I saw the sun tonight

3 A.M. and still going strong, as in the lost days of my youth.

Today, today was a lurching gear shift. I know I’ll have to pay off the sleep debt I’m wracking up, but at least I’m getting things done. It’s better to have the wind on my face again.

Important things are taking shape, friends.

To start with, I’m looking at the back of a very tattered cardboard Miller coaster. Written on it is a work of genius. Strange to think about, but I’ll wager one in five genius ideas are initially inscribed on a Miller coaster. They’re definitely my medium of choice for recording epiphanies, with graph paper a very distant second.

I wonder, though… when the genius came up with the disposable beer coaster… what’d he write his idea on?

Stay on task.

The genius idea.

What we, and by we I mean The Illustrious Three, is a test. An event, a competition the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the filthy bearded Visigoths swarmed the walls of ancient Rome.

We call it, for want of a better name, The Kickassathon.

This event seeks to test the merit and mettle of modern human beings; a competition that will weed out the riffraff to see who, indeed, is the best. The best at what?

Life.

Keep in mind this event is still in the design stage, but frankly it’s too important not to share with you all, even if the details are a little hazy at this point. The Kickassathon will take place early next quarter, and will be filmed and documented extensively for the purpose of constantly reliving the glory. Ten contestants will compete, chosen from a pool of worthy applicants. One will win.

Here are the events:
1) General Knowledge Test. Like the S.A.T.’s, but even more comprehensive. This will be an academic, cultural, and trivial tour-de-force crafted by my own malicious and vindictive hands. Please bring a number two pencil, and be prepared for subjects such as geography, history, Simpsons trivia, calculus / differential equations, Master P lyrics, flammable substances, current events, chemistry, physics and Saved By The Bell. Pardon my boasting, but ye will bow before the wrath of my multiple choice fury. I can’t wait to write it… oh, you hapless bastards.

2) Chess. The game of kings. Opponents will be selected randomly, and a standard bracket tournament will ensue. One minute or less per move.

3) Freerunning, probably on campus or downtown. Runs will be scored for style, difficulty, and creativity by our panel of elite and venerable judges. See http://www.freerunning.net/

4) Run a mile. Simple enough, the fastest person wins.

5) Drinking. An unbiased and calculating bartender will mix drinks of his or her choice, making ten identical drinks. Each contestant drinks up. Last man/woman conscious, unhospitalized, and barf-free wins.

6) Poker. An hour long Texas No-Limit holdem game, whoever has the most chips at the end of the hour wins. All contestants start with the same amount, and cannot buy in for more.

7) Artistry. Contestants can choose one of three formats – Poetry, Drawing, or Music. Whoever demonstrates the greatest talent, creativity, and originality wins.

8) Half-Gallon Ultimate Fighting. My personal favorite. Opponents will be selected randomly for 1 on 1 bouts, 1 minute round. Gloves, sparring helmet, and footpads will be warn, for everyone’s protection. What’s so hard about that, you ask… how will anyone ever win, you can’t knock someone out with gloves… The contest isn’t till knockout, it’s till surrender or puking. Puking will probably be first, since you have to pound a half gallon of whole milk before the fight begins, and a pint between each round. Good luck taking a hit to the gut when you’re full of dairy despair. Standard tournament bracket format. No shady shit; kicks, punches, takedowns, etc., nothing else.

9) Pimpin. Contestants, accompanied by a supervisor/judge, will seek to obtain the most phone numbers possible in an hour downtown on a Saturday. The supervisor will ensure that no pre-existing friendships or relationships are used to ill gain, and will keep track of the relevant multipliers, such as hotness, icecoldery, shamelessness, and degree of physical contact. Admitting you are asking for a number for a contest, or violating the no pre-existing relationship rule results in immediate forfeit.

10) Cooking. One kitchen. One big ass set of ingredients. Ten cooks. May the best chef win.

We feel that these ten contests best quantify the spectrum of human abilities, from physical stamina, to intellect, to creativity, to alcohol consumption. These are the things that make us who we are, and after this event, one of ten will be able to say that yes indeed, I am a better human than you.

During our excellent brainstorming binge, we came up with many more ideas than this. These ten, however, we felt best represented the variety we were looking for. A few that didn’t make the cut this time around, but might make Volume 2…

1) No sleep. Whoever stays awake the longest, in a room with no entertainment (no cards, no TV, no books, only a couch and some water, maybe a loaf of bread) wins.

2) Parallel Parking. Guess who vetoed this one.

3) Build a hut in 2 hours, the best shelter wins. Fuck yeah I love this one.

4) Artistic destruction of a watermelon, whoever does it the coolest wins, with no limitations.

5) Yomama Catchphrase, the remorseless game of shit-talking from Henry’s house that one time.

6) Street Fighter 2.

7) Interpretive dance.

So that’s the contest as it stands now. Start training. Any man, woman, or child can apply. Everyone will compete equally, without regard to sex, religion, weight class, economic status, or age.

I can’t wait.

