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"Now Pinch-Hitting For Mr. Eyore… Mfunk75!": Friday Night Ramblings Turns Sweet 16Mar 21 '03 (Updated Mar 29 '03) Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line Doing my drunken best to keep the hot potato hopping
I am an avid reader of the Friday Night Ramblings, the weekend editorial created by lemon_lime and reconceptualized into a hot-potato quasi-write/off by Sordid-1. So when Mr. Eyore, last week's contestant, dropped the ball, I anxiously wondered if the FNR would perish in his wake. Still, when lemon_lime e-mailed me to be the emergency fill-in rambler, it was with mixed emotions (and fingers full of sarcasm) that I composed this reply: "Chad- I am appalled and honoured. Appalled because Mr. Eyore took his duties so lightly. The FNR is a sacred trust, as you well know. It is a tool for spreading ideas and information across the great Epinions universe. I am not ashamed to say that I get most of my news from The Daily Show… but what that credible institution misses, I get from the FNR. Honoured because now I'll be able to contribute to the public discourse in a meaningful way. Forget about my rinky-dink movie reviews; I want to educate the ignorant, and change the opinions of the wrongheaded. There is no greater platform for doing so than the one holding up the FNRs. I'll be your pinch-hitter, although I can't guarantee that my piece will make it up tonight. But I assure that one day this weekend, I'll get rip-roaring drunk, take a seat in front of my computer keyboard, and whip up something good. Or, more likely, something incomprehensible. Either way, it'll fit within the grand tradition that you started. -mike" Well, it looks like my social life is just pathetic enough that I can indeed post my Ramblings on a Friday Night. And though I am not yet "rip-roaring drunk" -- the part of the tradition I feel the previous authors didn't take seriously enough -- I am well on my, having had a beer with dinner and working on a cocktail as I type this. I am sitting in front of my keyboard (please don't ask what I'm wearing!). And we'll know soon enough if what rambles from my head, to my fingers, to the screen, and ultimately to you, is good or incomprehensible. My goal is to make it both. So, I guess the first order of business is to tell you just what I'm drinking. The beer I had earlier was a Sleeman's Cream Ale. I had a couple leftover from a get-together over the weekend, and was feeling a tad patriotic. Sleeman's brewery is in Guelph, Ontario, which is about an hour's drive from my house, here in the True North Strong and Free. Now I'm indulging in what has become my drink: a Manhattan [3 parts whiskey, 2 parts sweet vermouth, 2 cherries, over ice]. My brother always makes fun of me for drinking these, because it was originally our dad's drink (he accuses me of growing old before my time; I say why delay the inevitable?). Pa Stone used to have a Manhattan every day after work, the better to unwind after a long day of number crunching. I can remember when bro and I were just younguns, Pa would slowly sip his drink, knowing full well that we were waiting anxiously for the cherries laying at the bottom. And even when he did finish all the alcohol, he'd wait, clinking the ice in the empty glass with a wicked smirk on his face, for our begging and pleading. "Please, can we have the cherries, Pa!" we'd squeal. Of course, he'd relent. After all, isn't it the duty of every parent to promote their children's alcoholism, by giving them whiskey-soaked fruits? I bet it is. Anyway, that's where I acquired the taste, and have been drinking them ever since. The nostalgia, of course, is also a factor. (And just to prove that I can link any item or object to a movie moment: Kathy Bates, as the earth mother who shares a dip in the hot tub with Jack Nicholson in "About Schmidt", was also a big Manhattan drinker) This is becoming more of a confessional than a ramble. And good God damn, why am I telling you this? Possibly as a pre-emptive excuse, for when the alcohol really kicks in, and what I type is as slurred as my speech. I, or rather my Epinions alter ego "mfunk75", was the subject of (or partially the subject of [or satirically the subject of]) not one but two Writer's Corner pieces over the last week or so. Both, despite being written by writer's I get alerts on, had to be pointed out to me by third parties. Either I'm really slow in keeping up with my Epinions readin' 'n' ratin', or there's a whole posse of people looking out for my best interests. Whatever the case, I felt like I minor celebrity for a while there; like when you get your name in the paper for bowling a perfect game, or growing the largest rutabaga at the county fair. First, misc_el penned a heartwarming tale ("The Comment kept me here. Ginzo's 3rd year Comment memory lane W/O") about how I am single-handedly to blame for her Epinions addiction (okay, there was also some lovey-dovey stuff in the piece's first half about a couple of writer's who met and fell in love and blah blah blah… I just skimmed over that part, seeing as it wasn't about me). And then, just a few days later, our own benefactor lemon_lime dropped a satirical bomb called "Ultimatum", that accused me of using WMDs (Words of Mass Destruction). Chad's become a real loose cannon since unceremoniously losing his Advisor hat a couple of months ago. I love the new incarnation, quite frankly, and think he's one of the most valuable writer's at the site. Alas, the comment section of this piece has been torpedoed by a couple of pro-war Hawks, who've totally missed the satire, and taken the discussion away from