Drunken Recollection

Drunken Recollection… The Makings Of A One-Hit Wonder

Posted on by sgottahurt

I seem to get into more drunken arguments about semantics more than anything else.

Essentially, this particular debate began in regard to the Bloodhound Gang.  I mentioned that I’d be extremely content in life if I could happen to be a one-hit wonder like them.

The song I was referencing:

My friend slammed back that they had two hits because of this song:

If you go by YouTube views, The Bad Touch beats Fire Water Burn hands down (28.5+ million vs. 2.5+ million).  But I also know the song Why’s Everybody Always Pickin’ On Me? (which has 1+ million views), and that still doesn’t mean it achieved the same level of apparent one-hit wonderness…

It’s not like I haven’t wished for my own solo hit in regard to a particular single before.  I would be ecstatic to have a song stand the test of time like Rick Springfield’s Jessie’s Girl (true story) when I know he’s had other songs (Don’t Talk to Strangers and I’ve Done Everything for You), and I always considered him a one-hit wonder.

So is that the key to my interpretation of one-hit wonder?  It’s the song that the artist is primarily known for that will stand the test of time.

Now I know that there are novelty acts that are “pure” one-hit wonders.  But as for most artists, it’s not like a record company wants their product to produce only one hit… they’ll always try to release more songs off the same album, or at least one of the following album.

It looked like Sara Bareillis‘ Love Song would have been her only offering to the world until her second album had hits, so…

In conclusion to this Drunken Recollection rambling, what makes a one-hit wonder a one-hit wonder?  Take it away, Wikipedia:

In the U.S., a “pure” one-hit wonder is an artist that manages only one song on the Billboard Hot 100, regardless of the song’s peak position. However, most American music industry insiders consider a song in the top forty positions of the Billboard Hot 100 to be a hit. Thus, any performer who recorded only one song that reached the Top 40 is, technically, a one-hit wonder, regardless whether another song peaks in the “bottom 60.” However, the term is more generally applied to musicians best known for only one song.

Or as I said sort of:

It’s the biggest hit that artist is known for that will stand the test of time.

Drunken Recollection… Someone Else’s Insight

Posted on by sgottahurt

I didn’t compose this graphic – my cousin Steve did.  It pertains to, well, a lot about life, and I find it brilliant:

(Not So) Artistic Representation (Not Done By Me)

My favorite is:

…being far from sea level…

Drunken Recollection… Latitudes, Longitudes, And Flucrush

Posted on by sgottahurt

Everything's eventual... don't be in such a "flucrush."

This has to be one of the strangest bar arguments I ever got into.

It was at trivia, which is a rarer thing these days, and a question came up:

At what latitude is the north pole?

And at first I thought zero, but then we remembered the equator is zero.  So our (my) next “logical” jump was to say 180.  We paused on 90, but stuck with 180, and answered incorrectly.  We weren’t mad about that.  But it jump-started one of the loudest vocal challenges.  Degrees, and spheres, and pi (yes the pi without the e), and Tropic of Cancer, and Prime Meridian, and pumpkins were involved and shouted.  (The pumpkin still at the bar provided a nice example of the way longitude is measured.) No one jumped in; no one told us to quiet down; everyone looked.

I was going to explain the resolution of our semantics, but then I realized that’s even worse than what’s above.

So I’ll mention the invention of a new word – flucrush – and that it’s pronounced FLUH-KRUSH, not FLOO-KRUSH.  It has no meaning, but you’ll know when to use it.

Punch Drunken Recollection… Honey Badger Don’t Care!

Posted on by sgottahurt

On my recent trip to New York to watch the Yankees get rained out before beating the Detroit Tigers the next day, we stopped in DuBois, Pennsylvania for the night.  We were so over-tired and wired from the drive, we decided we needed to get some drinks to relax us enough to get some sleep.

Anybooze, we stopped at Eastside Sports Bar…

They were playing Reel Big Fish's "Beer" so it felt like a safe place to be... at least the beer was cheap.

…and purchased as many beers as we could on site, as well as plenty to go.

What does that have to do with anything?  Well, it was on this night that I saw this video for the first time:

And now the badass honey badger has gone mainstream:

Oh, and for the record…  a fight broke out within fifteen minutes of us being at that bar, and like the honey badger, I didn’t give a shit.

Drunken Recollection… Take Me Out Of This Ballgame

Posted on by sgottahurt

Want to know how to fuck with drunk people at a baseball game?

Here’s three things that worked the crowd into a frenzy during my last regular season attendance at a Detroit Tigers’ game, which in turn, sort of drove me crazy:

1) Send Out Your Mascot

Stripes are solid.

I couldn’t believe how many people were tripping over themselves to get a picture with Paws, the Tigers mascot.  And whoever was in that suit was so nice!  No request was denied.  It probably helped that it wasn’t too hot out…

2) Make It Rain Money

It's raining men!

Some smart-ass seated above our section thought it was a great idea to throw $1 bills down every once in a while.  And it was.  People went ape-shit crazy for just a dollar.  But then again, that’s an easy McDouble after the game…

(SIDENOTE: So it wasn’t as much raining money, as it was feeling drops.)

3) Have Robocop Sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”

Okay, so it was the guy that played Robocop...

I’ve been waiting to write this post in the hopes that a video of Peter Weller singing during the seventh-inning stretch might pop up, but alas, it has not.  So here’s this instead:

 

Drunken Recollection… Legally Declaring Idiots

Posted on by sgottahurt

monkeyBLOGmonkeyDUNCE

The in’s and the out’s leading up to the development of this, um, development are lost to me, but the concept is simple:

If you get caught doing something stupid, you could be legally declared an idiot.

