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alwaysahiccupandastrid · 5 years

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Modern AU where the Dragon Rider gang are at Disneyland Paris

(Yes I’m writing this because I’m at Disneyland Paris)

The first day in the park, just after they’ve gotten off the Eurostar, everyone immediately wants to do different things. In the end, Hiccup decides they’ll tackle the smaller park first since it’s already 3pm.

It’s ultimately decided that it’s NOT a good idea to split up - there are lots of people and Hiccup doesn’t want to lose anyone...especially not the twins, who already look like they want to start mischief.

Most of the gang want to go on the big rides, with Snotlout bragging that he’s not afraid of any of them. However, the minute he’s in place for the Rock’n’Rollercoaster, he starts to panic. Everyone else is whooping and cheering - Snotlout feels slightly sick.

Astrid is a definite thrill seeker and goes on every single ride. She smiles and laughs when Hiccup panics and asks her to hold his hand on some of them, but she does it anyway.

Hiccup and Astrid sit on most of the rides together, as do the twins. Fishlegs isn’t a fan of the big rides so he offers to stay with their stuff and wait - though Hiccup and Astrid make him try some of the less intense ones anyway. He has more fun than he thought he would.

They all invest in Disney hats/headwear, of course. Ruffnut and Tuffnut find the most bizarre, crazy Mickey ears they can find, plus the massive white Mickey and Minnie gloves. Snotlout opts for the Mickey Sorcerer Hat. Fishlegs gets a plain pair of Mickey ears, gushing with excitement. Astrid wears a pair of “unlock the fun” Minnie ears; Hiccup wears a Disneyland Paris baseball cap, not wanting to be extravagant. Astrid rolls her eyes and later convinces him to also buy a pair of Mickey ears so that they match in photos.

They explore the main park on the second day, and theyre all in awe of the castle (though Snotlout pretends he’s not)

They head to Frontierland first, going on the Thunder Mountain ride. They all enjoy it, and the twins spend ten minutes laughing at everyone’s photos afterwards.

Snotlout makes a fuss about being paired with Fishlegs on some of the rides where it’s two per row at first, but secretly he’s glad not to be on his own since he ends up getting dizzy or terrified on some of them.

Hiccup’s metal leg causes some issues with some of the rides because the staff are concerned it counts as a loose article and might fall off. He assures them that it’s securely attached to his leg, rather hurriedly when Astrid looks like she’s going to get mad at the staff.

Much to his chagrin, Hiccup also has to take his leg off every time they go through security to get into the parks; it sets off the metal detectors, so he has to take it off and hop through uneasily. The first time, Astrid tries to help him but the security told her off because only one person can go through it at a time.

They later find out that there’s an entrance for disabled guests, though Hiccup doesn’t like to think of himself as disabled. All of the others repeatedly tell him to just use it so he can avoid being caught out by the metal detector.

The twins are the ones who bring up meet and greets, which Fishlegs agrees with enthusiastically. Hiccup tells everyone that they all pick at least one character - that way, everyone gets to choose what they like/want. Everyone poses with each character.

Tuffnut wants to meet Peter Pan, and everyone is bemused when Tuff and Peter spend five minutes making “cock a doodle doo!” noises together. Ruffnut chooses Chip and Dale for obvious reasons; everyone laughs afterwards, voting which Thorston is Chip and which is Dale. Fishlegs votes to meet Mickey, saying that you can’t beat a classic. Snotlout complains at first that it’s for kids - but then he sees that Darth Vader does a meet and greet, and he gets excited. Astrid chooses to meet Woody and Jessie at their greet, and even though the characters can’t talk, she still beams happily when Jessie gestures to her braid in admiration. Hiccup struggles to choose at first, not sure if there’s actually a character he’d like to meet - he’s just happy that his friends and girlfriend are having the time of their lives. They’re walking to Discoveryland when they see Stitch do impromptu meets - and he goes for it. They all enjoy every meet and greet they go to, even Snotlout.

For some reason, Hiccup finds himself quite taken with Stitch - somehow, he reminds him of his dog Toothless (yes this is a reference to how HTTYD and Lilo + Stitch were created by the same people). Astrid fondly teases him for buying a small Stitch plush later during the holiday, but then kisses his cheek and buys the matching Angel one. (The others tease them both until Astrid glares at them threateningly)

They all end up with toys despite the fact they’re not little kids. Hiccup obviously has his little Stitch to keep him company; Astrid has the matching purple-pink Angel one as well as a tiny version of the Cheshire Cat. Fishlegs geeks out over the Star Wars merchandise, buying himself a plush Yoda. Snotlout buys himself a mini Sorcerer Mickey to match his hat. The twins buy Chip and Dale, of course, and then splash out on other toys; Tuff gets a Mickey, Donald, and an €80 Simba that he can hardly carry, whilst Ruff gets herself a Minnie, Daisy and Little Green Alien from Toy Story.

Astrid manages to talk the whole gang into going on the Hyperspace Mountain ride. By the end of it, nearly all of them are crying. Snotlout has nearly crapped himself, Fishlegs is shaking as he clambers off the ride, the twins are speechless. Hiccup stands, swerves, and has to have Astrid help him off because his legs feel too weak to function. He nearly gags, his stomach turning uncomfortably and his lunch rising back up. Astrid is the only one wanting to do it again.

“Come on, it’s fun, babe!” “Astrid...I love you but I am NOT doing that again! I like my breakfast being inside me, thank you very much!”

In the gift shop after the Star Tours attraction, Hiccup and Fishlegs both geek out over Star Wars merchandise whilst everyone else looks a bit baffled and amused.

The first day in the main park, they don’t realize that there’s a parade and miss it completely. The second day, they end up at the back very far away and unable to see much other than the top of the floats. Finally, Astrid orders everyone to sit their asses on the curb a whole hour before the parade and they wait in the heat for it to start. Most of them are glad just to sit down since there’s been a lot of walking, waiting and standing around. Hiccup accidentally freaks a few kids out when he takes off his leg to massage his sore stump.

They watch the Disney Illuminations on their last night - having learnt from the parade debacle, they have dinner and end up waiting in a good spot for three hours for the show to start. It pays off when they’re all left in awe. Everyone whoops and cheers at the Pirates, Lion King and Star Wars sequences especially, “ooh”ing and “aww” ing at the fireworks and lasers.

As the show draws to a close, Hiccup puts an arm around Astrid, and she lays a head on his shoulder. Neither of them say anything, they just enjoy the moment whilst it lasts.

Leaving the park immediately after the Illuminations, however, is not so fun. Thousands of people trying to rush for buses, pushing and shoving each other...it’s sheer luck that none of them lose each other in the crowds. Someone’s foot accidentally catches Hiccup’s prosthetic and he nearly falls flat on his face, much to his embarrassment.

Snotlout and twins end up with serious sunburn from not wearing sun cream. In the end, Astrid forces them to do it before they leave the hotel each morning.

They all go on the Twilight tower of terror - Astrid, Hiccup and Fishlegs are in the front three seats on the left, Snotlout and the twins on the right three front seats. All of them whoop and scream at the drop, nearly flying out of their seats. Hiccup enjoys it because for a second, as they’re falling, he feels alive and like he actually is flying.

