Arrested Development Inspired Drinks (in order of their drinkability)
Pour a shot of any alcohol of your choosing. Place it on the table in front of you. Grab your hands behind you back, place your mouth over the shot glass and lift, drinking it without using your hands.
Pour 1/2 shot of Kahlua into a shot glass. Using the back of a spoon, carefully layer 1/2 shot of Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur on top. Sing “It ain’t easy bein’ white (chocolate), it ain’t easy bein’ brown (coffee)” and shoot.
Afternoon Delight Brownie
Pour one shot of Godiva Chocolate Liqueur. Add a few drops (your discretion) of Green Dragon (or substitute an herbal liquor like Chartreuse, Galliano or Jager).
The Chicken Dance
1 shot Wild Turkey 101, served alongside a fried chicken wing. Dance and make a chicken noise as you drink.
The Never Nude
In a shot glass, pour in 1/4 shot Blue Curacao. Using the back of a spoon, carefully layer 3/4 shot vodka on top. Share with dozens of your friends.
Mix 1 part fruit punch with 1 part sweet red boxed wine. Serve in a tumblr with a straw, or in a sippy cup. It’s off the hook!
There’s Always Money in the Banana Stand
1 oz shot Goldschlager, 2 oz 99 Bananas. Shake in a cocktail shaker full of ice for 10 seconds. Strain into a double shot glass. Light on fire. Yell “He’s a flamer!”, blow out, and shoot.
I Just Blue Myself
Pour one shot of Blue Curaco and one of Hpnotiq into a collins glass. Top with soda and stir. For added effect, add 2 drops of blue food coloring and drink from a blue straw.
Make a pun about fire. Gesture dramatically and pour a shot of Everclear on your companion. Then yell “But where did the lighter fluid come from?!”
Put a heat proof glass with one tablespoon of water in the microwave for 5 minutes. Take out and rim with crushed up Fritos. Add 2 shots of corn whiskey. Try not to burn your fingers.
Fill a rocks glass of Everclear straight up, drunk quickly. When finished, look horrified and say “I’ve made a huge mistake.”
Hot Ham Water
Open a can of spam. Squeeze out all of the water from the spam into a bowl. Put in microwave for 3 minutes. Mix with equal parts vodka.
Perfect. A few additions from me:
The Stair Car
Two shots brandy, one shot cointreau, splash of lime juice, and if anyone manages to jump up on your back you have to give them a piggyback ride until you finish it. You’re gonna get hop ons.
The Wee Britain
Glass of single malt scotch, with a single candy bean at the bottom. Watch out for the Poppins.
The Tunnel Of Love Indubitably
Pink lemonade with vodka added to it, poured into a jacuzzi-sized wide-rimmed glass. Don’t have a heart attack.
I’ve played instruments you can’t even imagine. I’ve played the doubleharp (two harps duct taped together). I’ve played a man’s corpse like a bagpipe. I’ve played a xylophone - FROM TEN MILES AWAY, hurling sticks at it with great precision. You have no idea the things I’ve done to instruments. I once fucked a tuba. I’m just saying.
Video games don’t face this constraint. They have a singular ability to depict how many ways it is possible for things to go wrong. As a player, you are forced to either inhabit the skin of a character who strives and fails over and over again. Seeing how hard it is for a character to get by lets us experience another person’s life at a deeper level than traditional media forms permit. The character’s experience and the players’ are not identical, but drawing them down similar paths creates new kinds of empathy. (via Born to Lose – The New Inquiry)
I finally found a home for my essay on video game narratives, and the way that failure should be treated within the medium. It took me six months of reworking it to take out the long Borges quote this originally started with, which just goes to show that writing and video games have more in common than we usually acknowledge in re: failure loops.
A Found Poem from the first 1/3 of ENDER’S GAME
Nobody got promoted before
They were eight years old.
Ender wasn’t even seven yet
The school provides everything you need
Ten billion, a hundred billion
A million billion
I’ve got a pretty good idea what children are
And we aren’t children
Do I wiggle my butt when I walk
Rose de Nose
Where he went there was more crying
Mother Petra she talking
she talking, she talking
Shit talking, shit talking!
Quite a few laughed
I want to see your fart collection
I stored it in your locker
Didn’t you see?
Naked, he was about to climb into bed
when Bonzo came toward him.
