It"s About Time

I am a late bloomer when it comes to technology. I got a pager after I graduated from high school. I almost made it to 25 years old without a cell phone. I probably won't have a blackberry before 2010. However, I've decided that I won't live another day without a blog. Now you're probably asking yourself, why should I read anything Adam writes? What makes him so special? The only answer I have for you is: experience. Not the type of experience that you'd find on a Yale graduates' resume, nay, the kind of experience that makes others glad they don't have it. For example, I once gave my cell phone number to a homeless guy. This is precisely the cross section of the human experience that I bring to the table. I promise you'll be entertained.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Treat yourself to a little T.I.T.C. this holiday season

There are now officially 5 days until Christmas, which means it’s time to recall my favorite holiday memory. I’ve been racking my brain for the past week, but there isn’t a competition for number one. No party, gift or even meal can challenge the one memory that sticks out in my mind. It was exactly one year ago when a friend introduced me to the phenomenon that has consumed my waking life. In a mere forty minutes my world was turned upside down. Tears streamed down my face and I shook with side-splitting laughter. When it was over, I immediately began going through withdrawal. I wanted more, but there wasn’t any. Then I was angry that I had lived so long without it. I’m speaking of course of the hip-hopera by R. Kelly, “Trapped in the Closet.”

For those of you unfamiliar with this masterpiece, it is 12 chapters that detail the story of one man’s affair. Each chapter is its own song that is roughly 3 minutes long. Together they tell the tale of Sylvester (R. Kelly) and the events that take place after he cheats on his wife. The soon-to-be classic involves a cast of characters that you have to see to believe. There’s Twan, Sylvester’s brother-in-law, who just got out of prison. (I falsely believed for a while that his name was actually “Tron” which is way funnier.) There’s Bridget, who is cheating on her husband with a very unlikely stripper. And there’s James, a cop who sleeps with Sylvester’s wife, Gwendolyn. (James is played by Michael K. Williams who you may recognize as Omar Little from “The Wire.”) I’ll only mention Rosy the Nosy neighbor in passing.

I don’t want to spoil the plot for those of you who haven’t seen T.I.T.C., but I’d like to give you a few examples of why it’s so close to my heart. As a fan of rap music I’m accustomed to slant rhyme and understand its place in the hip hop community. However, no artist takes the twisting of words to the level that R. Kelly does. In one of his best moments, he rhymes “dresser” with “berretta.” In other instances he rhymes a word with itself. The brilliance of each chapter is that he ends it with a cliff-hanger line. For example, “The midget faints again...While Twan and Sylvester is trippin'...The midget's the baby's daddy; woo.” If that line alone doesn’t make you want to see it, I don’t know what will.

I’m doing my best to spread the word of “Trapped in the Closet.” I’ve introduced countless individuals to the magic and in turn they’ve passed it on to family and friends. Even those skeptical of R. Kelly because of his affinity for urinating on underage women have come around and seen the light. Don’t let any pre-conceived notions stop you from fully immersing yourself in this Hip-Hopera. If you buy yourself one thing this Christmas make it the “Trapped in the Closet” DVD. Skip the Egg Nogg. Avoid the Mistletoe. Don’t even hang the stockings. It will be the best $18 you’ve ever spent.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Clear and Presents Danger

There is one aspect of Christmas that is by far everyone’s favorite. Decorated trees are nice. Snow is an added bonus. The food is plentiful and delicious. However, no mug of spiked egg nogg or string of flashing lights can hold a candle to getting presents. We’re told from a young age that it is better to give than receive, but that’s not true. Sure it’s fun to pick out the perfect present for your friend or loved one and see their expression when they open it, but the next step is finding out what they got you in return. If it was truly better to give than receive it wouldn’t be awkward when a person who you’ve bought nothing for gives you a present. That’s why Christmas shopping can be so stressful. You have to buy a gift for not only your loved ones, but anyone who you think might get you something.

There are ways to avoid the inevitable awkwardness of a one-sided gift exchange. If someone gives you a present while you’re out and about you can just tell them their gift is at home. That will buy you a day or so to actually get them something. Or you can be proactive and buy a generic gift that will work for just about anyone and keep it with you at all times. Leave it in the trunk of your car or in your book bag and claim the tag must’ve fallen off when you hand it to them. If you’re faced with a surprise gift giver at your house, the only recourse is to tell them you ordered their present online and it hasn’t arrived yet. No matter how you’re presented with an unexpected gift, the important thing is not to panic. Anyone who gets you something for Christmas considers your friendship stronger than it actually is, so they’ll want to believe whatever excuse you come up with.

