Writing Discussion: To Booze Or Not To Booze?

[Proser]

There has been a substantial amount of discussion on this board about the effect of drugs and/or alcohol on the creative process. The inquiries are understandable—after all, many of our greatest writers were notorious substance abusers. It’s a matter of debate whether or not their genius owed anything to their recreational habits, or if the personal and psychological conflicts that drove their addictions were the simultaneous catalyst for their prose.

I don’t know the answer, but I’ve thought about it, like I’m sure a lot of you have. I read an article in Esquire that addressed this same issue, and I thought it would be a fun experiment to try the same thing as the author of the article. I tried to find the article on Esquire’s website, but I didn’t see it. If anyone can find a link, let me know. The following is an excerpt from the very interesting article.



The pages of American literary history are stained with the output of alcoholics: works of tragically booze-sodden genius from the likes of Hemingway, O’Neill, Fitzgerald, and Kerouac. Conventional wisdom and political correctness demand that we conclude that these writers succeeded despite their abuse of alcohol rather than because of it. And it’s certainly true that it’s hard to write well if you’re dead. Still, these men were who they were, and we remain merely us. So what are alcohol’s precise effects on creativity, self-expression, and the written word? Is there a genie in that bottle—or just a demon in baggy pants?

What follows is real. I have appended some notes and analysis, rendered after a period of sober self-reflection (and about a half dozen aspirin), highlighting what I see as the most significant effects alcohol had on my work. But otherwise, these are actual first-draft essays--typos and all--neither revised in the cold light of morning nor touched by an editor's pencil. All were written in ninety minutes or less, in increasing states of inebriation. And each of them, For some reason, seemed like a good idea at the time.

I am doing this tonight, and will be posting my results as they are completed. Any of you are welcome to do the same thing.

If you decide to participate, here are the rules you must follow:

(1) Participation is at your own risk. This is supposed to be a fun experiment—not a contest to see who can drink the most. At the same time, don’t post if you don’t drink. You may be a brilliant writer, but literary excellence is irrelevant for the purposes of this thread. This is an experiment in relative quality, not absolute quality, so don’t fuck up our measuring stick. HOWEVER, anyone may post comments on the participants' essays, and that's where you teetotalers can be valuable.

(2) Other than by the author, comments are encouraged. However, comments must be limited to comparisons of the relative quality of any single author’s essays. In other words, do not criticize the grammar, spelling, or syntax of the author, unless it is relevant to your comparison. This is not a traditional feedback thread; it’s only purpose is to evaluate the effects of alcohol on the quality of the writer’s output.

(3) Each participant will post 3-5 essays. Each essay must be 100-500 words. No more, no less.

(4) You must complete each essay within 90 minutes. You may not drink alcohol for the duration of the first essay, however you MUST begin drinking by the time you begin the second essay. NOTE: 90 minutes is the MAXIMUM time allotted for each essay. If you write five essays using the full 90 minutes, drinking all the while--well, you might die.

(5) You may not comment on your own essays until 12 hours have elapsed since your final posted essay. (In other words, your self-analysis isn’t valid until you’ve sobered up.)

(6) Drink anything you want, but for reference please state:


The drink you’ve chosen for the experiment
How often you drink
Your age and sex (I assume all participants are 21 or of legal drinking age in their jurisdiction, and will indicate that fact in their posts.)
Also, indicate at what time you begin each essay and the number of total drinks you have consumed prior to the start of each essay.


(7) I am going to use the essay topics listed below. They are from Chuck Klosterman’s book, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0743236017/tuckermaxcom-20). You can use these topics or come up with your own. It doesn't matter either way. The point of this thread is not to improve your writing--it's more like RMWF's version of Mythbusters--but first we have to have material to experiment with.

Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks--he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks with real magic. It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence. Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?


Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have developed a so-called "super gorilla." Though the animal cannot speak, it has a sign language lexicon of over 12,000 words, an IQ of almost 85 and--most notably--a vague sense of self-awareness. Oddly, the creature (who weighs 700 pounds) becomes fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that the gorilla would be "borderline unblockable" and would likely average 6 sacks a game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to counters and misdirections plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it clear that he would never intentionally injure any opponent. You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Raiders?


You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate's collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one thing you can do to stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear--for the rest of your life--sound as if its being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio, it will sound (to your ears) like it's being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it's being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Stanley performing a capella (but it will only sound that way to YOU). Would you swallow the pill?


You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, "I will now make them a dollar more attractive." He waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But--somehow--this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can't deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though--you can only pay him once. You can't keep giving him money until he's satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum upfront. How much cash do you give the wizard?


At long last, someone invents "the dream VCR." This machine allows you to tape an entire evening's worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the invention of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don't agree to this, you can't use the dream VCR. Would you still do this?


No matter what the results, no one here is advocating alcohol or drug abuse as a mechanism to improve your writing. If you’re a horrible writer, booze will not make you readable. If you’re a great writer, drug or alcohol abuse will fuck you up to a far greater degree than any incremental improvement they might provide. That said, let’s prime the pump and see what happens.

[Proser]

Start: 6:45 p.m.
End: 8:00 p.m.
Drinks consumed: 0

You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate's collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one thing you can do to stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear--for the rest of your life--sound as if its being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio, it will sound (to your ears) like it's being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it's being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Stanley performing a capella (but it will only sound that way to YOU). Would you swallow the pill?

The crux of the issue is the ‘soul mate.’ I’ve never had one. I thought I had one, once, but I was wrong like most of us are about such things. For purposes of this question, I’ll assume they actually exist, but I’m not convinced.

I can’t sing. I’ve tried, but I’m a hopeless case. I have no aptitude for it, and no amount of coaching has ever made a difference. I sound fine to myself, but my audience would rather listen to a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. Every Christmas, without fail, my sadistic mother gathers the family around the television to watch my 6th Grade choir concert performance. It was the Halloween concert, and two dissonant voices can be heard clearly above all the rest: mine, and my best friend at the time, a black kid with impressive chest hair and the ability to dunk a basketball.

So, Layne Staley? I have a hard time calling him a ‘singer.’ Maybe a ‘screamer’ or a ‘growler,’ (or ‘dead’), but he was definitely better than I will ever be. Of course, that doesn’t recommend him much.

But I really liked Alice in Chains when I was in high school—in fact, I illegally downloaded Jar of Flies just the other day. It wasn’t as good as I remembered it. Was it bad enough to cost my soul mate her collarbone? Undecided. On the plus side, I could get a new job. I could form an Alice and Chains cover band and tour the country with my healthy soul mate. She might break up with me, but didn’t Meatloaf say it best? ANYTHING for love, right? At the very least, I could wear flannel nonchalantly, grow out my hair, and leave shampoo behind forever.

Another problem: I love music. Not like how everyone claims they LOVE MUSIC. Everyone loves music, but there are degrees. I read about music, I write about music, and I appreciate music more than the average person. Listening to the same band for eternity would be cruel and unusual punishment. I submit: possibly far more cruel than a couple of measly broken collarbones. But I’m keeping an open mind.

