Making a drama out of a (quarter-life) crisis

So I turn 28 today.

In the past few weeks, in an effort to completely deny the fact that I’m aging, I’ve dyed my hair blonde and have started to listen to my fourteen-year-old niece’s “Swedish House Mafia” album. Objectively, I know these are all tell-tale signs that I’m worried that my youth is slipping through my (incredibly young) fingers, yet I can’t seem to stop myself.

Maybe it’s because I’m such a big kid at heart. Unlike sports, which it seems are activities that it is deemed social acceptable to continue to be obsessed about from birth to death; my interests range from comics to cartoons, neither of which are viewed as particularly “grown up”…outside of the geek community at least.

Or maybe it’s because, in my heart of hearts, my default age is always 23. Not sure why, but I always think of myself as being that age…possibly in large part due to the Blink182 song. But today I’m forced to come to terms with the fact that it’s been five years since I was actually that age. And that’s pretty depressing.

The true measure of my age is that I’m now older than Chandler and Ross were supposed to be in the first series of Friends. God it bums me out. Maybe some people won’t even get that reference anymore.

But before ennui completely sets in, I consider that I do have a lot going for me. I own a house (or at the very least am mortgaged up to my eyeballs in one…but eventually it will be mine), I’ve got awesome friends who’ve always got my back and a loving family. And I’m married to a wonderful woman who not only puts up with all my geeky foibles but actively encourages them. I’m pretty good at my job and whilst I’ve yet to see anything I’ve written published or produced (barring that text in The Metro), I’ve got a good feeling that I’ll get there. I mean ultimately, 28 isn’t that bad, is it? It’s way better than 29, or, god forbid, 30.

So maybe there’s not any reason to get depressed. With age comes experience, and with experience comes knowledge. And if knowledge is power then getting older just makes you more powerful (mentally at least, physically you’re screwed). People always say that forty is the new thirty and thirty is the new twenty, don’t’ they? And with medical science continuing to progress, I’ve still got miles to go (barring incident). On that note, the reference in the title of this post was originally going to be third-life crisis, but I thought that 84 might be selling myself too short. I’m sure with advancements in cloning technology and the future production of robot bodies, 112 isn’t too unrealistic.

So thinking about it, I’m actually pretty cool with turning 28. I hear it’s the new 23.

Tween Wolf

So I’ve now been ‘lucky’ enough to watch the pilot episode of the Teen Wolf reboot. You may remember that when I was bemoaning reboots a few weeks ago, I said I was particularly dubious about this one, but I was willing to give it a chance.

More fool me.

Someone has taken the 1985 classic that I loved from my childhood, and Stephanie Meyered it beyond all recognition. They play Lacrosse not Basketball, for crying out loud! When did Lacrosse stop being a middle-class girl’s game?

I’m not going to rant about it, I’m too despondent. If you’re thinking to yourself “It can’t be THAT bad”, imagine this:

Teen Wolf (1985) goes to a bar. It’s 26 years old now, and is comfortable drinking alone. I mean, it’s never had the success of “Back to the Future”, but as Michael J Fox vehicles go, it’s up there. So imagine it’s surprise when Twilight sidles over to it at the bar. At first, Teen Wolf scoffs at the bad poetry and broody looks that Twilight is sending it’s way, but before it knows what’s happening, Teen Wolf is brushing it’s hair behind it’s ears and beginning to think that Twilight is pretty deep. “Why don’t I let Twilight buy me a drink?” it thinks to itself, “What could be the harm?”

One Rohypnol Margarita later, and Twilight is leading a groggy Teen Wolf back to it’s van. Teen Wolf doesn’t like where this is going, but is too out of it to argue. Before Teen Wolf knows what’s happening, it’s being led into Twilight’s house, and down into Twilight’s basement. Before Teen Wolf blacks out, it sees chains on the wall...this place has been turned in to some kind of dungeon.

