TR recently opined on various states of drunkenness. My experience with this subject matter leads me to conclude that it can best be described as an inverted parabola with disposition as a function of fun along the y-axis and drunkenness by time along the x-axis. The slope at any particular point on the curve dictates how you're doing--this is why you should've paid attention in calculus. As a general matter, the upward slope from time 0 is euphoric, the peak is the fabled “sweet spot of drunkenness,” and everything after that is literally downhill into dysphoria.
Here's a curve for the principle generally.
As you can probably imagine, there are lots of other things you could overlay onto this plot. To wit:
Things can get really bad too. Then you're in the negative. This is "abject misery" and includes vomiting, bed wetting, waking up in jail and so on. This is where "too drunk to fly" happens.
We've all been there.
Further, the shape of the parabola varies from person to person, and it varies for a person depending on the conditions at hand like hydration state, nutrition levels, degree and nature of concomitantly administered substances, health status, age, and so on. One’s drunkenness parabola can therefore be used as something of a fingerprint for their general drinking capacity, or a snapshot of a particularly memorable round of boozing. I’ll show you what I mean.
Much like Costanza in the pool, the SSOD of drunkenness shrinks with age. In my twenties I could drink a lot, sometimes even epically, before I tipped over the edge of the SSOD into dysphoria. My SSOD was a broad plateau, a mesa of fun. In my thirties the SSOD shrank to a mere hill. Now, in my mid-forties, my SSOD is like the dip of a dull spear and about as useful. So it goes.
As a result, I frequently and accidentally fall into the dysphoria side of the curve nowadays. I assume you're similarly situated. Here's a graphical representation with some examples from your inner monologue along the downward slide into abject misery.
As I said before, some people have wildly different curves. Here's TR circa 1994:
When we were kids TR had an egregiously large bad decision zone. It started at the end of his SSOD and ended well into abject misery. Apex TR was often the coolest guy in the room, picking out great music, making funny jokes, playing pool and beerpong well. After that things could get weird. He might do something that isn't that funny, but you let it go. Then it gets stranger and stranger until you find yourself with a dead woodchuck propped up in a lawn chair with sunglasses, a cigarette and a handful of naked lady playing cards and telling people "This is Lambo's new shake, they nicknamed him Chuck!"
TR's curve was also unique in that he had this amazing plateau of negative fun which coincided with a certain look in his eyes. Many of you recall The Look. When you saw it you knew anything could happen. Anyway, at a point where any normal person would have passed out, TR powered through, wreaking havoc and causing mass discomfort. Naked bike rides in hurricanes? Head positioned between two speakers blaring Bathtub Gin on repeat? It's enough to give another guy a panic attack and make him to pass out.
After the negative plateau phase things got dark. Someone usually wound up on the wrong end of a beating, perhaps with their own flip-flop, or there was a trip to 7-11 for diarrhea dogs. None of this happens nowadays.
Here's a curve for FOG:TB Ian:
Ian still has the capacity for epic drinking. His SSOD is broad and flat. That said, his descent into dysphoria is a thing to behold. For hours he can be the life of the party, cracking jokes and telling great stories. Then, in a flash, he's suddenly breaking things. Seconds later he expresses tremendous remorse for his outburst and engages in self-flagellation. He then staggers away into the night and eventually passes out someplace familiar like the back of his truck or under the Martha Wood. But because of his amazing ability to metabolize alcohol, this negative fun plateau can get dragged out for hours.
Feel free to print this post out and carry it with you so you can identify where you are on the curve of drunkenness the next time you go out. Then you'll know where you stand. And knowing is half the battle.
Showing posts with label sweet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sweet. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 03, 2020
Thursday, January 30, 2020
Ripped from the Headlines II
[To be read in the voice of either Sir David Attenborough or John Houseman.]
Long ago, in early September of 1988, the man you now know as "Rob" or "rob" was but a wee lad of 18 years. He'd traveled many miles to matriculate at the second-oldest college in these American States, and the dormitory placement system in use at the time had him bunking with not one but two mates of the room. For our purposes here, we shall refer to them as "Weisy-D" and "P-Dog" to protect the nearly innocent.
Room 300: elsewhere a lounge, but in this residence hall commemorated to the honor of the 5th President of these American States and an alumnus of the College, it was a bedroom "suite." To you and to me, that elegant denomination belied its true differentiation from the other 25 occupied bunkrooms and boudoirs on the hall. A glorified dormitory den stuffed with overripe flesh like grape leaves in the sun by any other name would still be as un-sweet. A slightly larger room with no closet and no sink or mirror... tag it with "suite," and its occupants shall be none the wiser. Ah, but were they?