that which Chad originally wanted to talk about: me! This being a Friday Night Ramble, I guess I'm expected to weigh in on the social and political issues of the day. Being an apathetic and apolitical sort, there's not much I can think of to write about off the top of my head. So let's head over to the newspaper for some ideas. Ah, here we go. Seems there was a little skirmish in the Middle East this week. Wonder what that was all about. (Self-realization #1: my jokes get less and less funny the more I drink) So Operation Shock and Awe is under way (by the way, who is charged with thinking up these names? Do they knock on the office door of the poet laureate, who as far as I can tell only works during inauguration week, and ask him/her for some concise and purple prose?). I was watching CNN this afternoon (which, my friend is convinced, is merely a tool of the Bush administration; frankly, I have a tough time taking any network seriously that employs a man with the ridiculous nom de war correspondent 'Wolf Blitzer'). They were showing video montages of all the bombing going on over Baghdad. Every once in a while the screen would go white, and then dissipate into a cloud of smoke and the fiery remains of the Presidential Palace. It was all so… well… shocking and awesome. And pointless. Am I the only one aghast at this irony: that the U.S. is ostensibly on a mission to rid the world of Weapons of Mass Destruction, doing so by using their very own Weapons of Mass Destruction? Do two wrong, in fact, make a right? Whenever the tried and true clichés start failing us, we truly are up sh!t creek without a paddle. The other thing I wanted to say about the War is this: it really doesn't effect me on a visceral level. I mean, not like the footage of those planes flying into the World Trade Centre did. That was like a punch in the gut, over and over and over again, no matter how many times I watched it. I guess it's because I live in a city with a tonne of skyscrapers, and planes constantly flying overhead. I can relate. But I can't relate to warfare. As a Canadian, who grew up in the latter quarter of the 20th-century, war never touched my shores (at least in any way that provided quality video). My family was safe and sound in Toronto during the two World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, the first Gulf War, etc. I don't know anyone who's ever seen military action. In fact, I don't think I know anyone who knows anyone who's seen action. War is an abstract concept that I just can't comprehend. It's like when someone asks you to picture what a trillion dollars looks like. You have no context, no comprehensible way of making that mental image work in any real way. That's the way I feel about war. I guess that's why I'm so dispassionate about the whole endeavor. I was taken to (read: dragged to) my first protest march this weekend. It started outside the U.S. consulate, marched down University Avenue and Queen Street, and ended up at the old Moss Park Armoury. The organizers were hoping to convince the government that the Armoury (which hasn't been in use of late, as far as I know) should be used as homeless shelter. The government (currently, we're in the midst of a Conservative regime in Ontario) arrogantly dismissed this idea. Anyway, at the march I was more interested in deconstructing the messages on the protest signs (my favourite said, "Buck Fush"), the slogans and shouts ("Shame! Shame!" was the most common), and the costumes (a muscular woman, 6'-tall, dressed in Dubya mask and devil horns and red cap and red bikini, was a definite highlight; she was like an R. Crumb wet dream come to life), then trying to affect any real change. I was also aghast at the mob mentality (I like people, but hate crowds). Any possibilities for thoughtful discourse were trampled on by the bile and anger the massive crowd stirred up. As far as I can tell, not much was accomplished except the closing of a few major streets for a couple of hours. It's all so frustrating, because I would tend to agree with their message, but not the medium they chose to deliver it. (Self-realization #2: when I get going on a political ramble, it may not make much sense, but it sure takes up a lot of space) As a fitting nightcap to my FNR, I thought I'd finish off my drinking binge with a White Russian [1 part Kahlua, 1 part Vodka, 1 part milk, poured over ice]. It's fitting because it was The Dude's drink of choice in the Coen Brothers' movie "The Big Lebowski". The Dude, a middle-aged burnt-out stoner, was once a highly politicized radical in the '60s. Now he can't muster up any more strength than it takes to make this drink. Also, I recently came into some Kahlua, and decided that I enjoyed the taste (Which reminds me of the old joke: Q: What do you do when you come across an elephant? A: Wipe him off). Beckytcy was the one who gave me the bottle. She came to Toronto this weekend to visit (my first ever real-life Epinionator encounter! Whoopee!), and we got to enjoy it together while watching "The Price of Milk". And, because we made a deal that should one of us be nominated they would pass the baton to the other for the next week, Becky will do the honours and give the 17th Friday Night Ramble. I assure you there will be much talk of strippers, Canadian boys, and anti-war sentiments. And if you pay close attention, you might even learn a new word or two. Cheers. ========Update======= It appears that after a long winter's hibernation, Mr. Eyore has emerged from his cave. His better late than never Ramble -- which I've dubbed "FNR v16.2", is now available online.  |
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