Now keep this in mind – being legally declared an idiot isn’t the same as being a legal idiot.  There would be no governmental aid or outside assistance.  It’s meant to be more like a scarlet letter, or a dunce cap.  On your driver’s license, or any other permanent record, the word IDIOT would be branded next your name.  Anyone you would date or hire you would know that you’ve done at least one thing stupid.

So what kind of stupid things would get you legally declared an idiot?

  • …
  • …
  • …hmm…

I’ll leave this one up to the lawmakers…

…no need to make a fool (or an idiot) of myself.

But if you have ideas, leave a comment!

Drunken Recollection… The Big Potato

Posted on by sgottahurt

It was a strange day…

To begin, it was a Wednesday, and I was supposed to work.  How this differs from any other day, I’m not sure.

On Tuesday, my boss/friend Paul mentioned that our TripleDoubleU provider invited us to the Detroit Tigers’ afternoon game against the Kansas City Royals, but I’d have to go pick them up from our contact’s office.  When I arrived within the allotted fifteen minute window he gave for me to collect them, the guy that answered the door never heard of my contact.  Turns out, there were two different departments, and our contact was running late.  Once I met with him, his boss didn’t leave him enough tickets.

So on Wednesday, I’m supposed to meet someone outside of– good gravy this is boring.  Let me jump to the chase chance.

For some reason, I was compelled to take this picture at the end of the game while closer Jose Valverde was pitching:

We were seated near the bullpen and foul pole in left field.

Chris (my friend and coworker) asked why I took the picture, and I told him I didn’t know.

That night, I wasn’t going to play trivia, but another friend begged me so I went.  In the midst of the quizfest, it was announced Jose Valverde would be arriving at the bar soon for autographs.  I thought:

Too bad I didn’t have anything for him to sign.

Then I remembered that I kept my game ticket, which I usually throw out after the game unless I’m going to a strip club.  They were replaying the game at the same time as he arrived (this outing happened to be his 40th consecutive save without a loss… he’s currently at 41).  So this is what followed:

(P.S. We also won $30 at trivia…)

Drunken Recollection… Boozed Moodiness

Posted on by sgottahurt

This is a fucking shitty song.

But it’s perfect.

When drunk.

And it’s raining.

With certain things clouding my mind.

Which could just be the beer.

And maybe nostalgia.

Probably beer.

Drunken Recollection… To Fight A Zombie

Posted on by sgottahurt

The infamous they say there’s more than one way to skin a cat.  Which is gross.  The infamous they should really say:

There’s more than one way to fight a zombie.

While drinking, many options were discussed.  It was basically like that scene in Pulp Fiction when Bruce Willis decides what tool of destruction to unleash on Zed.  From bat to chainsaw to sword to Stay-Puft Marshmellow Man, we ran the gamut.

But then I realized I would want to use the same devices on zombies that I would on idiots in this country:

A lightsaber and a jetpack

Also, it should be mentioned that this same night, I met a “local ballerina” that looked just like this:

"Would you like a dance? Or a hand up your ---?"

Drunken Recollection… The Case Of Two Santa Mummies!

Posted on by sgottahurt

There’s something fishy going on here, and it begins with this guy:

Yes, that says, "Santa's all stuffing and bones."

This was one of my favorite stories from my time spent living in Los Angeles, but now, it has elevated to simply one of my favorite stories.

(SIDENOTE: As a young writer, I remember reading many how-to articles about recycling your material to different papers.  At the time, I couldn’t see how that was possible.  Now?  Lesson learned.)

Anyhohoho, around Christmas of 1997, a pair of my friends came to visit, and they discovered an unbelievable article in New Times Los Angeles.  Here’s an excerpt (the sideways PDF of the article is after the jump, as well as what TV shows were being filmed at NBC in ’97, and a BONUS strange Detroit-centric article):

“I’ve been passing by this Santa, watching him do his little wave thing since I was a kid,” one officer, who asks not to be identified, says. “It wasn’t an easy thing to take, seeing the arm with that bone coming out and thinking there’s a real person in there. Lots of us, I think, really had a lot of affection for him, and to consider having to unplug him, stop the waving, take off that nice red suit and open him up to, well . . . no one wants to think of the Slacks n’ Such Santa as human remains.”

Crazy, right?  I’ve told people about this Santa Claus mummy for fourteen years.  And thankfully, while drunk at a one year old’s birthday party, when this tale was brought up again, my friend revealed he kept the article!  So over the next few days of all three of us emailing back and forth, a new light was shed upon the subject.

The author of The Case of the Disarming Santa, Peter Gilstrap, wrote the exact same article for New Times Phoenix one year earlier!  (To read the full article easier, click here.)

All the names and places remain exactly the same, except for the specific mentions of the individual cities.

So is the story real?

If I look up Laird Avenue, which is mentioned in both stories, what do I find?

How about any history of the store in front of which the Christmas corpse was found?

That sunovabitch double-dipped.  And he tricked all three of us hook, line, and chimney.  Can I blame him for spreading his own urban legend?  Not at all.  I wasn’t local.  I had no fond memories of any mechanical Santa Claus displays.  But I do have to applaud the audacity it took to try to pass the same story off in two cities it likely never occurred in.

It’s a regular fucking Christmas miracle…

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