Speaking of which, this "suite" was, in fact, immediately and universally prefixed that autumn with "sweet" to create a trite but divertingly homonymous appellation -- one applied in a slapdash manner to mild amusement then, but one which would stand the test of reminiscent folklore time and stick for all time. Funny thing, foreshadowing.
"The Sweet Suite Blues," a gritty ballad lamenting the state of affairs on Monroe 3rd West. Certainly you recall its elevation up the local charts in the spring of '88. The band's name escapes me, something arbitrary and asinine for sure.
So there was Rob. There he was. There he was. There he was. In... the Sweet Suite.
He, today heralded as the tiny dictator who reigns supreme in postcount and moral compass over this blogatory organization. Well, he had a fair bit less... organization... back in this day-du-hey. "Tiny dictator," mind you. Not "tidy dictator."
Diminutive as he was and is, his slop didn't encroach too terribly on his collegial suitemates' invisible lines of demarcation. He just had, as the kids back then were wont to say crassly, "a little pile of his crap in the corner."
And it was either one of the aforementioned mates or the other, either Weisy-D or P-dog, this old scribe cannot recall which. But whoever it was, it was he who labeled this mess with a simile of sorts.
And in labeling that mess, he unknowingly labeled the man behind the mess with a silly sobriquet, and in doing so, he also unknowingly -- for how could he possibly have the perfect foresight to see thirty-one-and-a-half years later, far off in time in the year of our Lord 2020 -- but yes, he labeled the man behind the mess with a moniker that would attach itself to Rob forever. Like a tattoo. But more permanent, perhaps.
The tale of our Squirrel, if you will, goes on from there. But this, this here, is his origin story.
It makes one wonder what curious episodes of distant yesteryear led to other such nicknamings. Case in point. We may well never know Mr. Grimstead's backstory, but I'm confidently sure of one thing. It has simply got to be a better story than this one was.
Rest in peace, other "Squirrel."
Long ago, in early September of 1988, the man you now know as "Rob" or "rob" was but a wee lad of 18 years. He'd traveled many miles to matriculate at the second-oldest college in these American States, and the dormitory placement system in use at the time had him bunking with not one but two mates of the room. For our purposes here, we shall refer to them as "Weisy-D" and "P-Dog" to protect the nearly innocent.
Room 300: elsewhere a lounge, but in this residence hall commemorated to the honor of the 5th President of these American States and an alumnus of the College, it was a bedroom "suite." To you and to me, that elegant denomination belied its true differentiation from the other 25 occupied bunkrooms and boudoirs on the hall. A glorified dormitory den stuffed with overripe flesh like grape leaves in the sun by any other name would still be as un-sweet. A slightly larger room with no closet and no sink or mirror... tag it with "suite," and its occupants shall be none the wiser. Ah, but were they?

Speaking of which, this "suite" was, in fact, immediately and universally prefixed that autumn with "sweet" to create a trite but divertingly homonymous appellation -- one applied in a slapdash manner to mild amusement then, but one which would stand the test of reminiscent folklore time and stick for all time. Funny thing, foreshadowing.
"The Sweet Suite Blues," a gritty ballad lamenting the state of affairs on Monroe 3rd West. Certainly you recall its elevation up the local charts in the spring of '88. The band's name escapes me, something arbitrary and asinine for sure.
So there was Rob. There he was. There he was. There he was. In... the Sweet Suite.
He, today heralded as the tiny dictator who reigns supreme in postcount and moral compass over this blogatory organization. Well, he had a fair bit less... organization... back in this day-du-hey. "Tiny dictator," mind you. Not "tidy dictator."
Diminutive as he was and is, his slop didn't encroach too terribly on his collegial suitemates' invisible lines of demarcation. He just had, as the kids back then were wont to say crassly, "a little pile of his crap in the corner."
And it was either one of the aforementioned mates or the other, either Weisy-D or P-dog, this old scribe cannot recall which. But whoever it was, it was he who labeled this mess with a simile of sorts.
And in labeling that mess, he unknowingly labeled the man behind the mess with a silly sobriquet, and in doing so, he also unknowingly -- for how could he possibly have the perfect foresight to see thirty-one-and-a-half years later, far off in time in the year of our Lord 2020 -- but yes, he labeled the man behind the mess with a moniker that would attach itself to Rob forever. Like a tattoo. But more permanent, perhaps.
"It's like his little squirrel's nest over there."And that pithy little quip, and the synonymous wildfire that spread from it, dear friends, is how our friend Rob and our blogmate rob came to be known across the land as "Squirrel."
The tale of our Squirrel, if you will, goes on from there. But this, this here, is his origin story.
It makes one wonder what curious episodes of distant yesteryear led to other such nicknamings. Case in point. We may well never know Mr. Grimstead's backstory, but I'm confidently sure of one thing. It has simply got to be a better story than this one was.
Rest in peace, other "Squirrel."
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