were pretty impatient; after all, she was dealing with the type of people who order a whole bottle of wine before being seated.

Now, I was still 20 at the time, so I wasn’t going to enjoy any of Roger’s red wine. There’s a chance I may have had a sip, but this wasn’t where the night took a devious turn.

No, instead, Roger had changed his motives for the evening; it was no longer about eating every type of pasta on the menu. Let’s just say the forecast had quickly become a whole lot more wet.

We had to start asking ourselves, “Would he finish a whole bottle of Chianti by himself, and what would happen if he did?”

As we were finally being seated, Roger carried the recently uncorked bottle over to the table. But it was inside of a silver bucket. At the time, I thought nothing of this rather unremarkable vessel, and figured it was a good way of ensuring that nobody ruined Roger’s cheap Chianti.

He placed it in the middle of the table, as if it were some kind of trophy. It soon, however, was not the center of attention. We had to divert our focus to what was happening on the other side of the table: Steven, who was fist-deep in a bowl of Fettuccine Alfredo, was about to finish his third bowl of pasta.

“Good God,” I said. “Steven actually is eating his body weight in pasta. This is pretty damn incredible.”

He didn’t have time to answer, though; he was too busy making up for a day of atonement.

While this was happening, Roger’s mission to down the Chianti became a clandestine operation. Nobody was even paying attention because we were too deep into a philosophical conversation, the details of which are a little bit murky. I know it touched on some frequently debated subjects: girls, booze, girls who drink booze, booze with girls on the label, etc.

Yeah, ladies, we were just that awesome.

When there was finally a break in the conversation, I noticed that Roger was making a pretty big dent in the Chianti. Almost on cue, he grabbed the attention of the table, and started to talk about a great idea he just had.

I didn’t even have to listen to the words that were coming out of his mouth because of the look on his face. If you know Roger, you probably know what I’m talking about. Perhaps because he had just finished his fourth glass of vino, he had become a little starry-eyed and had popped his mischievous smile.

“Oh shit, we’re about to do something incredibly stupid,” I thought.

I was right.

Mr. Stranger wanted to leave Olive Garden with the now-finished wine bottle and the silver bucket it had been served in. After a few minutes of scheming, it was time to try and pull it off. We had already reached the point of no return. As we got up from the table, Frank Sinatra started crooning…

“I've got a song that I sing; I can make the rain go, anytime I move my finger”

I started to try and rationalize what was about to happen. Well, maybe ‘Ol Blue Eyes will be watching over us.

Roger stuffed the bucket under his shirt, and started making his way towards the exit. I have to say, he looked like a fat robot. 

There was a big bulge where his chest was supposed to be and some not-so inconspicuous parts of silver were sticking out. 

Simply, we looked like a bunch of dumbasses. Well, dumbasses that were thoroughly enjoying themselves, at least.

Something that was reinforced that night: It’s good to have friends in high places. Or maybe even a few that bus tables at Olive Garden. With our buddy’s help, we were able to make a somewhat dramatic getaway.  

When we made it home a few minutes later, a few of us were filled with pasta, others—well, actually just Roger—had a relatively strong buzz going, but we all felt accomplished.

It may have only been worth a few cents, but we beat the Olive Garden that night. We stuck it to the man.

And yes, we had become petty thieves.

A few weeks ago, as an era was ending, I came across that silver bucket again. It had been chilling next to a few books on a bookshelf, picking up a little bit of dust. I went into the kitchen grabbed a ping pong ball (yes, college kids keep ping pong balls in the kitchen), went back in the living room and tried to make trick shots into the bucket.

After a few minutes, Roger joined in on the game; it was just like that early-‘90s McDonald’s commercial with Michael Jordan and Larry Bird, except nothing was going in.

We both really sucked, but we kept trying anyway. The whole thing became downright masochistic.  

But no matter, that bucket does not now represent the realization of pleasure through deprivation. I’ll always remember it for exactly the opposite reasons, actually.

For one night, no matter how stupid it seems, we could not be denied.

The Circle of 10 had the world on a string.

Tiger's losing his mind games

There was a time in the not-so-distant past when Tiger Woods’ mere presence at a major championship would cause his stiffest competition to shake in its spikes.

When he reached the first tee on Sundays, dressed in his traditional red, there was always a sense of finality—as in, we’re about to witness history because all these other poor souls have no chance. 

It was the most intimidating scene in sports; the successor to Michael Jordan preening around a basketball court or Muhammad Ali entering the ring. Tiger could hit a tiny white ball better than anyone on the planet, but that wasn’t as impressive as the aura he created.

Before an iron was struck, Woods was in every golfer’s head.

But as he arrives at the Atlanta Athletic Club for “Glory’s Last Shot,” it’s clear that Tiger has reached unchartered territory.

For the first time in his career, it feels like he has no shot.