Assuming this girl is legitimately the cat’s pajamas, I’d agree to sing like Layne Staley. That’s a no-brainer, actually. It’s an upwardly mobile decision and would provide great relief to anyone in close proximity to my shower. But ALL music? That’s a legitimate conundrum—life-altering, even. I might end up following in Layne’s suicidal footsteps. I simply can’t stomach the idea of Neil Young & Crazy Horse sung by an angsty, semi-famous, dead Seattleite. Collarbones be damned.

If she’s really my soul mate, I’m sure she’ll understand.

[Proser]

Start: 8:15
End: 9:15
Drinks consumed: 2
Drink: MacAllan 12-year old Scotch, with ice (I'm not usually so high-class, but it's Monday.)

Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks--he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks with real magic. It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence. Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?

The thing about Einstein, see, is he’s not all that impressive. Sure, relativity was a decent idea, but what’s it done for me? Personally, I mean. A big fat zero, that’s what. I don’t care about black holes (although I dig them as sci-fi subplots), and despite diligent research, I can’t find anything to recommend the photoelectric effect. Other than glow sticks.

This Rudimentary Magician on the other hand, now there’s something useful. THAT is something I would pay to see. Einstein wrote a letter, and six years later a bunch of Japs got disintegrated (no offense to the orientals). My question is: If Einstein could conjure a bunny out of thin air, wouldn’t that put an end to War? How many bunny rabbits would it take to destroy Japan? Ten? Thirty-four? More than that? Problem solved. Smuggle the Rudimentary Magician into Japan (make sure he has his hat), and have him conjure rabbits until Japan is overrun. Torture him if you have to. Big deal. It’s an age-old question, but how many Rudimentary Magicians are you willing to sacrifice for the safety of a nation? If you answered: “one or more,” you are correct.

Now we are faced with an important dilemma. What would God think about the sudden imbalance of bunnies versus coins? True, the price of a bunny would drop to almost nothing (also, you would probably feel less bad if you ran over one), so who needs the coins, right? But if all the coins are gone, how will we tip our waitresses? I know you’re thinking, “Who cares about waitresses? They’re just misbegotten whores like my mother.” And you’re right. BUT, how will we complain when our steak is overcooked? When our service isn’t snappy, the way we like it? Iced tea doesn’t pour itself, and the coffee machine doesn’t look Sexy in a jacketless tux and tight apron. In sum, there are lots of problems vis-a-vis the disappearing coin trick.

On balance, as you can now clearly see, Einstein was more or less a fraud (some say ‘charlatan’ but now we’re splitting hairs). The Rudimentary Magician is both entertaining and the linchpin of any legitimate World Peace initiative, despite some comparatively unimportant, consumer-specific drawbacks.

[Proser]

Start: 9:45
End: 10:45
Drink: Scotch
Drinks consumed: 5-6, depending on your definition.

You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, "I will now make them a dollar more attractive." He waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But--somehow--this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can't deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though--you can only pay him once. You can't keep giving him money until he's satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum upfront. How much cash do you give the wizard?

First off, I am really “hot” (according to the Ladies), so I don’t know if this question applies to me. Before you ask, I understand that “attractive” means other things, too, like how much money you have and how nice you are to people that aren’t as good as you. Fortunately, I have a trust fund and—although I don’t actually give money to bums, or anything—I do volunteer my clothes from last season to Goodwill. On consignment, true, but what am I supposed to do? Give them away for free to some hobo squeezing 60k a year on the freeway interchange? Nice clothes are expensive. I didn’t spend my parents’ hard-earned money so some street urchin can rock Givenchy for free.

Next, I don’t believe in wizards. This Harry Potter shit has gone too far. (Granted, the skirt that plays Hermione is hot and will be legal in a few years, but that does not justify Godlessness, in and of itself.) Kids should be in school to learn reading, riting, and rithmetic—not Spellcasting 101. Besides, you know those inner city ‘gangsta’’ kids will use those spells—not for good—but to sell crack and have babies at a young age.

Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s assume that this “wizard” can make me hotter than I already am (Damn. That is a hard thing to write). Are we talking Brad Pitt style? To be clear: I am NOT a homo. But you KNOW he is a good looking man, alright? If I were a chick, or a gay dude, I would totally….Christ, you’ve seen the man’s abs…I’m just saying. Anyway, for Brad Pitt-style hotness, I’d pay a lot of money. More than your bourgeois ass can probably wrap your poor little mind around. Let’s just say I’d have to fire one of the maids. Not the senorita—she is totally into me—but definitely one of the senoras. They may be related, but they no speakay Englaysay, so I can’t say for sure. I’ll send their asses to INS if they back-talk in my language.

P.S. This is how much I would pay: $$Fuck wizards.

[Proser]

Start: 11:00 p.m.
End: 12:10 a.m.
Drink: More Scotch
Drinks consumed: A little more than half a liter. I'm pretty sure. Labels are tricky.

At long last, someone invents "the dream VCR." This machine allows you to tape an entire evening's worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the invention of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don't agree to this, you can't use the dream VCR. Would you still do this?

Most of my dreams are not suitable for public consumption. Many of them rub up against Insane, and some would commit me against my will. A few of them are unrepeatable, and I won’t discuss them, even with myself. When I was younger, I used to describe my dreams to friends, roommates—occasionally to my family. I assumed most people dreamt the same kind of dreams, but either I was wrong or no one would admit to them.

If I chose to use the dream VCR, this is how I imagine the viewing with my family:

Cast of Characters

Mother – Homespun, west Texas housewife, with a PhD in neuropsychology, infinite patience and eternal optimism.
Father – Self-made entrepreneur with no tolerance for nonsense or the nuances of equivocation.
Brother – Drug addict for the past 15 years. Booze, weed, acid, crack, heroin, meth—you name it. He’s 28. It’s more than a miracle he’s not dead in the ground.

Brother: HAHAHAHA….Why is she dressed like Wonder Woman? Dude…she kind of looks like Mom.

Father: Why are we watching this? Is this a joke?

Mother: This is IMPORTANT. If you don’t care about your son, how can he learn to care about himself?

Father: All I see is a big pair of tits. It’s hard to make them out with the bushes in the way, but they’re definitely tits.

Mother: Maybe he’s on an anthropological expedition in Africa—you don’t know.

Brother: That bitch is WHITE. Ain’t no white bitches in Africa, Moms.

Me: Would someone please press Play?

Father: Now that’s more like it. Son, I always knew you wanted to work for me. Taking over the family business isn’t just a right—it’s an obligation.

Mother: Now, Dear, I thought we agreed not to put any pressure on him. Not everyone wants to run a cookie factory.

Brother: Hey, what about me? I could eat a motherfuckin’ box of that shit right now. Moms, where the cupcakes at?

Father: Son, what are you looking at on that office computer? Goddammit, can’t we change the browser window with this thing? I don’t care about the porn. Honestly, your mother can’t quite keep up like she used to—so I know where you’re coming from. But I will NOT condone office-wide, ritualistic massacres in my place of business!

Mother: Same old Dad. Your way or the highway. Just like this farce of a marriage. What did I ever see in you anyway?