They’re all really sad to leave, and agree that they have to come again at some point in the near future - together, of course, because half of the fun is down to the people you’re with.

Trying to get through customs/security on the way home with a Simba plush as tall as he is causes Tuff a slight problem - it’s too big to fit on the baggage conveyor belt, so they have to scan it with the wands and have him carry it through separately.

Astrid sets off the metal detector at security because she’s been pin collecting/trading, using a Peter Pan lanyard. She has about 20 different pins on her.

Hiccup is so exhausted that he falls asleep on the train, head against the window as he snores softly. Astrid, who is next to him, smiles and simply brushes the hair from his face fondly. He deserves a rest after making sure all of them had the best holiday, she decides - the reason it’s been so successful is mostly down to Hiccup keeping them all organized and planning the day ahead during breakfast. Their holiday could have sucked hard (definitely would have sucked for Astrid) if not for Hiccup keeping the group safe the whole time)

#httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #hiccup haddock #astrid hofferson #hiccstrid #snotlout jorgenson #ruffnut thorston #tuffnut thorston #fishlegs ingerman #disneyland #modern au #how to train your dragon 3 #httyd 3 #httyd 2 #how to train your dragon 2

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this-is-a-love-story-fleabag · 4 years

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Fork you, then (8/?)

Thanks for sticking through with me on this! I think there will be two chapters after this one, but who knows?? Fleabag saves her friend Boo’s life and earns a spot in the Good Place, but is everything here really so perfect? And what’s up with the hot priest next door? 2089 words. Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Also on ao3.

"Do you feel peaceful here?" he asks.

"Not in the slightest."

"Maybe we should look for it. Go out on a mission in search of heavenly contentment."

"If we can find some, I'm all for it," she laughs. "Plus, I definitely need a hobby other than drinking and masturbating."

"Sure, sure. We can't have you getting a strained wrist, or whatever."

In contrast to the remarkable abundance of frozen yogurt shops in the Good Place, the priest has not yet managed to find a single pub.

"It's basically a forking war crime," he laments as they make their way through the meandering streets back to his house, a bottle of wine shoved in each pocket.

"Maybe we could open one together," she says, inspecting the label of a bottle of Merlot. "I used to run a café, maybe it's the same."

"Maybe," he agrees amiably. "Sounds like a lot of work, though, when we can just drink at home."

"We'd probably be the only customers, anyway."

He opens his front door and they lounge either side of his coffee table, sprawled out on the carpet. "I sometimes wonder if we're the only bastards in heaven," he says, pouring them both a liberal glass of wine.

She lets out a peal of laughter. "I have had the exact same thought."

"I thought I'd feel more peaceful, you know?" he says, leaning back against his sofa and waving his drink for emphasis. "I've reached my eternal rest or whatever... and it's actually really forking stressful."

"At least you know you belong here, after doing all that..." she waves her hand in the air, narrowly avoiding spilling red wine on the carpet. "...priesty stuff when you were alive."

"I'm sure you-"

She cuts him off. "Were you a good priest?"

It takes him a second of thought and several sips of wine before he answers. "Yeah, I think so. I wasn't a great person before that, but I think I made up for it. Were you a good person?"

"Fork no," she laughs. "Someone up there's getting fired for this, I guarantee you."

"Come on, you must have done some good things."

"I'll let you know if I remember any." They lapse into comfortable silence for a while and he tops up her glass. She looks comfortable propped up against the armchair, loose-limbed and languid.

"Do you feel peaceful here?" he asks.

"Not in the slightest."

"Maybe we should look for it. Go out on a mission in search of heavenly contentment."

"If we can find some, I'm all for it," she laughs. "Plus, I definitely need a hobby other than drinking and masturbating."

"Sure, sure. We can't have you getting a strained wrist, or whatever."

"Here's to peace," she proposes, lifting her glass.

"To peace," he agrees.

Their first attempt at achieving inner piece does not go well. The priest has the bright idea to ask Jianyu to lead them through a Buddhist meditation. He assents with a bow and brings them into a silent clearing in the opulent grounds of Tahani's mansion, a faint whiff of buffalo sauce suffusing the air around him. He settles them cross-legged on the manicured lawn, spines straight, hands resting lightly on their knees, ready commune with the universe.

Then Jianyu opens his mouth.

An hour later, they wave him farewell and walk out of the garden, slightly dazed, and continue without speaking for a few minutes.

"So is that a typical Buddhist meditation session?" she asks, breaking their silence.

"Not... in my experience," responds the priest diplomatically. "I don't think it's usual for a monk to use the word "dope" in any context."

"I did find the part about letting go of the swamp alligators in your soul oddly helpful."

"I saw the look you gave me when he said that, you forking menace." In fact, the entire session had been a series of amused, side-eyed glances between the pair of them and a superhuman effort not to laugh.

"What does Bortles mean? Is it Sanskrit?"

"I've never heard it before, but my Sanskrit is absolute shirt, so I can't be sure."

"I know it doesn't mean 'downward-facing dog' but that's all I've got."

"Maybe he had the right idea with the whole... vow of silence thing."

"Definitely."

Tahani jumps at the chance to get involved in their self-improvement project and immediately insists that the three of them take a spa day together.

"I see you're here for the throuple's massage," says Janet brightly from behind the reception desk in the gleaming, white relaxation centre.

"That's not quite-" says the priest, just as his neighbour says "Fork yeah." He squints at her and she grins unashamedly.

"Janet, we're here to find inner peace," announces Tahani. "Set up the room to be 80% Gwyneth Paltrow's private spa and 20% Paul McCartney's five-dimensional meditation cube."

"Sure!" says Janet. "I'll go find two other Janets for the massage therapy. Go in through that door and undress, then lay face down on the massage tables. We'll be with you in a moment." She pings out of reality and the three peace-seekers head through into the treatment room. The decoration is all bare Norwegian wood and soft lighting, with gentle nature sounds playing in the background and stacks of immensely soft, fluffy towels.

The priest carefully averts his eyes as his neighbour shucks off her dress without a hint of self-consciousness, throwing it onto a chair and unsubtly checking out Tahani as she did the same.

"Are those your real tits?" she asks.

"Yes," sighs Tahani. "I've always been cursed with a large bosom. It's a nightmare trying to find couture that fits."

"Sure. Difficult."

He manages somehow to take off all of his clothes with a towel wrapped firmly around his waist, drawing an amused, knowing glance. He slides onto the table and covers himself with another towel so that every inch of his body save his head is completely hidden.

"Hi," says Janet, popping back into existence with two other Janets in tow, one in a neat, green pantsuit with a beaming grin, and one in skin-tight leather trousers who was fiddling with her phone. "There weren't two Good Place Janets available, so I've had to borrow one Bad Janet to help out."

"What up, fart-goblins," says Bad Janet. "I'm here to touch your butts."

"Who wants to go first?" asks Good Janet #1.

The priest is amused but not at all surprised to see his neighbour raise her hand.

Michael's idea for them to find inner peace is to send them out into the centre of the lake in a rowing boat in the middle of a scorching hot day with a picnic basket and instructions to enjoy themselves. At this, they do not entirely succeed.

"How am I sunburned in heaven?" wails the priest later, applying aloe to the peeling red patches on his chest. "This is the most Irish thing to ever happen to anyone."