This is where I put in a tantalizing, yet apt sentence; a smooth and seamless transition to the next topic I wish to discuss with you. You read on and suddenly find yourself miles from where you started, yet still fascinated and completely absorbed.

Things are strange lately. Dark visions, nightmarish landscapes filled with broken spirit, dirty dishes, and failed midterms cloud my mind. This weekend will be consoling, but in the end will bring me no closer to me goals of responsibility fulfillment. This weekend we get the fuck out of dodge, with screeching tires and The Doggfather bumping we head north, back home to the bay, the promised land. Friends, clubs, fog, and the San Francisco skyline. I can’t wait. If I can keep the hyenas at bay for one more day, those snarling rabid bastards with their quizzes and their powerpoint presentations and their lab reports, I can get across the county line by sunset and tear ass to the haven I call The Yay. Responsibilities will be shirked, hip-hop will be enjoyed, and I’ll probly even see the folks.

During one of my brief and fitful sleep sessions this week, I had a terribly vivid dream. Those of you who know me, or perhaps even from reading through this ongoing psychotic episode I keep writing, know that my mind is a weird ass place to be. Let me tell you, kids, when the lights go out and the lids go down, that’s when the strange shit really gets going; the after hours party makes the daytime freakery seem as harmless as the Icecapades, or warm laundry. I rarely dream in any kind of structured way, it’s usually just images and sounds and feelings in a chaotic, fractured spasm. I’ve awoken convinced that my brain resides in the exit chute of some kind of subconscious woodchipper, where people throw all manner of crap, like Betamax tapes, or old school Sci Fi comics. How else could I dream about learning rowing, ninjitsu, and pottery at an academy hidden many miles underground, beneath the Yucatan peninsula, headed by husband and wife duo of Latrell Sprewell and Bea Arthur. Sprewell insists on being addressed as The Abbot, and part of our training regimen, after the one handed pushups and before the weightlifting, is fixing broken printers. What? That’s the kind of shit rattling around my skull from four AM till whenever that atrocious god damn alarm beep starts.

Anyway, the other night I dreamt I was at this camp, with some friends. A huge, sprawling campground centered around a lake, like a sort of undeveloped Lake Tahoe region. Some of the people in attendance had superpowers, including myself, and some didn’t. I was particularly pissed off at my superpower, which was being able to communicate with animals by making weird buzzing noises through a styrofoamy plastic… thing… like a harmonica made of packing peanuts. What a shitty power. Nate was there, and was an exceptionally good swimmer or something. Various other mutants were present. Anyway, blurry things happened, but at some point we (me and whatever fucked up friend amalgam was with me at the time) met these chicks. One was normal, the other was blue. I don’t think she had superpowers, but she was blue, which I suppose is just as good a superpower as being able to fucking talk to a bear or whatever. I’m not talking like Intel-commercial-dude blue, more of a healthy blue tint. Imagine looking at a strikingly attractive, very tall (she was taller than me, that’s weird) girl through a bottle of Windex. At a camp. In the woods. With mutants. The normal girl, who was just normal and thus completely uninteresting, hits on me and I shoot her down. Politely. Then me and the blue girl hit it off, and

(you thought I was gonna say something filthy, didn’t you. You dirty, dirty sinner, you should be ashamed.)

I fall hopelessly in love with her and we get married.

What the hell?

It’s not so much the dream that weirded me out, but the wake up. Put yourself in my shoes:

Your alarm goes off. You hate everything in the world, you hate every scrap of material in existence, every life-form, every star, every molecule. Most of all you hate that sound. You swing your arm and smack something, and the sound goes away. The hate doesn’t. You roll over and realize what’s missing. The trees. The talkative deer. The whole of reality.

It’s a terrible thing to wake up and realize your alluring, loving (though mildly blue-tinted and tall) significant other does not exist, and that the advanced emotional bonds you forged were in fact just your neurons tweaking. Then you realize you have to get up and go listen to a lecture on Fourier series and LaPlace transforms. Without the blue chick. Then you realize Quint ate the last poptarts, and the house smells like he pooped in the heater vent again even after you told him not to; after you said Quint Please Don’t Poop In The Vent and put up a sign that says Quint Please Don’t Poop In The Vent God Damn It. And you can’t even complain about it to the chatty forest creatures because you no longer have your styrofoam thing. Or your superpowers.

Fuck, I hate mornings.

More to write about, but my exhaustion overtakes me. Wearing a suit and tie just takes it out of me. At first I thought it was the whole career fair ridiculousness extravaganza that wore me out, but no, I think the half-windsor just cuts off much needed oxygen to the cortex.

Peace.

umbabarauma, umbabarauma

-T.

p.s. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: If some shit goes down like in the movies and I get turned into a zombie, it’s totally ok for you guys to kill me. Remember it won’t really be me, it’ll just be a zombie that looks like me. I just wanted to make sure you guys know that.

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One Response to “I saw the sun tonight”

  1. earthshinesheep Says:

    count me in. boo yah. and i’m adding you to my friends list. so double boo yah. and i wore my red beanie to life aquatic (twice) and i was the coolest person, thank you very much.

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