Father: I’ve got a big dick?

Mother: I wouldn’t know—why don’t you ask your secretary?

Me: I’m just gonna leave.

Mother: Oh, no, Honey! You have to stay. It’s just getting interesting. Your feelings are important to us.

Brother: Yeah, bro, do this shit!

Father: Did you take the trash out? How many times do I have to tell you?

STOP BURNING DOWN MY BAKERY.

Mother: He’s your son.

Father: So you claim. You make the Bunny Ranch look like a girl scout convention.

Brother: Yo, how do I get on Star Search?

******

In conclusion, I will not be needing a Dream-VCR.

[hotgrits]

You are exceptionally guarded with information when you are sober. You consider every word and idea and you address them with matter of fact.
Dream Sequence Even though you frame it as a dream you are uncharacteristically open about your life. You are free when you drink. And funnier.
First off, I am really “hot” (according to the Ladies), so I don’t know if this question applies to me.Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s assume that this “wizard” can make me hotter than I already am (Damn. That is a hard thing to write).
And apparently ridiculously honest about your vanity.

Great writers need a measure of both the thoughtful/considered and the free/open personas, maybe more of one than the other depending on what they are writing. I think alcohol does help you open up and get emotion on the page.

So my final analysis: you don’t think when you drink. That’s a good thing.

[backwards7]

AGE: 33
DRINK: Tia Maria coffee Liquor (26.5% volume)
HOW OFTEN I DRINK: Infrequently. I haven’t consumed any alcohol this year.

Essay topics will be selected using a random sentence generator. This will be done immediately before writing each essay to prevent any mental preparation of material in advance.


Essay #1
Start: 15:45
End: 16:30
Number of drinks consumed: 0
Essay word count: 448

The conceivable geography parades near a library.

The sudden sharp rise in literacy levels across England, during the mid 18th century, can be laid at the feet of one man. He was called Fredrick Mills and he had made his fortune as a tea merchant. However in the final ten years of his life he harnessed his talents to a new cause, committing himself to the education of the impoverished lower classes. It was largely through his boundless philanthropy and dogged persistence that small libraries began to spring up, across the length and breadth of the British Isles.

While Mills was the driving force behind the expansion of these institutions, their construction and upkeep was funded by grants from the crown and from local land owners. The end result of this arrangement was that the libraries were often fanciful and impractical buildings, whose designs were left in the hands of whoever controlled the purse strings. Even so the aspiring architects would have been forced to take a number of geographical factors into consideration:

This was a time when, out of necessity, libraries were involved from start to finish in the production of their own books, operating their own paper mills, printing presses and tallow works.

The paper mill would have been located near to a readily available supply of wood, suitable to be used in the production of paper. It would have also required a source of fast flowing water, which would be used in the manufacturing process and to drive a wheel that would turn the machinery. The library would be constructed nearby but on higher ground, where it was safe from flooding, and also to instil the romantic notion that the pursuit of knowledge was a lofty and noble goal.

In reality, far from being repositories of enlightenment, these libraries were filled with information that would have already been known to the local populace, most of the books having been written by people from the surrounding area. Generally these would have been dictated to a clerk, skilled enough to set the words down in print. Over time this had the effect of recording for posterity, large swathes of local history, folklore, crafts and medicines, thereby marking the end of the old oral tradition of passing down knowledge and signalling the beginning of the age of print.

In 1912 a surgeon by the name of George Freeman purchased the contents of the Stathem Public Library at auction. Later, having visited the town, he lamented the coarse industrialisation that had bloated what had once been a small rural settlement, but was moved to tears when he considered that the old ways of life had been so thoroughly preserved in books written over a century beforehand.

[backwards7]

Essay #2
Start: 16:40
End: 17:21
Number of drinks consumed: 2 (already I am rather drunk)
Essay word count: 324


When will the shade worry?

Visitors to the small, picturesque town of Quohaito, located an hour by car from Luxor, may have found cause to drive a further 20 km along an unpaved road that leads into the desert. At a location known to nomads as Egila, and marked bizarrely by a six foot stretch of badly corroded Victorian cast iron railing, you will find the famous Frowning Statues.

Believed to date to around 2500 BC, the statues, which are roughly 18 foot in height, depict a council of twelve men, each seated on some kind of low stool and facing one another in a circular pattern. Based on their dress, refined bearing and animated poses, they are believed to represent advisors to a pharaoh. Hieroglyphics found in situ by a team of American archaeologists have led some to suggest that they may have been commissioned by Thampthis. However this remains a matter of some contention.

An unusual and unique property of the statues is the way in which their facial features appear to change expression, based on the location of the sun. At any one time during the course of the day, half of the circle appears to display increasing degrees of levity, while those facing opposite wear expressions ranging from a faint scowl, to unguarded hatred.

Having watched an entire cycle and been mesmerized by the statue’s slow transformation, what I was most struck by was the effect that a facial expression can have on the body language - How an angry countenance can turn what was once a relaxed, magnanimous pose into something eminently more threatening.

Detailed research carried out during the last couple of years, and employing face-mapping software, has shown the mood of the statues to be susceptible to changes in the seasonal position of the sun. Currently archaeologists from Cambridge university are engaged in a study of the effects that a full moon might have upon these twelve wise men of the desert.

[backwards7]

Essay #3
Start: 17:30
End: 18:15
Number of drinks consumed: 3 (total of 5)
Essay word count: 369

My squad flies beneath a horror

At this juncture let us bow our heads and give solemn thought to the last words of Flight Lieutenant Andrew Bathford, who, upon gazing up from the cockpit of his Supermarine Spitfire MK. V, became the first man to lay eyes on the high altitude German bomber, known colloquially as Der Drache, and in the less poetic parlance of the aeronautical engineer, as the Ft-210

The blueprints for the 210 had been drawn up late in 1942, with the aim of developing a bomber whose purpose was to rapidly engage and eliminate squadrons of fighters. It was capable of ascending to altitudes high above the range of British fighters planes. From this elevated position it would use radar technology to intercept aircraft as they crossed the English channel. Having acquired a target the bomber would cover a large area with a layer of airborne incendiary devices, which had been designed to descend at a uniform rate, making them harder to evade. So light was this ordnance that it was capable of being sucked into the wake of passing aircraft. The turbulence generated by a plane attempting to out manoeuvre this fiery curtain, was often more than enough to violently draw the explosive devices towards them.

As a result the 210 was capable of destroying multiple targets in a single drop. During the course of 1943, it is thought to have been responsible for the destruction of over 200 British fighters. It’s dominance over the skies ended abruptly when the sole factory producing the plane was destroyed in a raid by British forces.

The achilles heel of Der Drache was its enormous fuel tank. As well as making it susceptible to stray bullets, it made the landing of what was already a cumbersome aircraft extremely difficult. 10% of Ft-210’s were destroyed in crashes made while landing.

It will come as no surprise then that, at present, their are no 210s in airworthy condition. A grounded version of the aircraft is on display at the Zoological Gardens in Berlin. For many years it was the haunt of widows of airmen who had been killed in active service. It is now a designated war memorial and a popular destination for aviation enthusiasts.