"How did you get sunburned through your shirt?" she asks, her sure, cold fingers rubbing in soothing circles over his shoulder.

"I don't know," he whines, leaning into her touch as her hands drift over his skin, cooling the burn.

She mutters something that sounds like "his beautiful neck", then clears her throat and turns away to get more lotion. "I don't think Michael has a strong grasp on what it's like to have human skin."

"Well, that's two down. Who should we ask next?"

"No, nuh-uh," says Chidi firmly as Eleanor paces along his living room.

"Come on, man, it's just one little threesome! What harm could it do?"

"OK, first of all, I would really prefer that our relationship remain monogamous, but most importantly, we're trying to teach her that you can't solve all your problems by ignoring them and just having sex with people."

She scoffs. "Agree to disagree."

"Eleanor..."

"Fine, I'll take them... rollerblading, or whatever, but I maintain that your objection is total bullshirt."

It's about 3AM on a warm, still night, when the priest clambers up the rose trellis and raps on his neighbour's window. Fortunately for his delicate constitution, she is not wearing frilly underthings. Unfortunately for his stupid heart, she's wearing a pair of pyjamas that she stole from his wardrobe, and she looks adorable in them.

"Father," she greets him. "What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?"

"Fork, I was going to open with 'soft, what light through yonder window breaks', and you ruined it."

"So, wherefore art thou climbing up my forking walls in the middle of the night?" She leans over the windowsill, framed in the warm light from inside, and part of him aches to reach up a little further and meet her red lips in a soft kiss.

"Eleanor asked me to look after her unicorn for her and I've forking lost it," he says instead, pouting forlornly. "Can you come and help me find it?"

"That doesn't explain why you couldn't use the door instead of the window."

He shrugs as well as he is able to while clinging to a wall two storeys off the ground. "This seemed less intrusive."

"It isn't," she laughs. "Can you get back down or do you need me to haul you in?"

"Er, hauling, probably," he admits, and she grabs him by the wrists to yank him inside. Her bedroom is relatively plain and a little untidy, but it smells like mysterious girl things like perfume and body lotion. This entire situation is making his head spin a little (although that might be the altitude).

He perches uncomfortably at the foot of her bed while she hunts around for a matching pair of shoes. "Where did you lose it, and what direction did it go?" she asks as she gropes blindly underneath the bed.

"Next to the fountain in the town square. I only turned away for a second! I think it forked off towards the lake."

They make their way, via the front door, down towards the water, whispering and walking quietly so as not to disturb the neighbourhood.

"Look," she says, grabbing his arm on spotting a glimmer of silver in the moonlight over the fields. "I think that's it."

They approach carefully, sensibly wary of startling the giant pointy horse. The unicorn seems to pay them no heed, flipping its mane in mild annoyance before pooping out a small, wet rainbow.

"Hey, there," she says in the most soothing voice she can muster, gingerly extending an arm towards the creature. When her hand touches the unicorn's flank, it gives out an almighty whinny and wheels around to look her dead in the eyes, huffing aggressively.

"Fork fork fork fork fork," she mutters under her breath as she backs away rapidly from the beast. "I don't think it likes me."

Quick as a flash, the priest grabs the unicorn's reins and gives them a yank to turn its attention back to him. "Come on," he says sternly. "It's time for you to go home."

The animal rears up and lets out a noise of extreme displeasure, but the priest stands firm and keeps his hold on the reins, using his disappointed-Sunday-school-teacher scowl. Little by little, the unicorn stops bucking and grunting, and allows itself to be led back towards the town square.

"Thanks," she says, walking a little ahead to keep a wary distance away from the creature. "I thought I was about to become unicorn food."

"I don't think they actually eat people." The unicorn let out another aggressive grunt. "Although I'm not entirely sure on that."

"Why does Eleanor even have a feral unicorn?"

"She didn't tell me! She just handed me the forking reins and told me to look after it and forked off!"

"You wrangled it remarkably well."

"I'm surprised I didn't run away, to be honest. I'm not usually good at dealing with things."

She gives him a smile over her shoulder. "You’re braver than you believe, and stronger and smarter than you think," she tells him.

He stops short, making the unicorn give a huff of annoyance. "Is that Winnie the Pooh?" he gasps. "Did you just quote Winnie the Pooh at me?"

"I-"

She can't finish the sentence before he's cupping her cheek and capturing her lips in a fierce kiss. He pours himself into her, the pent-up longing and affection from the last few weeks crashing over them like a wave, each touch of his hands against her skin igniting a fire in his senses. He cards his fingers through her dark curls as she gasps against his mouth, her soft body pressed against his.

The sound of galloping hooves brings them out of their private moment, and they surface to the sight of the unicorn tearing away down the road.

"Oh, fork," they say in unison.

#fleabag #the good place #fork you then #my fics

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thesportssoundoff · 5 years

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“Jack Hermansson vs David Branch as a co-main event, huh?” UFC Fight Night In Philly Preview

Joey

March 24th, 2019

The majority of these ESPN+ Fight Night cards lack a big juicy main event but hit you with card depth and quality, bull rushing you with great fight after great fight with evenly matched matchmaking up and down the marquee so you can shrug aside a blegh main event for depth. The two ESPN cards? Not quite the same cup of tea. These cards give you a big main event and then a lot of decent fights featuring names you'll know and plenty of padding. This card from Philly is not the strongest you'll ever see from the UFC, a decent enough showing with a major main event to drag you in MUCH like how the debut from Arizona had good but not great stuff and THEN the big HW main event. Here you have Justin Gaethje vs Edson Barboza in a really good lightweight main event and a bunch of intriguing filler for the most part with some interesting prospects fighting each other and some names you might know on the undercard. It's not the most delicious of appetizers but it's good enough to get you to the main course which is going to be well worth it however long it lasts.

Fights: 13

Debuts: Sabina Mazo, Kennedy Nzechukwu, Kyler Phillips

Fight Changes/Injury Cancellations: 2 (Pingyuan Liu OUT, Kyler Phillips IN vs Ray Borg/Alexa Grasso OUT, Jessica Aguilar IN vs Marina Rodriguez)

Headliners (fighters who have either main evented or co-main evented shows in the UFC): 9 (Edson Barboza, Justin Gaethje, David Branch, Karolina K, Michelle Waterson, Ray Borg, Ross Pearson, Josh Emmett, Michael Johnson)

Fighters On Losing Streaks in the UFC: 1 (Maryna Moroz)

Fighters On Winning Streaks in the UFC: 6 (Michael Johnson, Michelle Waterson, Jack Hermansson, Sheymon Moraes, Enrique Barzola, Mark De La Rosa)

Main Card Record Since Jan 1st 2017 (in the UFC): 22-19

Justin Gaethje- 2-2 Edson Barboza- 2-2 Jack Hermansson- 4-1 David Branch- 2-2 Josh Emmett-2-2 Michael Johnson- 2-2 Karolina Kowalkiewicz- 2-2 Michelle Waterson- 2-2 Paul Craig- 1-3 Kennedy Nzechukwu- 0-0 Sheymon Moraes- 2-1 Sodiq Yusuff- 1-0

Fights By Weight Class (yearly number here):