Fast-forward nine months. Word can’t express the depravity that Teen Wolf has suffered at the hands of Twilight. At first, Teen Wolf had cried itself to sleep, wishing that this was all a bad dream, hoping that the team from “Criminal Minds” would swoop in at some point to rescue it from this hell. But it never happened. Instead, through the months of abuse, Teen Wolf develops Stockholm Syndrome and begins to think that Twilight really loves it. “Twilight is only doing what’s best for me.” “Twilight really loves me.” “I’m pregnant with Twilight’s baby, and we’ll raise it together.”

Until Twilight doesn’t need the chains anymore. Teen Wolf is so compliant, so brainwashed, that it’ll do anything Twilight says. And that’s when Teen Wolf gives birth to the bastard child of this unholy union. And Twilight says, “let’s raise the baby my way”. A part of Teen Wolf wants to argue. A part of Teen Wolf knows this is wrong. But that part of Teen Wolf can’t find the strength to speak up. But Twilight is clever and knows that part of Teen Wolf is still there, so in order to get it’s own way, Twilight suggests a compromise...

“We’ll raise the baby my way, but we’ll let it keep your name.”

Wow, that got a little darker than I intended. But, you know, you can’t hide from the truth.

Alcohol is my Kryptonite

After several booze filled evenings, I’ve come to the conclusion that alcohol is my Kryptonite. And much like the Superman mythology surrounding different forms of Kryptonite, different types of alcohol have different effects on me.

We all know that Green K leaves Superman hurting like he's caught his "man of steel" in his zipper. For those of you that watch Smallville (using that mythology for the basis of this post), you’ll know that Red Kryptonite makes him act like a bit of an arse, Blue takes away his powers and Black makes him paranoid. Likewise, I find that different forms of alcohol affect me in different ways.

Beer, which now tends to be my drink of choice, makes me louder and greatly increases my own opinion of myself (usually with results that are detrimental to my long-term self-image). This is when I think I look awesome in aviators and a straw hat, proclaiming it to be my “new look”. This is when I decide everyone wants to hear my full rendition of Sir Mix-a-lot’s “Baby Got Back”, even when someone else is singing. This is when I decide that everyone finds me charming and my jokes hilarious. “Why are these women all hitting on me?” I ponder to myself as I face what in reality is apathy. “Don’t they know I’m married?”

This type of reaction is, I’m sure (or I hope) quite common with alcohol. Although it’s only really beer, or a mixture of beer and spirits, that brings it out of me. Other alcohol has different effects.

Vodka, which was always my default drink at Uni, makes me annoyingly affectionate. Anyone who has been on the receiving end of one of my “big love” hugs will attest to this. When Vodka Wez is in town no-one is safe from my amazing hugging powers, when I will wrap my arms around you and tell you I love you, until it just gets awkward (for you anyway, I’m too drunk to notice).

Wine on the other hand just makes me giggly. Like a little school girl, I’ll find your every word hilarious, and think that a fart joke is the height of witty banter. Conversely Whisky (which I now avoid at all costs) makes me mean and spiteful. I hate Whisky Wez, which is why I keep him locked away. Finally Gin seems to be the drink that affects me in the best way, as it leaves me relatively clear-headed and not acting like too much of a dick…well no more so than usual anyway.

I’ve yet to find the alcohol that enhances my powers, but much like Lex Luthor, I’ll keep hunting for different types of Kryptonite until I find it. After all, I owe it to myself to keep trying.

Beer Wez is convinced this look will catch on. Sober Wez doubts it.

A "Rapid" Comedy (boom-boom)

Maybe it was just because “Dinner with Schmucks” had substantially lowered the comedy bar, but I really enjoyed “Cedar Rapids”. It’s a real indie comedy, but then I enjoy stuff like “Napoleon Dynamite” and “Adventureland”, so it’s right up my street.

I think Ed Helms is a great comic actor and the roles he plays, from “The Hangover” to “The US Office”, are always versatile. Unlike watching some comedians, where you always see the ‘actor’ (see Vince Vaughn), when you watch Helms you always believe in his character.

John C Reilly is consistent as always, this time playing a more grown up (yet equally immature) variation of his character from “Step Brothers”. And my favourite in joke is Isiah Whitlock Jr’s character constantly referencing “The HBO series The Wire”, in which he had played the character of Clay Davis.