[backwards7]

Essay #4
Start: 18:25
End: 19:03
Number of drinks consumed: 3 (total of 8)
Essay word count: 425


A motivating jazz renders the stirred libel.

We all thought that it was an undignified thing. One family suing another after being so close for so many years is bad enough. But what about when the supposed injured party has been dead near thirty year and the other guy – the one who really copped the hurt and lived with it for practically his whole life, until the Alzheimer’s freed him, so he can’t say nothing either way on account of his mental condition. What about that?

Of course the radio won’t play Art’s songs anymore because of their underlying subtext - Toby Chandler, rapist, child fucker. Everybody knows now, but it wasn’t like he spelled it out in words or gave away the code or nothing like that. It was Andrew Blakey who worked it out and by that time Art couldn’t even say whether it was true or not, although I guess that it is true.

And okay, Blakey had always suspected because Art had told him. He had told him there was something underneath his compositions that was private, but which effected his mood and the way he performed those pieces. And he cried sometimes. Was famous for it and at the time everyone thought it was him being so caught up in the music. Moved by the beauty of it, but really it caused him pain. It caused him pain.

Blakey didn’t know for sure anyway whether it was true or whether it was Art yanking his chain. He had to wait until the inheritance dispute was over and he was able to access the archives and study the sheet music and see the message that was spelled out in that music.

It’s gonna feel strange listening to those songs again. Not just for me but for everyone. That is to say that something so upbeat can allude to something so dark and awful in a mans life that he can’t bear to talk about it to anyone. And don’t forget Art played that tune for more or less his whole career. People would call out for it. They expected him to play it. And to carry on holding onto that sax as if it was the only thing that mattered in the world even though the guy who taught him had also raped him aged 10 and for a long time afterward.. And to build a career so as to define himself with that instrument, so that he carried that pain around with him and there weren’t a day when it wasn’t first and foremost on his mind.



(I’m not doing anymore. I’m really hammered)

[backwards7]

It’s no secret that the early stages of drunkenness confer an elevated sense of self-confidence. A couple of drinks is enough to submerge the little insecurities and self doubts that can hold you back and prevent you from carrying out a task to the best of your ability. In a strange way this mild derangement tightened my focus. I slipped into a kind of manic tunnel vision, where I didn’t think about anything beyond the screen in front of me. I wish the act of writing could be like this all the time. It shouldn’t be the ponderous, plodding activity that it is when I am sober. It should be an absorbed act of liberation.

This freedom from yourself is a double-edged sword as it soon gives way to sloppiness; a loss of judgement; the progressive inability to formally structure your thoughts. Proser’s increased use of parenthesis and occasional run-on sentence, suggest that his ideas are beginning to trip over each other. A mild inappropriateness creeps into his language. In his final essay his carefully composed style is close to breaking down into something else entirely.

By comparison, I don’t think that you can charitably describe my last piece of writing as an essay. It’s more a stream of consciousness. At this stage I think that writing in a more disciplined format was completely beyond me.

Ultimately I found that alcohol swamps creativity. Towards the end of the exercise it was seriously impeding my ability to have linear thoughts. I stared at the title of the last essay for ten minutes, without a single idea in my head.

It also had a catastrophic effect on my motor skills. I was typing entries into MS WORD. Practically every sentence was heavily underscored in red. Had I been writing in longhand, or without the aid of a spellchecker, the results would have been near indecipherable.

With reflection I think the one positive effect that alcohol had on me, was that it made me write like I didn’t give a fuck about the end result. That was okay for as long as I was still marginally in control.

[asianfailure]

This is the first time attempted to do this experiment. I am 24 and male. I drink about once a week now, but this is a recent change in the best interest of my health. Otherwise, I drink probably every couple of days, and usually heavily. I stopped midway through the 3rd essay, and I won't be posting it because I got too drunk and I was getting distracted by the tv and my ability to think clearly deteriorated.

edit: Forgot to name my drink. I am drinking Soju, a cheap korean liquor made from sweet potatoes. It's 19.9% and I'm drinking shots. The thing about Soju is that the first shot is smooth but its taste deteriorates very quickly - think of the blandness of vodka and the burning of whiskey. It's an acquired taste...but I recommend it to all.


Essay 1: Your chick's collar bone, or you swallow the alice in chains pill

start: 9:20 PM
finish: 10:42 PM
drinks: none

Let's take the worst hypothetical situation for this:

a) I hate Alice in Chains, and would sooner take a hot poker up the ass than have to listen to them even once a day
b) My girlfriend, my loved one, who will blow me on command, has an extremely high tolerance for pain and quick healing bones.
c) I am a radio jockey during the day, and also DJ on the weekends at a trance club and as such will be surrounded by music

When the question is stripped down to its barest bones, I'm being asked, "Am I selfish?" Am I willing to set aside my pain for my loved one?

Reasonably speaking, there is no reason that I should be the one to take the hit. If I hate Alice in Chains that much, then that in itself should be reason enough. More than that, I don't want to fucking listen to an Alice in Chains remix of Darude's Sandstorm. I'll break her damn collar bones myself. Consider her fast healing bones and her high tolerance for pain - it would mean that it's less of a sacrifice for her than for me, and therefore she should be the one who takes the wrench to the collar. There simply isn't any reason why I would want to take that fucking pill.

If I really, truly loved her, I should be the one willing to take the hit. But if she really, truly loved me, she better get used to not having a collar.

In terms of being moral and honorable, should I really be the one willing to stick my neck out for the love of my life? I would sound like a total asshole for being a man and not stepping forward first and be willing to be the sacrificial lamb in the relationship. Fortunately, I don't believe in love. I have yet to experience it being just a young kid, and most of all, I think all women are scum sucking black holes for money, and in general are succubi who are good for nothing but to give me hand jobs and tickle my ass.

Since I've been rather evasive in terms of the actual moral dilemma that this is supposed to be, I'll change the question: What if it were a family member, for example, my older brother? In that case, I will do what is right and take the pill. And then I'd take 200 pills of tylenol to put me out of my misery.

[asianfailure]

Would you allow a gorilla to play in the NFL?

start: 10:45 PM
end: 11:43 PM
shots drank while writing this piece: 7

As a comissioner, I must be concerned about the safety of my players. Oh wait, this is the NFL; I make money off of torn ACL's, broken fingers and concussions from dumb animals who charge back and forth across a field. What's the big deal with throwing in a 700 pound gorilla? I actually don't think it would be that unsafe - until somebody fumbles.

Regardless of whether a gorilla can be juked or not in a complicated play, a gorilla is going to come off as an advantage. There's no way a singular human could take down a 700 pound running gorilla. It would take at least 2-3 players, which would always make the opposing team short handed just to cover that fucking monkey. The only way to make the teams even is to give both teams a gorilla.