Featherweight- 3 (16) Lightweight- 2 (18) Bantamweight- 2 (17) Women’s Strawweight- 2 (9) Middleweight- 2 (9) Light Heavyweight- 1 (11) Women’s Flyweight- 1 (11)

Flyweight- (6) Welterweight- (19) Heavyweight- (8) Women’s Bantamweight- (2)

2019’s Records We Keepin Track Of:

Debuting Fighters (8-15): Sabina Mazo, Kennedy Nzechukwu, Kyler Phillips

Short Notice Fighters (6-7): Kyler Phillips, Jessica Aguilar

Second Fight (20-5): Kevin Aguilar, Soqid Yusuff, Marina Rodriguez

Cage Corrosion (Fighters who have not fought within a year of the date of the fight) (7-11): Ray Borg, Josh Emmett, Maryna Moroz

Undefeated Fighters (10-11): Sabina Mazo, Marina Rodriguez, Kennedy Nzechukwu

Fighters with at least four fights in the UFC with 0 wins over competition still in the organization (5-5): (Three different fighters have 1 fighter still in the UFC on their record though; Ross Pearson, Gerald Meerschaert and Des Green)

Weight Class Jumpers (Fighters competing outside of the weight class of their last fight even if they’re returning BACK to their “normal weight class”) (9-5): Ray Borg, Alex Perez, Maryna Moroz

Twelve Precarious Ponderings

1- So what necessarily are the ratings going to be for this card? We can acknowledge that thus far the UFC/ESPN deal has been a smash hit for the UFC at least in terms of ratings. Numbers have rebounded for PPV prelims and the few times ESPN has put the UFC on in primetime, they've delivered. That said this card is likely going head to head with March Madness games (which wasn't much fo a problem on FS1 but diff network/circumstances etc etc) and perhaps more concerning, Justin Gaethje has thus far not proved to be a numbers mover. His fight with Michael Johnson did pretty poorly, UFC 218 was a surprisingly poor number PPV wise, the fight with Poirier did poor numbers on Fox and James Vick vs Justin Gaethje was one of the lower rated FS1 primetime showings ever. Something about Gaethje has not resonated with audiences and I don't know if it's because he's kinda weird or if he's just a victim of circumstance fighting during an overly packed calendar schedule. Either way Gaethje feels like one of these dudes who could probably really benefit from the split of the UFC and Fox because whatever they were trying was not working.

2- Obviously spilled milk and all that but I wonder if this show might've been a hotter deal if this was Alvarez vs Gaethje 2 instead of Alvarez vs Barboza. I don't necessarily think it would've made that big of a difference.

3- Is Justin Gaethje beats Edson Barboza, COULD he leapfrog Tony Ferguson in the pecking order at 155 lbs? It's worth remembering that Gaethje is also sort of kind of petitioning for a new contract as well currently.

4- Currently Justin Gaethje is the underdog here (+135 on the site I frequent). Should he be?

5- I've given the fight a lot of shit so let me be real enough to point out what's actually good about this fight between Jack Hermansson vs David Branch. For starters, David Branch has clearly carved out a niche IMO as a solid 185 lber who can live comfortably in the top 15, even if it's just as a rebound fight for top guys like Jacare and Luke Rockhold. I actually think his value may be as a swing guy who can do something at 205 lbs while campaigning primarily at 185 lbs. He has a well earned and deserved spot in the UFC and on a main card. Jack Hermansson is one of those dudes who you almost feel a bit bad for; the sort of guy who gets dug up for shows in Brazil or Europe and then put on ice until the next one. He's coming off a great come from behind win over Thales Leites where he tore up his ribs en route to a third round comeback finish. Hermansson is still kinda young at 185 lbs and while he's limited athletically, he's sound enough and a big time finisher who is well due for a main card slotting. It's the co-main event problem I have here and I imagine most people would agree. This is a fine 3rd or 4th fight on a main card but instead it's your co-main event ON ESPN. That's a tough one to swallow.

6- If Michael Johnson gets by Josh Emmett, do we have to take him seriously as a contender at 145 lbs? Since dropping to featherweight, he lost a Michael Johnson-y fight vs Darren Elkins where he pounded Elkins for five minutes before imploding under Elkins' pressure and then picked up decision wins over Andre Fili and Artem Lobov. Neither performance was all that spectacular but it seemed to showcase a diminished Michael Johnson fastball replaced with some off-speed stuff against some not so great competition (Fili is a fine featherweight but it's not like either guy really pushed the issue there). Josh Emmett was sort of a budding face at 145 lbs after two straight wins including a smelting of Ricardo Lamas and then he ran into Jeremy Stephens on short notice on FOX. He's been out for a year and approaching 35 years old so who knows what he has to offer now. This is still a dude who most people figure is a top 10 featherweight SO a win for Michael Johnson would probably sneak him into the top 10 riiiight?

7- Is Sodiq Yusuff vs Sheymon Moraes the best prospect vs prospect fight you could put together at 145 lbs?

8- Is three wins in a row enough for Michelle Waterson to sneak into a title fight with the winner of Andrade vs Namajunas? You gotta figure WME-IMG is getting a bit antsy now.

9- Do NOT be surprised if Kevin Aguilar vs Enrique Barzola makes a strong case for FOTN given how their respective styles match up. Could be VERY similar to Rick Glenn vs Kevin Aguilar in terms of back and forth action.

10- Given everything that went sideways for him since October of 2017, It's going to be nice to see Ray Borg again after nearly two years off. Bit of a shame he's buried on the prelims here but at the same time, I don't think the UFC is wrong to lack confidence in Borg making it to fight week.

11- Justin Gaethje, Jessica Aguilar and David Branch means all we're missing is Lance Palmer and Marlon Moraes to have a full on WSOF All Star Game.

12- Kevin Holland is a superb middleweight prospect and this fight vs Gerald Meerschaert is an intriguing challenge for him.

#MMA #UFC #Alvarez #Gaethje #Hermansson #Branch

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jafreitag · 7 years

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Grateful Dead Monthly: Madison Square Garden – New York, NY 9/18/87

On Friday, September 18, 1987, the Grateful Dead played Madison Square Garden in New York City. It was the middle of a five-show run at the fabled venue.

MSG, which opened in 1968, sits atop Penn Station in Midtown Manhattan. It’s the home of the NBA’s New York Knicks, the WNBA’s New York Liberty, and the NHL’s New York Rangers. It’s also become a “home away from home” for Phish, who squatted there for this summer’s amazing Baker’s Dozen series of thirteen shows over seventeen nights. LN GD guru ECM was at a few of those Phish shows.

As I’ve mentioned, Ed is a great resource for these posts. He does the primary research – photos, links, comments from the Live Music Archive – and I do the prattle. Our process is pretty simple. Typically, I ask him for a few options of shows in the upcoming month that we can cover. He gives me a list. We chat about that, and decide. Then I get an email with a ton of material. This month was different.