His face hard and set.
A bigger-than-lifesize picture of male genitals
Which waggled back and forth
I’ve never done this before
He put new touches on the patterns
Made the boys try the maneuvers with one leg
Frozen, with both legs frozen
Or using frozen boys for leverage
How does a boy who spends his time like this win battles?
His body relaxing almost completely
So that his hands and arms almost seemed to be caught
Obviously we can now control gravity
And think how starships could move near planets
So they’re watching me
And what we’re doing is known
If you’re just farting around
every cave is a man cave, if you accept that stalagmites & stalactites are essentially huge white geo-dicks thrusting manfully at the dark
WHAT EVEN IS ENDER’S GAME
Orson Fart Card
This is Not an Exist: the Failures of New American Modernism and the Endgame of Late-Capitalism.
Christopher John Conry
If you live in New York City, particularly below 14th Street or in Brooklyn, you’ve seen it.
If you live in Portland, OR, Austin, TX or any number of Liberal Arts or Universities-With-a-Good-Art-Program college towns you’ve seen it.
Actually, if you live in Portland you’re responsible for it and you have some explaining to do.
I’m talking about what can be umbrella’d under the term Organic Modernism - a loose correlative sensibility of fashion and design aesthetics and lifestyle choices with a predilection for plaid, big leather boots, twee accouterments like birds, taxidermy, hewn wood furniture, filament bulbs, urban farming and pickling things; which can only be rivaled by the spectrum of Instagram filters in its desperate longing for authenticity and the nostalgia for an ever elusive mythologized moment of ‘now’ in the era of endless cyclical return.
This infantile reversion to a mythologized American ideal is one of two main strains of contemporary semiological aesthetics, the other being the hyperreal graphics of the New Aesthetic which highlight the artificiality of our current era, rather than seek to retreat from it (think the 1950’s sleekness of Lana del Ray vs. the hypercolor of Nicki Minaj if you want a soundbyte spectrum of the visuals). If you live in New York City, where much of these types of things originate, or at least where they coalesce under the scrutiny of the media, the ease with which they mingle and remix with each other bespeaks to the fact that they are born of the same impetus, and in fact have much more in common with one another than initially meets the eye.
Whereas the New Aesthetic remixes the symbols of imagery, Organic Modernism remixes the imagery of symbols - both semiotic channels spawn from the pervasive intrusion of media in our daily lives, one seeking to embrace (or at least comment on this) the other outwardly seeming to present an alternative to it.
Organic Modernism, however much it would wish otherwise, is safely ensconced within the paradigm to which it outwardly presents an alternative. Woodsmen and taxidermy do not ‘grow in Brooklyn’ and filament bulbs, while appearing to harken back to a simpler age, are in fact more wasteful and expensive than regular light bulbs (a technologic extension of their time and therefore in actuality the true tenet of Modernist ethos) - this ‘symbol’ of authenticity is a perfect microcosm of the fault at the center of this aesthetic matrix.
It is the symbolism of the real, not a natural organic extension of reality (which can be argued to have disappeared completely, but more on those psychosocial dynamics shortly) but rather the management of the symbols of authenticity, no more truly authentic than the blatant symbol management of simulacra of the New Aesthetic. It is the ‘idea’ of authenticity and reality, the presentation of it in the hyper-specification of products required for innovation in our Post-Fordist economic landscape where we no longer make ‘things’ but rather we make the ‘idea’ of things - we are not going to re-invent the axe in terms of functionality, but we can make the prettiest most expensive god damn Platonic ‘axe’ you can buy.
I grew up in Vermont chopping wood for the wood-stove in our house in the dead of winter, and I’m sorry but I would not trust anyone who needed a Wes Andersonized $300 ‘American Felling Axe’ from Best Made Company to get me through a New England winter.
I would trust them to sit in their apartment looking at that axe and taking pictures of it on Instagram, and longing for an exit to the contemporary American collective existential crisis, however.
in which I dispel some contemporary myths.
Man, that fucking axe. Someday I’m going to paint some zany shit on my Collins axe that I actually use to chop wood as a big fu-
:cracks a beer:
:train of thought derails:
Poem For My Hangover
Like the day after mushrooms
I cannot unsee the combat jugglers on the Michigan quad
OK I take back what I said about poetry