One gorilla is already a gimmick, but a gorilla on every fucking team in the NFL? Even though the gorilla might be smart, the bottom line is that he's a fucking jungle animal. Can you imagine a delay in the game or a penalty flag being thrown because the gorilla decides to drop a deuce in the middle of a play? What if the opposing team decides to tell all the fans to bring bananas to the game? The gorilla will go ape shit and attack fans for the bananas. Two gorillas is going to cause problems enough, but eventually the physical superiority of a 700 pound athlete in comparison to a 350 pound dude is going to be realized, and all teams will employ entire defensive teams that consist of gorillas. At that point, we're just watching a bunch of gorillas monkeying around on the field. There would need to be a rule of only one gorilla per team. Either way, the gorilla is going to cause problems left and right on the field.


Canada will get jealous of course, and the CFL would throw fits because gorillas will refuse to play in the snow. They'll learn quickly that elk and moose are not suitable, or even intelligible, replacements for gorillas.

The biggest problem I see with a gorilla in the NFL is not so much the logistical problems, but the fact that some day they're going to try to push other animals in some day. The next thing you know we've got elephants and platypus and beavers and shit. Most of all, I don't want to put in any more ideas in Vince McMahon's head - what if he tries to start the Animal Football League. As much as I'd have a blast watching PETA and the new AFL duke it out, all the while being able to watch a bunch of animals run each other down on sunday afternoon, this is probably not a good thing.


Reasonably speaking, if I were a REAL NFL commissioner, the answer is no. Having to hand tailor gorilla sized jerseys, shovel their shit, feed them, fighting off PETA and other senseless animal loving douche bags...that's just too much bullshit to deal with. As just me, I'd find it hilarious. A gorilla running down Brett Favre and putting that old shit out of commission for good? It'd be worth every penny. Or banana. Or whatever the hell I'll pay my gorilla.

[asianfailure]

[ATTEMPT #2]

The next night, I turned off everything and found a nice quiet place to write, and again attempted the same experiment with the same liquor.


start: 1:26 AM
end: 1:54 AM
drinks: none

Magic tricks vs. Albert Einstein

Albert Einstein is easily one of the most influential scientists in the history of man kind. The reality of today's society is that nobody gives a shit. Einstein's work doesn't affect people on a personal level, which in essence makes him irrelevant.

Magic on the other hand, can get you laid in ways science never could. There are so many stupid women out there who would be completely impressed with your magic, that she will be convinced that she needs to fuck you immediately. Pulling a cute rabbit out of a hat at a bar is going to result in many blow jobs. In spite of Einstein's genius, I highly doubt he could figure out how to get laid with E=mc^2. I sure as hell can't.

The power of simple magic is being overlooked in the question. But it may depend on who has the magical power. If it was just some fucking fool with no ambition who's sitting on the sidewalk trying to collect change by making it disappear, then obviously Einstein's the man here. On the other hand, if you have somebody with the cunning of a cult leader, you could really do some impressive damage.

One could easily start an entire religion. All those dice rolling role playing tools and anime losers will convert within minutes. People in general are stupid and want something greater to believe in. A rabbit out of a hat, no matter how worthless of a trick it is, is going to make fanatics out of the desperately lost. There are people out there who convince others to kill themselves or believe that there's fucking space ships that are going to come down and save them or some shit. And they believe these things based off of NOTHING (but supposedly faith). Can you imagine if some yahoo was walking around pulling rabbits out of his hat and claiming he is Jesus? A scarier thought: can you imagine how many people will start believing him and follow him?

Einstein is definitely impressive - nobody can take away what he's done. The fact of the matter is though, the possibilities are quite endless with even the most meaningless magic. Of course, depending on who the magician is.

[asianfailure]

start: 1:55 AM
end: 2:20 AM

shots:
5

How much money do you pay a wizard to make you better looking?

There's no quantitative information available. There's a description about a dollar making a person slightly better looking, but I need to know what $10 can get me, and what $10,000 will get me. Without knowing this, there's no way I can pick a reasonable amount. What if I pay him my entire life savings, where I'll be expecting Brad Pitt, but instead I get Owen Wilson or some shit?

I almost get the feeling that there is maybe a moral question that needs to be addressed here. Is this simply a parallel situation to plastic surgery? Perhaps the real question to address here is, do you think it's okay to be paying any amount at all to be improving your looks. In which case, I would say no.

I am a strong believer in being the best you can be with the cards you are dealt. I think it's fucking sad that there's so much plastic surgery these days. I hear in Korea the rate of plastic surgery is ridiculous; a majority of the girls there usually do something to either their eyes, nose or mouth. In fact, that reminds me of one chick who basically got so much plastic surgery that she turned into a hot chick and I didn't even recognize her. Ok I admit, that was pretty bad ass that she went from ugly to hot, but it's also very sad because that's not her. Plus, no matter how hot you are, it won't ever fix certain things, like being stupid - in the end looks only go so far.

Lastly, I am somebody who's never felt dissatisfied about not being better looking, so I'm not sure if this question is as effective. I can imagine somebody who is unsatisfied with their appearance would provide a more exciting response. However, I'm always looking for more ways to increase my chances of getting laid, so I could probably lay out like $500 without feeling like I wasted too much money, and not regret it too much either.

[asianfailure]

start: 2:22
end: 2:37

shots: 4

Dream VCR, but Family has to watch.


I know I have dreams, but I remember maybe one or two dreams a year. Usually it's something really fucking stupid and irrelevant. I'm not fucking a hot chick, or kicking my coworker's ass. I'll just be at 7-11 or some shit, trying to get the slurpee machine to work. But it won't. That's my fucking dream. I'm not overly curious to see what I'm thinking of while I'm passed out.

It would be nice to know though, but not at the expense of having my family watch it with me. I'm pretty sure that I've gotten laid in my dreams before, and I don't really want to watch that with my family. What if I got some fucked up dreams? Like I'm getting a footjob from some fat chick? That's totally fucked up.

My family is Korean, and watching anything even mildly sexually related makes the entire room extremely awkward. A flash of a titty is ok, because usually I'll scream "TITTY!" and start laughing which my dad doesn't mind. But when there's some crazy grimy nasty ass fuck scene like in species, the entire room goes quiet. My dad makes like this grumble like Marge does on the simpsons and my mom usually mumbles about how Americans are fucked up. I actually break a sweat when I'm in the same room because it's that awkward. And I'm 24. My older brother and I were watching 300 the other week with my mom and we actually had to stop the DVD right before Leonidas bones his slut of a wife. We were raised in a culture where sex is considered all evil and mystical and shit. I still haven't even had the fucking birds and bees talk with my dad. My mom can't say condom to my face with a straight face. Everytime sex comes up, it almost seems like my parents know less than I do. Bottom line, there's no way I'd let my parents watch my dreams, in the event of watching something ridiculously awkward.

[asianfailure]

Analysis:

I tend to write in a colloquial manner, one that reflects my actual thoughts and what I would normally say. I consider it a pretty bad habit, and I think the biggest thing is that the more drunk I got the more I slipped into that writing style - at that point it looks more like a stream of consciousness than something I actually made the effort to write.

In fact, the more drunk I got, the more I seemed to ramble. I don't think I got particularly funnier, or more open about what I was writing about. In general, I do drink regularly when I'm writing, but it's usually just a couple of beers and nothing to actually affect my thinking.