In early August, here was the list:

1970 – 9/19 or 9/20 Fillmore East

1972 – throw a dart. there are so many good ones

1974 – 9/11 or 9/18

1975 – 9/28 Golden Gate Park

1977 – 9/3 Englishtown (40 year anniversary)

1978 – 9/2 Giants Stadium (raise $$ for Egypt)

1979 – 9/1 or 9/2 (super long Let It Grow)

1980 – 9/6 Lewiston (Labor Day weekend), 9/2 Rochester (filler on Dicks Picks) or one of the Warfield shows

1981 – 9/26 Buffalo (I think either [GDC members] Fen or Butch or both are big proponents of this show)

1983 – 9/2 Boise or 9/11 Santa Fe

1985 – 9/7 Red Rocks

1987 – 9/18 MSG (30 year anniversary)

1989 – 9/29 Shoreline (Death Don’t bust out)

1990 – one of the shows from MSG – 9/16, 9/19 or 9/20

1991 – 9/26 Boston

My response was sorta non-committal. ” ’87 or ’89 would be fun, but maybe save ’89 for October?”

Little did I know that 9/18/87 was not only a fun show, but also part of my dear friend’s life. He called it, and said, “I’ll work on a brief fan account and get that to you soon.”

What a fan account. Ladies and Gentlemen, Ed Martin…

It’s hard to believe that I saw this show 30 years ago. The Dead created an enormous amount of momentum in the two months before the start of the band’s much anticipated Fall Tour in 1987. Over the summer, the band released In The Dark, its first studio album since 1979 which resulted in a Top 10 Billboard hit single and its first-ever video on MTV with Touch of Grey, The buzz about the new album coupled with a highly successful summer tour with Bob Dylan thrust the Dead into the spotlight. As a result, everything changed. Suddenly it was cool to like the Grateful Dead and it was fashionable to wear tie-dyed clothing. New fans – referred to by vets as “Touch-Heads” – flooded the scene. So, it was not surprising that tickets were tough to come by for the fall tour. I was lucky to have received mail-order tickets from GDTS for three shows at Madison Square Garden – Sept. 18, 19 and 20. The weeks leading up these shows were very exciting as I began to hear great reviews from friends who attended the shows in Providence and Landover (no internet back then). The band was playing well and had added a bunch of exciting cover songs to their vast repertoire including Devil with the Blues Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly, Fever and La Bamba, the latter was a song from a movie by the same name that had been released over the summer. In addition, there were new songs that were added as a result of recent collaborations with The Neville Brothers (Hey Pocky Way) and Bob Dylan (All Along The Watchtower, When I Paint My Masterpiece and Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door).

[Photo credit: Billy O. Photography]

By the time Friday September 18, 1987 arrived my excitement could not be contained. I was hoping and praying to see a lot of the songs the band wound up playing that evening. Shakedown, Watchtower, Dew, La Bamba and Knockin’ were high on my list. My seats were good – loge level on the right side near Jerry and Brent. There was a jubilant atmosphere inside the Garden. When the house lights finally went down the rabid, East-Coast audience exploded. Weir takes a moment to joke about levitating Jerry which was a reference to their appearance on The David Letterman Show the previous night. With that the band tears into Hell In A Bucket. I must confess that Bucket was not the opener I had hoped for. It had been played to death over the summer and was becoming a bit tiresome for me. However, this is about as good a version as one could possibly ask for. Weir’s vocals are confident. He’s so pumped that he is practically spitting the lyrics out. Brent is pounding his keys and Jerry’s distorted guitar runs are searing. The finale has Weir at his 80s falsetto best. Wow! Sugaree was not unexpected. It was a common pairing with Bucket for show as a show opener at the time. Walkin’ Blues is next. It had been played only a handful of times in 1985 but was reintroduced by Weir at the San Francisco Civic Center on 1/28/87 presumably as another option for the “blues slot” to keep things fresh. It remained part of the band’s regular repertoire through the end. Once again, Weir is in terrific voice and is in total command of this version. Jerry follows that up with Candyman which is one of those little nuggets like Row Jimmy, Althea and High Time that I never tire of seeing. Candyman had taken on a new significance since Jerry’s return from his diabetic coma – “Won’t you tell everybody you meet that the Candyman’s in town.” Garcia’s solo on this version is glorious. I was floating. I never wanted it to end. Weir chooses When I Paint My Masterpiece, the first of three songs from the Dylan catalog that will be played that evening. The band premiered Masterpiece at Ventura on 6/13/87 complete with an engaging 2-part-harmony arrangement accompanied by Garcia. This upbeat version is stellar. A soaring Bird Song follows and the energy with which it is played matches everything that preceded it. The band brings it to an incredible peak and then just as we are all getting started the band pulls the rug out from underneath us and closes the first set out after only 6 songs. What?

[Photo credit: Billy O. Photography]

Fortunately, the break was not too long. Continuing with the same high level of energy, the band opens the second set with the only logical choice under the circumstances – Shakedown Street. It was on my wish list so I was ecstatic. The Garden explodes with appreciation as the band crashes into the opening D-minor chord. This is a speedy version that is very similar to the incredible version they played in Pittsburgh on 7/6/87. Madison Square Garden is instantly transformed into a dance party. Heads are bobbing, bodies are gyrating. Huge smiles everywhere. People are getting DOWN. Once again, Garcia’s vocals are assertive. The “Beat Out Loud” verse is sung with authority and the “Poke Around” vocal scatting sets up the jam that follows perfectly. Garcia finds a pattern he likes and plays it repeatedly. The crowd surges with ecstasy. Having reached the peak, the band cuts it short just like they did in Bird Song and continues the party with Women Are Smarter. They slow things down again with a strong Terrapin which leads to Drums and has everybody scratching their head at the wisdom of a 3-song pre-drums set that lasted just 30 minutes(!) All will be redeemed shortly.

What follows the Drums and Space segment is a thing of which dreams are made. GDTRFB > Watchtower is high octane 80s Dead at its very best. Watchtower made it debut at the Greek Theater on 6/20/87 and Garcia was blowing the doors off it with his searing leads. This version is one of the better ones. At the conclusion of Watchtower are a few descending notes and a brief moment of silence where the entire world seems to hangs in the balance of what the band will play next. It’s the feeling that is usually associated with the moment of anticipation before the band plays Dark Star. Here, the band plays something almost as sacred – Morning Dew. Over the years, the band had kept Morning Dew kind of rare. However, in 1987 it had been played 13 times already. Not that anybody was complaining! The repetition/practice paid off in spades as the band dropped what is arguably one of the best versions ever – Cornell aside. Most would agree that is one of the top 10 versions ever played. Garcia pours his soul into this one both instrumentally and vocally. His aggressive vocal approach was certainly unique and took every by surprise. Check out how he sings “Where have all the people GONE” and and his inflection on the final “I GUESS it doesn’t matter anywaaaaaaaaay.” along with the way he hangs on that last word. Holy shit! I mean, that is some jaw-dropping, hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck-raising, goose bump inducing, chills-down-your-spine shit right there. The rowdy weekend crowd roars with approval. It was startling how fast and loud the reaction was. It sounded like a stadium after the home team won the Super Bowl, World Series, Stanley Cup, etc. Words can not do justice to the reaction. It was mind blowing and it is nothing like I had ever heard before or since then – and I was in attendance for the Dark Stars on 10/16/89 and 3/29/90. Ever the pro, Garcia takes the crowd reaction and responds with a guitar solo for the ages. There is no time to bring this Dew down to a whisper as was customary. This one required a burning solo right from the beginning. His guitar squeals with high-pitched notes. As the band approaches the end the pace quickens. Garcia’s distorted notes are flying at a dizzy pace like they did in Watchtower. Brent’s thundering organ is swirling. Climbing higher and higher. Finally, Garcia hits an impossible note. It’s screeching and it sounds way off-key but, holy shit is he wailing. He repeats the off-key note with rapid machine gun fire and in the chaos of it all, it makes perfect sense. I’m losing my mind but II’m not alone. The crowd explodes again. At that moment, everybody knew we had witnessed something so epic that it would be remembered in the legacy of Grateful Dead concerts. Any gripes that people may have had about the concert being too short were quickly forgotten. A finale like that makes a massive statement. Nothing more needed to be said. The band could have put their instruments down and walked off stage without an encore and nobody would have complained. To get Good Lovin’ with La Bamba tossed in was gravy. Obviously feeding off confidence and crowd energy, the band turns in an incredible performance. that brought the house down again. Smiles everywhere – especially when Garcia launched into La Bamba. Bobby’s reprise of Good Lovin’ is filled with falsetto squeals that only further feeds the frenzy. The soothing Knockin’ encore was like church. The Dead destroyed MSG, reducing its fans to a puddle.