Sure, given his disintegrating personal life and troublesome injuries, it’s been a while since Woods was anything close to a certainty. But even at his least prepared—the 2006 U.S. Open and 2010 Masters come to mind—there was a lingering notion that maybe he would contend, at least.

Not anymore. The guy who used to play Jedi mind tricks on major championship fields has become a prisoner of his own subconscious.

The legendary Bobby Jones, whose home course was coincidentally the Atlanta Athletic Club, famously said, “Competitive golf is played mainly on a five-and-a-half-inch course...the space between your ears.”

I vaguely remember the first time I heard those prophetic words of wisdom. My grandfather, who was my golf-watching companion, was a sucker for these kinds of witticisms or anecdotes, so naturally he repeated Jones’ quote at some point.

For a six-year-old kid, whose mind could barely grasp non-literal concepts, the idea was pretty strange. What do you mean the guy who hits it the furthest and straightest doesn’t always win?

Well, it turns out the old men were right. Physical ability and raw skill will only get you so far in competitive golf. Being able to stave off the self-doubt that creeps in and creating a mentally strong makeup is essential for success.

When he’s at his best, Woods has proven that he has gifts that make the ordinary weekend hacker drool. But as supremely talented as he is, he’s a 14-time major champion because of the seemingly bulletproof competitive psyche he had created.

Since the fallout from his much-publicized scandal, it’s like someone has taken out a 2-iron and unleashed several whacks at Tiger’s confidence.

There are still moments when it appears that he can summon his championship form, especially when he has a mid-iron in hand. But these are brief respites for a man who’s dealing with persistent self-doubt on a golf course for the first time.

You can see it sneak in when he three-putts or skulls a simple chip around a green. These were things that a focused, mentally strong Tiger Woods would almost never do.

Perhaps brought on by unrealistic expectations, he appears, at this point, to be trying to reacquire stability by implementing constant change. He fired long-time caddie Steve Williams, overhauled his swing and has even grown some Darius Rucker-esque facial hair

Seems like things a golfer who is mentally wandering and grasping at straws would do, right?

Still, though, Tiger promises that he isn’t just some “other guy,” and insists that he believes he can win every time he enters a tournament. For the time being, his words are hollow; in fact, they are downright unbelievable.

His career revival may come some at some point down the road, but it won’t be this weekend. It’s not because his swing is slightly off plane, or his putting stroke needs to be fixed.

No, Tiger, it’s all in your head.

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The greatest rock & roll band in the world

Just two days after the untimely death of guitarist Brian Jones, the Rolling Stones played a free concert in London’s Hyde Park. The band’s tribute to their fallen band mate signaled the beginning of a new era.

As they took the stage, tour manager Sam Cutler introduced the group by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest Rock and Roll band in the world…The Rolling Stones!”

With Mick Taylor assuming the lead guitarist spot, the Stones would quickly reach their apex and the “greatest” moniker stuck.

The beautiful—and sometimes frustrating—thing about music is that “greatest” is purely subjective. Personal taste will determine whether you agree with the band’s bold self-proclamation. For every Rolling Stones fan, there are more than a few Dead Heads, Led Heads or Parrot Heads. (Funny how every group of rock fans are fill-in-the-blank “heads.”)

There is no doubt, though, that the Stones were the most important band for decades; they always moved the dial. Even though they’re aging gracefully, the band of 60-somethings isn’t biggest thing going anymore.

So who owns the belt? It has to be U2, right? They meet all the criteria that the Stones had developed before Mick tossed the torch over to Bono.

They certainly pass the “Super Bowl Halftime Show Test.” If you’re trying to choose the “most famous” rock group to create a buzz, it has to be U2. 

It’s interesting that, given Bono’s overtly political nature, U2 would be able to achieve the level of mainstream success they have. Unlike other rock bands—the Rolling Stones included—their politics aren’t just defined by a disregard for authority. Whether it’s an end to world hunger or ridding Africa of STD’s, Bono tends to make some lengthy emotional pleas during concerts.

The fact that people aren’t turned off by this posturing is a testament to the band’s music. It’s good enough to make everything else background noise.

This past week, U2 rolled into South Florida and played at Sun Life Stadium. In the process, they caused the Marlins to play a home series in Seattle, hung out with LeBron James backstage and serenaded my mom. (Now only if Bono could play center field)

What other band can make the world stop like they can? They’re members of a dying breed: the legit rock star. It’s why we will hold onto guys like Keith Richards or Eric Clapton until they call it quits.

Because of rap music and its odd appeal to middle-class suburbanites, we may never see another rock band that makes it to the top like the Stones or U2. The music industry is too fragmented now. It’s the same reason that network television ratings are drastically lower in the 21st century. We have so many options that it’s hard to imagine that enough people will collectivize to create the kind of following that traditional rock superpowers have enjoyed.

Who will follow? Perhaps we’re just stuck in a moment that we can’t get out of.