It was a fun exercise but not too instrumental in giving me insight on my writing...or not as much as I thought it would.

[Proser]

Analysis:

It was a fun exercise but not too instrumental in giving me insight on my writing...or not as much as I thought it would.

Maybe that's because you didn't follow directions.

[Tall Can]

Started: 6:08pm
Finished: 7:10pm
Drinks: 0
Words: 493

I would NOT take the pill and my “soulmate” would spend a good amount of her life in a wheelchair. Sorry love. It was a sweet love. But I must be traveling on now because I’m as free as a bird now.

Klosterman is asking which life would be preferred: a life without love or a life without music. However, his premise is flawed because there is no such thing as one “soulmate.” I had a girl I loved very much and considered a “soulmate.” We lived together and she left me and I almost cried for the bitch. We didn’t completely stop seeing each other for almost a year after she moved out. I still love her but she is not my only “soulmate.” I would estimate there are a dozen or so “soulmates” for any given person in any given city. The number of soulmates in different cities probably fluctuates among global regions depending on how well your personality fits within a certain culture (e.g. my number plunges in European cities while it spikes in Latin America).

Love is more about maturity than it is about the perfect match. There are several compatible matches out there if each partner is emotionally ready for such a commitment. If both partners are confident (not desperate), if both partners are mature enough (finished fucking different people), and if both partners share a genuine affection and trust, then they’re “soulmates.” That’s all it takes. We humans skew toward the monogamous end of the spectrum. Despite our urges to breed with many, it is in our blood to settle down.

Now that we have established that there is no such thing as a “soulmate,” we can focus on the apocalyptic nightmare of only hearing one music group forever. This is a life not worth living. I realize others may not be music fanatics like me but everybody has a little bit of soul. I need male and female singers. Alice in Chains can’t pull off all genres. I need all kinds of music. Blues, jazz, reggae, hip hop, reggaeton, cumbia, punk. Even emo sometimes. A particularly sweet “soulmate” may be worth one or two genres, but not all of them.

As it’s phrased, Klosterman’s question is easy to answer but his idea of a tradeoff is not – monogamy in both love and music, or in neither. As much as I believe there are thousands of women out there suitable to marry, procreate and cohabitate with, not having one of them in my endgame is pretty damn scary. So is a life without music. If I couldn’t shoot holes in his question and I had to choose love or music, I would choose love. The thought of getting old without a wife and a shitload of family around scares me more than hearing Alice in Chains cover Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman.”

P.S. I dig Alice in Chains and if that makes me a redneck then FUCK CHUCK KLOSTERMAN.

[Tall Can]

Start time: 10:30
End time: 11:39
Drinks: 900 ml (about 3 beers) of Arequipeña (Peruvian beer similar to American shit) and one shot of anisado (Peruvian anise-flavored spirit, 45% alcohol)
During: I’ll probably drink 2 – 3 beers while writing
Me: 6’3, 190 lbs
Habit: 2 – 3 nights / week

I apologize in advance for cheating. But only two of those five questions struck a chord inside so I looked up the complete list of Klosterman’s 23 questions. I need to save the other question I liked for when I am wasted. This is the ringer question I cherry-picked for this essay:

Question:

Let us assume a fully grown, completely healthy Clydesdale horse has his hooves shackled to the ground while his head is held in place with thick rope. He is conscious and standing upright, but completely immobile. And let us assume that--for some reason--every political prisoner on earth (as cited by Amnesty International) will be released from captivity if you can kick this horse to death in less than twenty minutes. You are allowed to wear steel-toed boots.

Would you attempt to do this?

Answer:

Disclosure: I worked for Anheuser-Busch for two years. Budweiser is my favorite American macrobrew.

I would gladly kill the horse. Why only twenty minutes? To scare off the weak of heart? A quick killing seems more humane. Plus, the athletic challenge is inspiring. My hamstrings don’t have great flexibility so I can’t kick that high, especially wearing steel-toe boots. I hope a tall stepladder would be available so I could football-punt the horse’s brain from above. Otherwise, my strategy would be to break its front legs before stomping its skull into bloody hair and bone fragments.

I won’t discuss the animal rights angle with too many words. I eat chicken, beef, duck, fish and more. Like most humans, I support slaughter of animals in my behavior and in principle. Killing a horse is no more immoral than eating turkey at Thanksgiving. I’d pay for the opportunity to kill the horse and free the world’s political prisoners. This person could potentially affect change on a scale unseen in my lifetime.

The only reservation I’d have pertains to the net effect of releasing all the world’s political prisoners. Amnesty International doesn’t have a comprehensive list but would probably designate some undesirables as political prisoners. Specifically, detainees in Guantanamo Bay. Cases have surfaced in which innocents were held for years. History will probably judge the Bush administration harshly in this respect. However, many of the detainees are Islamic fundamentalists who don’t need to be freed. Would they be considered political prisoners?

At most, there are a few hundred detainees being held in Guantanamo (I’m not researching now). The total number of terrorists held around the world pales in comparison to the number of political reformists held in repressive states like North Korea, Cuba, Myanmar, Saudi Arabia, Zimbabwe, Sudan, China, and the Republic of Equatorial Guinea. If every one of them were released into their home countries at the same time, a human rights revolution for the history books would be underway overnight. Those prisoners have balls unseen in the US since George Washington and company but their governments retain more control than 18th century England did. These people’s resistance would create a synergy to truly change the world as did the American Revolution.

I am biased toward democracy. The “state capitalism” models of China and Russia may eventually prove to triumph over traditional liberal governments like the US, UK and Japan. Unlike China and Russia, most repressive states holding political prisoners not only fail to create thriving economies, they fail to effectively feed their people. Some of the most unfortunate people in the world are those who were born into the countries listed. The altruistic decision in this scenario is to kill the fucking horse. Anybody who cares more about the Clydesdale than those countries’ reformers should have their current passport revoked and deported. Let them be happy PETA members in those countries.

[Tall Can]

Start time: 12:57am
End time: 1:52am
Drinks: 4 – 5 shots anisado, 3 – 4 big beers (I’m drunk)

How much cash would I give the wizard to make me more attractive? Everything in my pockets. Maybe if I were actually in this situation – if it weren’t hypothetical – then maybe I would go to an ATM or break out the plastic in another way. But my first impression in this hypothetical exercise is to pay the magician everything in my pockets and not a penny more.

I am an attractive guy. But I have no game. I have no idea about the seduction process. My sex life survives almost solely on my physical attractiveness. The only way I get laid is if women throw it at me or if a girl wants me for a boyfriend so badly that she ignores the unromantic and idiotic shit I say. I would surely do better, with better-looking women, if I were more attractive.

I am not trying to brag here. There are many men more attractive than me. There are even more with better game. Everybody wants to be the sexiest person in the room. I do too. I want to be better than those guys. I would pay for it. Everything in my pockets.

Beauty is worth a premium without a Chi-town magician. Breast implants, nose jobs, lip implants, butt implants, liposuction, braces. Many men and women spend countless hours in the gym solely for cosmetic reasons.