Ed Martin / @31daysofdead

Yeah. What he said! This show is fantastic, guys. As well-known reviewer Dr. Flashback quipped on the LMA: “This show simply rocks.” It even made the cut and became part of the massive 30 Trips Around the Sun box set to commemorate the band’s thirty-year career on their fiftieth anniversary. (The header image – pardon the watermark – is from that.) Unfortunately, the official version isn’t on Spotify, but other quality versions are available.

Transport to the Charlie Miller transfer of the soundboard recording HERE.

Transport to the Charlie Miller transfer of the audience recording HERE.

Transport to the MattMan remaster of the soundboard HERE.

And HERE is a decent video of the entire show.

Oh, Jerry and Bobby were on the original David Letterman show the night before. HERE is the YouTube link. They played Dylan’s “When I Paint My Masterpiece.” I watched that in my freshman year dorm room.

Thanks, Ed. Hope I did this one justice. My life is richer because of you.

More soon.

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monkeyscribbler-blog · 7 years

Text

THE HUNDRED

Two days after getting laid off from my last job, I woke up, walked into an Irish pub five blocks from my apartment, took a seat, and didn’t leave for nine hours. It was here, after six proper pints of IPA and three shots of Jameson, I first became aware of the transcendent beauty of a bar. It unveiled itself to me, a fleeting vision of the Virgin Mary to a Mexican peasant farmer. The mysterious, moody browns in a bottle of Woodford Reserve. Patron Silver’s intimidating squat, daring eye contact. The embossed decanter – Sherry? Cognac? – peeking out of the middle shelf, evoking memories of grandma. To extend my entry into this higher level of enlightenment, I humbly ordered another shot, deciding upon Jim Beam, the fuel of blue-collar America (according to movies). With total understanding that comes only with daytime drunkenness, I watched as the bartender skillfully turned the bottle over, releasing a silent, smooth pour into the endless void of my glass.

It was the prettiest shot I ever saw.

Shot 1:

A twenty-three-ounce can of Coors Light, on the other hand, is not intended for shots. It gurgles out its beer, reluctantly, as if questioning your decision (along with everyone else you know). Immediately, my one-and-a-half ounce shot glass, the one with “Welcome to Jamaica” embossed on the side, overflows. Examining the beer that has spilled upon the wood floor below, my cat pauses, and then decides it is worth lapping up.

The shot is cold, carbonated, harsh, delicious. This is less beer than I usually consume in a single sip, and years of conditioned drinking immediately make me want more.

Taking ninety-nine of these is not going to be a problem.

•

I've never done The Century Club before, or, for that matter, any college drinking games: beer pong, quarters, asshole, that game where everyone sticks a card to their forehead and bets.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Indian Poker. What this game has to do with Indians is still with research.]

[EDITOR’S NOTE: The editor is just a sober version of the writer.]

[EDITOR’S NOTE: The editor is unaware if you can put three editor’s notes in a row, and if so, which punctuation you use to separate it.]

While other nineteen-year-olds were exploring the vigors of fucking under black lights and constructing six-foot high bongs from root beer cans, I was hiding inside a dorm room with my Seventh-Day Adventist roommate. At the time, I considered my support of his weekend lock-ins to be a result of my ceaseless selflessness, always putting others ahead of myself. Years of reflection (aided by New York’s finest bartenders) revealed the truth to be more mundane: I was insecure, with a mild case of social anxiety.

Without intentionally trying to insult your expertise in vice, I’d like to inform any of those unaware that The Century Club involves drinking a shot of beer every minute for one-hundred minutes straight. (A Google search for “The Century Club” reveals a surprising number of disparate definitions for this club. It is a club for those who have traveled to 100 or more countries, had sex with 100 partners, cadets who have marched 100 hours, FIFA players who have played 100 or more matches. It seems the drinking beer Century Club is the least impressive club even within the realm of Century Clubs.)

The Century Club makes the most sense in college, when you have one class a week (which you miss) and compete with your roommates to find creative ways to get drunk as quickly and cheaply as possible (jungle juice). It becomes less useful as an adult, where a drunk face accompanied by passionate conversations about how awesome it would be to have Gatling guns for hands no longer entertains your roommate, now called a wife.

So why am I doing it now, at age 33? A man can only take so many baby showers, 401(k) statements, cholesterol tests, and $115-dollar-a-ticket musicals featuring singing monkeys before The Century Club becomes a self-evident way to reverse lingering regrets and stake a claim in the country of man. In fact, it may be the only way. So I bought two cases of beer, called my friend John, set up a sanctuary in my small Brooklyn apartment, and started consuming beer from a shot glass, one minute at a time.

The following is a live transcript of what transpired, written under the increasing influence of these beer shots.

•

Shot 2 - 10:

Despite my early enthusiasm, the next nine shots go down with unexpected and worrying difficulty. I can already see where the challenge will arise as I continue on my path towards collegiate immortality: Time. Minutes just aren’t as long as I seem to remember. Sure, I can drink a lot, but at my own pace. This pace is forced; a war prisoner’s march through a hot Filipino jungle, not a jaunt through the local park. I also begin questioning the amount I ate this morning. A friend who tried this before ate too much sushi before his attempt, and said it messed him up, so I didn’t really eat. But now, it seems my stomach has shrunk. By shot seven, i'm Googling “belly blow up”. Fortunately, the results assure me stomachs rarely explode, which I confirm via a linked MythBuster’s video clip in which they unsuccessfully try to explode a dead pig’s stomach with an infinite amount of Coca-Cola and cherry Pop Rocks. Did you ever see the movie Urban Legends? It wasn’t very good. I think they did something with Pop Rocks and Coke in there.

•

Shots 11 – 20:

The shots are small, but maddeningly frequent. Chinese beer torture: Shot. Pause. Shot. Pause. Shot.

My quest to add this accomplishment to my impressive drinking resume is already becoming doubtful. I’m swallowing the shots, as I would a glass of water, which is the only way I know to consume foods and liquids. (Which gives my throat a chance to approve or disapprove of the size and type of material that shall pass its gates, ensuring I don’t swallow an entire chicken wing.) John says I should be shooting them, not drinking them. The truth is, I am too much of a pussy to shoot anything. Open the throat and pour it down, John says. I try it, start to cough, spill more beer. This is going almost as poorly as the time I tried my first beer bong, viewable on YouTube under the title “World’s Worst Beer Bong Ever”. It seems I am a decent drinker until it reaches competitive status, at which point I revert back to a terrified little school boy.