There were some good supporting performances from the always entertaining Stephen Root and the legendary Sigourney Weaver. It was also good to see Alia Shawkat or “Arrested Development” fame again, as I can’t stress enough how much that series was pure comedy gold that should never have been cancelled.

All-in-all, an enjoyable indie romp. Way better than “Dinner with Schmucks”.

So I guess I’m the schmuck

For my sins I watched “Dinner with Schmucks” the other night. I like Paul Rudd and I like Steve Carell so I thought it would be a safe bet that I’d enjoy this.

Boy, was I wrong.

A woefully misjudged, nasty, and all round unfunny attempt at a comedy. Interestingly enough, the best things about it were Lucy Punch, who I was cracking up in my “Bad Teacher” review – turns out she is both still hot and still funny as a blonde, it wasn’t just the red hair; and Chris O’Dowd, who seems to be breaking Hollywood with a vengeance. Good to see the Brits still representing.

But ultimately, too long, not funny and pretty uncomfortable (and not in a good way). Avoid.

Ice to see you

Thursday night involved going out for the work, end-of-year do. Our company works on a somewhat unusual financial year that runs from July to June, so for us this is our “well done for all the hard work over the last year”.

I was quite excited about the venue for the celebrations, if only because it was being held at The Ice Bar off of

Regent Street

, which is somewhere I’ve always wanted to go (largely as the Ice Hotel was far and away the best thing about “Die Another Day”).

So at about ten to six on Thursday night, I was put in a ridiculous blue hooded cape and ushered through an airlock into the artic temperatures of The Ice Bar. And I can confirm that it’s great fun…for the first ten minutes. After that, the cold really begins to seep into your bones and it becomes a mild form of torture.

Within twenty minutes, our group of twelve had dwindled. By twenty-five minutes, there were just three of us left.

It was 6:15 and I was determined to stay until the end. At this point it was a battle of wills. It was man against nature (albeit artificial and man-made), and I was determined not to quit. I began dancing to the annoyingly repetitive music in an effort to keep warm. At least I’d been in here another ten minutes by this point. I looked at my watch.

6:16.

Are you kidding?! Only one minute had passed?! One measly minute!

It felt like much longer. Maybe the cold was slowing down my circulation. My pulse was thinning. Maybe I was dying and my mind was making time stretch out in order to prolong my consciousness. “No”, I muttered quietly to myself, much to the confusion of the other two, “it can’t be that cold”. I continued the weird frantic dance I was performing in the hopes it would bring warmth to my bones, which were now chilled to their marrow. Whilst dancing I talked with my two remaining compatriots for a good half an hour. Surely it must be time to go now?

6:17.

It’s not time to go, and don’t call me Shirley. At this point all incredulity had left my head. Maybe I had lost higher brain functions. I was shivering involuntarily and I’d lost all feeling in my fingers and toes.

6:18.

Awesome. I kept drinking in the hopes the alcohol would warm my system, but each time I put the frozen ice glass to my lips my whole body would shake.

6:19.

By this point I was expecting to see Death appear in front of me, holding a frozen hourglass that had nearly ran out of sand. The sub-zero temperature was turning the saliva in my mouth into icicles. This really was the end.

And then, finally, it was over. I was back through the airlock and into the relative warmth of the (non glacial) bar. I was still shivering fifteen minutes later when I was on my second G&T.

OK, so I may have taken some liberties with the truth of just how cold it got, and ultimately I’m glad for the experience. By the end I genuinely felt like I’d been on an episode of the Japanese game show “Endurance”. And when it comes right down to it, I stayed until the end.

Take that, nature.    

"It’s Uncle Christmas, Santa’s evil twin. He’s the mastermind behind all the Workplace Harassment directed at Rudolph, and has recently been found guilty of hacking people’s voicemails to decide whether or not they should go on the “naughty” list."

Poetry Time

In keeping with my Friday Haiku’s – here’s one commemorating the most important day of the year (my birthday), which is on Thursday.

Holiday next week
Birthday, time to celebrate
A ten day weekend

I’m getting rather good at these...