There is a fine line between striving for self-improvement and being vain. There is a point where the pursuit of beauty sacrifices self-esteem. I am conscious enough to realize that I was dealt a good hand. I’m quite satisfied with what I was given in the DNA lottery. I don’t need to run up my credit cards to look like a model. It’s not that important. I’m good where I’m at.

I can understand people who would pay more than I would. I wasn’t always fine. I was fat as a kid. Then I was scrawny and baby-faced in high school. I was ignored by girls for most of my life. I remember the mentality of someone who isn’t attractive. It sucks. If I was still on that level, I would probably pay the magician more than what I had on me and then some. And I wouldn’t judge anybody who would do that now. But I would caution them to not cross that line into self-loathing.

[Tall Can]

Alcohol must be in the recipe for good writing. In the first post, Proser includes a brief list of classic writers who were alcoholics. He would have been more hard-pressed to find a list of greats who weren’t. All forms of art are chock full of substance abuse issues. Some of the best music was made by bona fide heroin junkies. When they kick, their music sucks shit. Heard Red Hot Chili Peppers these last fifteen years?

Alcohol’s role in the recipe is the difficult part to determine. It certainly isn’t in researching or editing. After getting buzzed up, I was barely able to learn that Amnesty International has no comprehensive list of political prisoners. However, as the booze took more effect, finding the number of detainees held at Guantanamo was a daunting task that I couldn’t muster the energy for. I did edit the essays but it almost put me to sleep. While editing my last essay, I added content that I somehow deleted and lost. I didn't realize until after it posted. I remember one sentence said "Many men inject steroids, go tanning, shave their bodies and do other pseudo-homosexual shit" but it was lost due to a drunk mistake.

I had a hard time writing my drunkest essay. I kept looking at what I had and thinking, “This sucks!” I am more likely to half-ass it or quit when drunk. On several occasions, I have started to write something while drinking and inadvertently drunk myself into a stupor where I can only listen to music, check my email and stare at my MySpace page. Alcohol is not productive, but it does do something.

Alcohol opens up something in the creativity globules of the brain. I write the most on mornings after a long night out. The next morning, I still have the alcohol in my system combined with newfound energy after sleeping the night off. I am inspired to tell the world what I realized – the epiphany I had – in that alcohol-induced moment of clarity on the dance floor or in the brothel.

Speaking of brothels, I am more willing to share personally embarrassing info when I am still drunk from the night before. In that dizzy slap-happiness, I am eager to describe in detail all the glorious events at the whorehouse, from the amount of money spent to how I once pulled out of a black Brazilian to find the condom ripped and mangled and not even resting over my dick-hole. After writing like this, I get a rush and feel like I am serving mankind by sharing with the world the joys of banging whores. When I’m not drunk, I hesitate. Maybe I shouldn’t publish that on the Internet?

I believe that to be interesting in any art form, you have to expose your sick and embarrassing intricacies. The normal stuff is boring. Alcoholics and people who use drugs are less inhibited to bare their ugly side, which is beautiful to others.

I enjoyed this exercise but it doesn’t measure for the next morning / hangover effect. Or for the long-term effects of alcoholism on art. I couldn’t have thought of an exercise that does. But I did like the idea enough to skip lifting heavy ass weights, instead hitting the liquor store up immediately after work. I’m not sure if there is much of a difference in my writing. One more aspect of the exercise to keep in mind is that I (and other writers, I assume) wrote about their most interesting topics first, therefore using their most passionate thoughts in the sober writing and possibly biasing any quality evaluation.

In Proser’s first essay, he answers the question in a relatively rational format. This is his most serious essay in trying to answer the question. He strays from the question less in this essay than any of the others and makes the most clear case for his answer. It is also the least funny.

In Proser’s second essay, his attempts at humor rise and he gets away from the question. Whatever you get out of the question – magic vs. science, spiritual vs. verifiable, God vs. Darwin or whatever – he wrote about bunnies winning World War II, the value of coins as a fiat currency, and female servers. Further off topic, but funnier than the first. Last two sentences very funny.

In Proser’s third essay – it may be the nature of this question – but this is the boldest, or the most egocentric / self-aggrandizing essay. Definitely shares / exposes more about himself? He seems to go for laughs more and more and maintains a higher jokes-per-word ratio. He does more to address the question’s issue than his other two essays written under the influence.

In Proser’s fourth essay, he completely left any attempt to answer the question to instead write about his family. It is funny. This one has the most jokes while doing the least to address the issues the question brings up. And he exposes more of himself in this essay than any of the others. Maybe he is showing (not telling) and I am missing something. I see a lot about his family, much of it funny, but no explanation or reasoning for his answer to the question.

P.S. Despite what felt like drinking myself sober last night, I am a little hung over.
P.S.S. I hope I followed directions.

[Kampf Trinker]

I don't work this week, and over the weekend stumbled into sleep all day, up all night mode, so I decided to give this a try.
Info:

- each drink will be a standard 5% 12 ounce can of beer
- I drink quite often, usually Thursday through Saturday and infrequently on week days
- 21, male, 150 lb

First Essay

Drinks consumed: 0
Start 3:30
End: 4:09

Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks--he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks with real magic. It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence. Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?

I don’t know if I would say more impressive than Albert Einstein, but I think his unique abilities make him more intriguing. Einstein was a great thinker, and certainly ahead of his time, but couldn’t his achievements have been produced by someone else? The answer is not only plausible; it’s very probable that someone else would have developed similar theories and equations eventually.

This magician would have ended a centuries old debate over whether or not magic is possible, at a time when hardly anyone still believes in it. If this magician’s abilities were actually verified, can you imagine the media, or how many researchers would be fighting for the opportunity to study him? I think the uproar, and definitely the public’s obsession, would far exceed common interest in Einstein.

The magician’s abilities raise other questions as well. If he could teach his tricks to others, would this be a solution to world hunger? Sure, you’ll probably get sick of eating rabbits, but it beats starving to death. Isn’t it a shame that he can he makes coins disappear instead of conjuring them? Otherwise he could make me rich. I don’t mind exchanging $2,000 in quarters each day at the bank if that’s all I have to do for money. It could make a new mysterious crappy movie. Where did that strange man on the hill amass his fortune? Ah, he captured the coin magician. You see, normally a magician would be hard to capture and hold onto, but this guy can only do basic shit.

The next big question is: How are the religious fanatics going to act, even if this is only rudimentary tricks? Will there be crazy cults praising him as the return of the messiah? Would they deem him a devil that needs to be banished? I think there’d be a good mix. Basically if they don’t believe he’s sent from God, they’d probably think he was an offense to God. This would be made all the more funny by the mundane nature of his tricks.

In conclusion, it’d be awesome to meet somebody who could do real magic and even cooler to see the repercussions in the public’s response.