John has inherent advantages in this quest that quickly become apparent. First, he has done this before. (He was in a fraternity. I was in College Bowl.) Second, he’s big. The kind of big where a shot glass in his hand seems like a pen cap. Third, he’s from Rochester, New York. I’ve never been, so I’m not sure what that means, but I imagine if there’s anywhere where men regularly do Century Clubs for fun, it’d be there.

I’m pretty sure Alice the kitten is drunk.

•

At age 12, I developed a serious acne problem. Pimples raised off my skin like magma bubbles, and it was critical I correct this issue, quickly, as my emaciated 135-pound body, replete with heavy eyewear and history of poor fashion choices, already had me reeling in the complex social orbits of the 8th grade universe. In response, my doctor blithely prescribed tetracycline, an antibiotic he'd been using since he became a doctor sometime during the last Polio outbreak. I blame this medical failure on doctors failing to appreciate that an acne diagnosis as a youth is the emotional equivalent of a cancer diagnosis as an adult. Your fragile mind is devastated on all levels. The fear of mockery in front of Michelle (Imagine: A smoldering, four-foot-seven-inch seductress, very good at naming state capitols) or Tara (Imagine: A playful, innocent blonde with a talent for woodwind instruments) was a terror perhaps only felt by the mice my science teacher regularly dropped into the snake tank. These fears scar you worse than the acne itself, resulting in a stunted development of self-confidence, a problem never truly conquered, no matter how much money, vaginal experience, or success you accumulate.

The inherent problem with Tetracycline, beyond its utter ineffectiveness, was actually masked by an altogether different problem: as a hypochondriac-in-training, I was certain I would choke on the 50-mg pills I was prescribed. This choking fear had manifested itself throughout my childhood, such that at this point, I had only swallowed one or two pills ever. But the acne had to go, even at risk of death-by-pill-choke. I initially tried cutting the pills in half, then swallow them. This proved unworkable, as the jagged edges of the cut pill scratched my throat upon the swallow. I tried dissolving them in water. I tried eating them. Eventually, I realized if I drank a huge gulp of water with a pill thrown in I could swallow the pill, though even getting to that point took about eighteen terrifying minutes a night.

In the end, none of it mattered. The doctor's lack of imaginative, or accurate, treatment resulted in little improvement. The acne remained for another year, before the wondrous drug Acutane rid me of it forever. (While simultaneously ridding me of a functioning liver, lower pancreas, and left kidney).

•

Shot 21 - 30:

We've encountered our second serious barrier. Neither John or me are able to figure out how to count all the slashes on the napkin that is acting as our semi-official scorecard. Because drunk college kids aren’t known for their responsible administrative skills, when we looked online for rules to The Century Club, it didn’t mention anything about scorekeeping. In drunken retrospect, we agree we should have invited a third as an official counter. As this exercise has taught us, two things you quickly lose when drinking is an ability to count, and ability to make marks that you will later be able to count. The good news is I’m definitely in some sort of zone. It’s that drinking twilight period where the alcohol begins to eliminate worries and improve confidence. (In my past, this confidence has gotten me to believe that I could take a 6’8” bouncer, walk 40 miles home, and, well, drink 100 shots of beer.)

•

In college, I was a basketball referee for the university’s intramural league. This was a bad idea on many fronts, most notably that I was trying to impose rules upon people who were either my age, or older, and often times in class with me. Watch an NFL, MLB or NBA game some time. Notice that the referees and umpires are without question a minimum of ten years older than the players they are supervising. This guarantees a certain amount of respect. Granted, America is certainly no Asia when it comes to respect for elders, but there is still a lingering regard that serves as a buffer between player and regulator: grey hair means wisdom. When you strip this age gap away, you have the situation I was in. Players would ignore my whistle and continue to play. They’d call fouls on themselves. If they didn’t like my call, they’d look at me curiously and drop the ball at my feet. These disagreements would find their way into classes and parties.

I quit after the fall season was over.

I imagine this is the same reason The Century Club doesn’t call for a sanctioned referee. Unless you are able to find a fifty-year-old willing to sit and watch you drink one-hundred shots of beer, you are stuck to someone your own age. And someone your own age is probably drinking with you. This is why there has probably never been a fully accurate Century Club ever.

•

Shot 31 - 40:

The minutes are flying by. To prove my point, apparently writing “the minutes are flying by” took a minute, because John just announced the next shot. John is very non-descript when he speaks. Just informs me. Like he's telling me that my cable bill is due. To further prove my point, these are all the notes I have from those ten shots.

•

Shot 41 - 54:

Not sure what is happening here. It is 5:33 PM. Not sure where we are on the shots. Not sure I can type, actually. I'm definately drunk. Why is Microsoft Word underlining definately? Am I spelling it wrong?

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Yes]

This fucking spell check is like an evil fucking warlock. You can’t trust it. What is the difference between a warlock and a wizard? I wanted to say wizard but then chose warlock. What about a sorcerer? What is that? How are they different? What is a female warlock? A Warlockess? I know sorceress works. Jesus. It seems like John calls "shot" every fucking second. Seriously, he must be fucking with me. This is not every minute. No chance.

I have no chance of hitting 100. No fucking chance. I just gotta hit 70, cause that seems cool.

Amazing. Before trying this. 100 shots of beer sounded like nothing. I thought I'd have no problem. But this is definately added up. FUCK FUCK FUCK! Fucking stop underlining definitely!

[EDITOR’S NOTE: It is definitely.]

I know it is right!!!!

[EDITOR’S NOTE: It isn’t.]

fuckers.

•

When I was in fourth grade, I hung out with two middle-school kids, Scott and Eric. They introduced me to the secretive game of Dungeons and Dragons, which seemed to me akin to time travel. My parents were troubled with the arrangement. They knew as adults what I didn’t as a kid: eighth-graders shouldn’t want to hang out with fourth-graders, unless they couldn’t make friends with other eighth-graders, which would indicate some sort of social adjustment issue. Regardless, the advantage was that I had access to well-seasoned Dungeon Masters who would spend weeks planning elaborate adventures, pitting my Level 4 thief with high dexterity against the challenges of deceitful innkeepers, purple dragon knights, and beguilers with multiple spells. I spent an entire fall on one adventure, racing home after school to jump back into the world of paladins, water forests, and underground castles, which certainly beat the other world of math homework and shoveling up the dog shit in the backyard. To this day, this is the reason I have such strong opinions on the differences between shamans and duskblades, particularly after fifty-one shots of Coors Lite.

•

Shot 55 - 62:

Food is helping. Not sure if that is allowed in college level. But true Century Club means no pissing, no food, no anything. But that's bullshit. I'm 38, i Make the fucking rules. That was nice just now. Capitalizing the M in make. NOt sure why. But the .

hmm. forgot the sentence there. Jesus. Another shot. One sec. I got a second wind. but then lost it.

This is like sixteenth wind. Now I feel like i'm gonna puke.

Just got an update. shot 59.