Another one of my favorite forced giving situations is the Secret Santa or White Elephant party. These can be amazing fun and I’m not knocking them, but they can also be torture. The worst example of this is the company or corporate version. Buying scented lotion for the girl three cubicles down is about as fun as receiving McDonald’s dollars from the guy in the mailroom. Essentially the Secret Santa office party is trading $25 cash for something equivalent in value, but of no desire to anyone. And why do people insist on telling everyone who they had. It’s Secret Santa! Secret. Trust me, no one wants to know that you bought the Legos because you thought it’d be funny. Gag gifts usually don’t elicit much of a laugh outside of bachelor parties. Jesus wasn’t birthed into a mound of dirty hay so you could give me an oversize talking Budweiser mug the Friday before Christmas.

Speaking of inappropriate presents, I’d like to clear up a common misconception. Many people consider gift certificates to be in poor taste. They seem to indicate that the giver is lazy and thoughtless. I disagree. Sure you may have some lazy and thoughtless people in your life, but gift certificates are a great option. Cash is insensitive, but money designated to one store is a great idea. A gift card to Blockbuster says, “Hey, I know how much you like movies.” So this Christmas, stop by Target and Best Buy and stock up on gift certificates. They’re great for last minute lop-sided gift exchanges, office Secret Santa parties and friends/relatives who might live on the other side of the country. It’s certainly better to receive a gift card than a latex can coozie shaped like a condom.

Wednesday, December 6, 2006

‘Tis the Beginning of the Season

Even before the last bits of turkey had been piled on slices of white bread and smothered in the final spoonfuls of gravy, city workers everywhere were busy stringing festive lights across our great nation. Christmas no longer waits for December 25th; it begins in November and doesn’t end until the last dried evergreen is dragged to the curb well after the New Year. People everywhere repeat the mantra “‘Tis the Season” because Christmas is so much bigger than one single day. In honor of the build up to the big occasion, I’m going to wax poetic about the holiday from now until January 1st. I’ve decided to begin with one of my favorite winter memories from college: the time I thought I was paralyzed.

December in Laurinburg, N.C. can be particularly cold, especially when juxtaposed with the ungodly heat and humidity of the summer. The winter of my freshman year stands out as one of the more frigid of my life, but not necessarily due to the actual temperature. It was no doubt chilly, but I didn’t have any of the warming elements of the season I was accustomed to while living at home. After class I couldn’t return to a toasty living room and enjoy hot chocolate, instead I spent those gray afternoons in a cold dorm room with cinderblock walls. The pine roping and poinsettia-lined hearth of my childhood was replaced by a desk from the 60’s and a thick stack of exam review materials.

The winter of ’98 was completely foreign to me. For the first time in my life, I was on my own and responsible for myself. Unfortunately, I’m sometimes irresponsible and that’s how I woke up one morning with the belief that I couldn’t move my legs. My philosophy was work hard during the week and play hard on the weekend. I rarely missed a class and always got good grades. In return, I participated in the most hallowed of college traditions: drinking. Aside from some questionable Sunday afternoon hangovers, life was good.

If I had a complaint, it was that the winters around campus were boring. Laurinburg isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. Couple that with the cold, overcast days and the only answer was drinking games. In fact, we had our own suite devoted to beer pong with malt liquor. One memorable evening, I consumed several 40’s and retired early. In the middle of the night I had to get up to use the bathroom. I entered the stall and leaned against the door. The combination of alcohol and standing up too fast caused me to pass out. I hit the floor next to the toilet and would later find out that I’d been asleep for an hour.

When I woke, I was disoriented to say the least. I tried to push myself up off the floor, but my legs wouldn’t move. I laid face down next to the toilet struggling with every ounce of strength when it occurred to me that I must be paralyzed. I screamed, “Help! Help!” as loud as I could, but no one could hear me. I decided that if I could just roll over I could pull myself out of the stall and maybe back to my room. That’s when I realized I wasn’t paralyzed, I was retarded. It seems that when I blacked out the stall door had closed over top of me, pinning my legs to the floor. So this Christmas season I urge you all to be safe. Whether it’s Colt 45 or Egg Nog drink responsibly and remember that if you wake up and can’t move it doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve handicapped yourself.