[Kampf Trinker]

Drinks Consumed:2
Start: 4:15
End: 5:00

Genetic engineers at Johns Hopkins University announce that they have developed a so-called "super gorilla." Though the animal cannot speak, it has a sign language lexicon of over 12,000 words, an IQ of almost 85 and--most notably--a vague sense of self-awareness. Oddly, the creature (who weighs 700 pounds) becomes fascinated by football. The gorilla aspires to play the game at its highest level and quickly develops the rudimentary skills of a defensive end. ESPN analyst Tom Jackson speculates that the gorilla would be "borderline unblockable" and would likely average 6 sacks a game (although Jackson concedes the beast might be susceptible to counters and misdirections plays). Meanwhile, the gorilla has made it clear that he would never intentionally injure any opponent. You are commissioner of the NFL: Would you allow this gorilla to sign with the Oakland Raiders?

Absolutely not. This certainly sounds like something Al Davis would try, but there’s no way in hell I would let this go through. There are so many problems with this; I almost don’t know where to begin.

Firstly, football is a human sport. The game is designed for people to play, not members of any other species. Of course there are animals that can surpass human abilities in certain areas of sports, but where’s the thrill in that? Why don’t we just sign a cheetah up for the hundred meter dash at the Olympics and watch him blow out the competition?

Secondly, it’s an unfair advantage for any team that gets the gorilla. You’re basically assuring that the other team’s quarterback has zero time to throw the ball. It’s effectively an all out blitz with only one player. Not only do you have a pass rush that’s better than anyone else in the league, you get to drop extra guys back into coverage. How the hell is the quarterback supposed to complete a pass? It’s also damn near impossible to run the ball because instead of going after the quarterback the other players only have to watch for the run. “B-b-b-but the quarterback could just scramble to other side of the field every play!” Ok, so now it’s damn near impossible to throw across the field, you’re stuffed on one side, and oh yeah, gorillas are faster than people. Evens the lions would have had a great defense last year with this gorilla, and that was the worst defense in NFL history.

Third, the gorilla is trying not to hurt anyone, and has to be more cautious with his tackles. Fuck that. Initially this seems like more of a positive reason to sign him, but on closer examination it only pisses me off more. I don’t watch football for considerate take downs, and tackles that look like smothering hugs. I watch it because it is a brutal, hard hitting, vicious, and unapologetic sport. A player with strength beyond human capacity screws up the virtues of the sport, and this thought disgusts me.

With that in mind, a new sport composed only of well trained animals could be pretty cool. I’m a simple man so naturally this sport would consist of pitting a variety of the world’s most vicious animals against each other. It could be an all out free for all, just throwing them into a giant octagon and watching the slaughter, or resemble a March madness bracket; with the eliminations composed of the 64 most bad ass predators. There could even be rankings. For example, the grizzle bear’s first match might be against a leopard, but eventually he has to fight a tiger.

[Kampf Trinker]

Drinks consumed: 5
Start: 5:10
End: 6:22

You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate's collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one thing you can do to stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear--for the rest of your life--sound as if its being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio, it will sound (to your ears) like it's being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it's being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on TV, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Stanley performing a capella (but it will only sound that way to YOU). Would you swallow the pill?


I’ve never heard Alice in Chains before so I spent the first twenty minutes of my essay time listening to their music and thinking about my response. My first reaction was that, while it would suck, I would be willing to make the sacrifice for my soul mate. The more I think about it the more difficult it seems. If it was easy to avoid music altogether that’s one thing, but in our society that’s impossible.

I love music and I listen to anything from Journey to Slipknot. I spent another ten minutes listening to a couple of my favorite songs, and decided; while I love listening to these bands giving them up wasn’t the real issue. The five songs I listened to from Alice in Chains all sounded more or less the same. Hearing that everywhere I went would drive me insane. How could I still go bars? Every time I walked in, it would be the same annoying shit. I actually didn’t really dislike Alice in Chains when I listened to them, but by the 500th time I hear their vocals, I’m bound to get tired of it.

I’ve never had a healthy, happy relationship. I’ve dated a few girls, but each time it’s turned sour, and the last one was the worst. I felt like I loved her, but dating her revealed an ugliness to her personality I didn’t think existed. The bottom line is that she was selfish whore (she was dating someone else when we first hooked up, I found out later) and just wasn’t who I thought she was. We’ve been broken up for 3 months now, and she actually called me tonight, but only to ask for a favor.

I think I would swallow the pill for my soul mate because it’s something I want that bad. It’d take more thinking than 90 minutes and 500 words to really decide. The main issue is whether or not I could just get used to hearing the same shit over and over. When I mull it over I’m really not sure, but it seems possible. Another issue is wondering if I could fall in love with someone else the same way. There are 3 billion women on this planet; it’s hard to believe there’s only one I could make things work with. Still not sure, but I think I would do it.

[Kampf Trinker]

Drinks consumed: 8
Start time: 6:40
End time: 7:09

You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, "I will now make them a dollar more attractive." He waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell, nothing is different. But--somehow--this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can't deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though--you can only pay him once. You can't keep giving him money until he's satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum upfront. How much cash do you give the wizard?


I’d probably give him everything I had, and might ask if I could just have the time to sell a couple things to make my offer more appealing. If the lump sum could be paid at any time, I’d save up. If $1 could make me more attractive, why not wait until I could pay him $10,000? I’d be the sexiest motherfucker on the planet.

I don’t think I’m very good looking. I’m 5’5 and I don’t care what anyone says, being short is a huge turn off to women. I’ve only slept with five girls and I know my height has factored into my chances several times. It’s not really an excuse, but it is a hindrance. In the grander scheme of things the money I would have to pay to be super sexy is relatively small, and it’d be nice to know what it would be like to have the kind of looks every woman desired.

I know women don’t rely on physical attractiveness the same way men do. Yet, it does factor in, and there are standards they want met. I know there have been girls who have wanted to date me, but held reservations because they didn’t want to date a short guy. I don’t care if that sounds rationalizing; I know that it’s happened. A lot of girls are embarrassed to date someone noticeably short.

I don’t know, I have this whole, “I’m Kampf Trinker, fuck me before someone else does” thing going in my mind right now. The opportunity is too good to pass on. Anyone who says they wouldn’t take this is either already smoking hot already or just plain fucking weird and misses the potential.

[Kampf Trinker]

Drinks consumed: 12
Start time: 7:30
End time: 8:07


At long last, someone invents "the dream VCR." This machine allows you to tape an entire evening's worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the invention of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don't agree to this, you can't use the dream VCR. Would you still do this?

Definitely, I am very open with my family, and it’d be a small price to pay. They know my history, I’ve been in brawls, snuck out every night, done about a dozen drugs; and it’s actually not a big issue. My father was a worse drug user than me in his youth; he used to snort cocaine every weekend.
My dreams are filled with sex, violence, and the indecipherable. Most are hard to retain and at least 80% forgotten by the time I wake up. I’m interested to see the images. I’d probably be just as surprised to see what shows up as my family members would be.

No one really understands the process of dreaming. The primary dogma is that it is a necessity to interpret our reality. I’ve also heard that our dreams are really only 30 seconds to 2 minutes long. The first part – maybe, but I don’t believe the short duration bullshit. I can only recount vague details and my dreams have, yet they have storylines that would take much longer to tell.

I’m fucking tired and I’m going to sleep. I don’t have much more to say about that question.