•

At some point in college, once I ditched the Seventh-Day Adventist roommate and started experiencing the miracle of drinking, I was filmed while drunk. This was in the mid-nineties. Film cameras were around, but rarely in the hands of a broke college kid. Usually, you only saw film of yourself at important (boring) events, when parents would be filming: high school graduations, birthday parties, grandma visits. Because I had never seen film of myself living real life, I had created a vivid picture in my head of what I looked like and how I talked in these instances. During the filming in question, I was maybe six beers in, sitting at a table with two of my roommates. In my mind, we were having a clear, rational conversation about sports. I distinctly remember it being very subdued.

Then I watched the film about two weeks later. I was slurring, standing on a chair, talking loudly, and laughing. It was a completely different reality to what was in my head.

It was then that I forever became aware that the minute you think you aren’t drunk, you are.

•

Shot 62 - 72:

Hmm, not sure why I wrote 5:50. It is 5:47 Pm.

small m. I'm definately getting a small wind. I swear to all of you, those of you who read, those of you who don't read, those of the small children of people who wear undergarments, and to the walrus professors, if this fucking this underlines hmm or

definately one more time i'm gonna fucking freak. why is i'm underlined? cause it isn't a capital I? fuck this system. fucking grammar fucking nazi fucking

carpet fucker.

•

Have you ever sky dived? I haven’t. Pussies don’t sky dive. We’d spend every second in the air mortified that the parachute won’t deploy, and once proven that it did, the remainder of the time worrying that we were going to land in water and die. We didn’t play Little League as kids out of fear we’d get hit in the head with a fastball. We don’t scuba dive: Sharks! Moray eels! Regulator malfunctions! We don’t eat carpaccio (stomach worms), use public toilets (AIDS), or visit the inner city (stab wounds). We don’t like to ski (avalanche) and certainly not ski jump (obvious). We keep stickers on products that say “please do not remove this sticker”. We put trash cans in front of our bedroom doors when we go to sleep, because an intruder wouldn’t expect it.

It is with this in mind that The Century Club becomes a larger achievement. I am overcoming a fear of shots, alcoholism, hangovers and ruptured stomachs. I’m a regular Sir Edmund Hillary of drinking.

•

Shot 72 - 81:

Jesus. The benefit here is that the drunker I get the easier it is to take shots. I'm in respectable territory. 7yso shots. whoops. 70 shopts. FUCK. 70 shots. power hour accomplished. stomach doesn't feel good. lik a little gnome is digging a grave in there (i am not drunk enough to forget that gnome needs a g, unlike nome, alaska. not sure if that is right).

Jessie is talking in Babylonian sanskrit.

[EDITOR’S NOTE:: Jessie is John’s wife who showed up midway, unamused.]

Not sure what is happening here. Concentration is difficult.

Stomach hurts.

discussion has turned to the golden anniversary, which john assures me is 75 shots. what are all of those? the diamond anniversary, golden, hairy beaver, etc. stomach is hurting,. not like in vomit level, but in like it feels like Seattle is sitting inside of

it. All of seattle. the drunker i get the better chance i have.

hey: fuck you!

•

I’m the patron saint of missed opportunities. Unfortunately, the awareness that an experience is in fact an opportunity usually doesn’t form in my consciousness until about four minutes after the opportunity has already passed. However, this doesn’t stop me from returning to the scene of the opportunity after those four minutes to see if I cannot correct my mistake and actually grab the opportunity, if it is in fact still there. Which it never is. Sometimes I’ll linger at the scene of the opportunity for hours, such as the time I hung out near the bathroom at a house party, reeling in guilt from my previous missed opportunity of talking to the most beautiful girl at the party, who was trying to strike up conversation with me, to which I was unaware, assuming she was directing her conversation to someone else, until the point where I actually had to go into the bathroom, concluding a period of very awkward gestures on my part. Despite resolving to redeem myself by looking for her the rest of the night, she had, in fact, left.

And so it is, four minutes after quitting Century Club, I resolve to re-join it.

•

Shot 82:

Drunk just happened. shot 81, but our recording has been off. stomach hurts. full, nauseus, everything.

can't go much longer. we busted out the music, hope

that helps. literally. at this very moment, right around the second l of literally, i got drunk. i am fuly drunk. can't spell or think right. hurting. not sure ican take another.

bakc in the game.

tapped out for four shots. the amount of beer cans is amazing. reminds me of stephen upstairs. taking a bunch of shots doesn't mean much. but when you see the cans you realize your accomoplishment. amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it. usually that means one-legged people scaling mt.

everest or women going to mars, but now it means

mark anderson drinking 100 beers.

•

I’ve never achieved anything of real note. Mostly, I’ve assembled a life that would’ve have been great in 1955: I graduated college, I pay my bills, I visited Europe, I’m not fat. But any real accomplishments – selling a screenplay, playing Division I college basketball, swimming the Atlantic – have not been in the cards. That isn’t to say I haven’t gotten close: I was almost on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and got into the third interview of an available writer position for The Onion. But I’ve always been a fourth place kind of guy … that guy in line at a club that reaches maximum occupancy when he reaches the door. So rather than upgrade your achievements, you eventually learn to change them. Get published? No, but I will get drunk. Get into the 40/40 club? No, but I will get into The Century Club. And I’ll take as much pride in that as Barry Bonds did with his.

•

Shot 83 - 91:

[EDITOR’S NOTE: There are no intelligible notes for this section of the Century Club]

•

Shot 92 - 99:

i need someone other than jesus to say where i am right now. usually jesus is enough but not tongith. usually jesus is for before 80 shots. this is for past that. i need some new savior. like from the egyptians. Io. i think that is the god of the sun or something. so now, Io. Dear Io, I am hurting.

[IO’S NOTE: Be strong, like my bosom]

Stomach is full beyond capacity. Literally, this is like putting a 27 inch cock into a woman. Just can't take anymore. That's what i'm doing, only i'm the woman. Some fat greasy hairy guy is sweating on top of me trying to stick it in. and more than anything i want

him off. oh, there was a good burp, helped me. i might not do century club in 100 minutes, but i'll fucking do it you assholes. Dios Io!

I’m close.

•

When I was in the eighth-grade, my best friend at the time convinced me to join my school’s cross-country team. Now, I neither liked running nor the country, but I was impressionable, and running seemed a whole lot easier than volleyball or la crosse or the other sports in school that needed people so bad they took whoever signed up without even needed try-outs. So I bought a pair of New Balance and hit the ol’ cross country trails in the canyons of northeastern San Diego.

It wasn’t long before I realized I had a fatal flaw when it came to cross-country: The closer I got to the finish line, the less I felt like running, until I’d almost stop and walk to the end. I’ve always been content with getting close. The actually finishing is just a forethought. Which is why I’ve started fifty different hobbies over the years: trumpet, acting, basketball, but ended all of them when I got “ok”.

There is no such thing as “ok” in the Century Club. Either you cross that finish line, or you are out of the fraternity for good. Even as a 38-year-old.

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Shot 100:

Guest blogger Jonh Graham, as I am unable to continue with my blog due to drunkennesss. I sjust ended 100 shots, and i don't think you will believe me, so i need esxplanation from John:

[EDITOR’S NOTE]: There is no explanation from John. The transcript ends here.

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