Since the dawn of existence, man has gazed upon the limitless sky and dreamed but one dream: to fly with the birds, to christen the clouds, to dine with the gods.
Sadly, all efforts to levitate toward the heavens have been physically thwarted by gravity. Hope endured throughout the centuries until that bookworm Isaac Newton came along and officially spoiled the fun. Just as he predicted, all skyward launches have tragically plummeted back to the earth at -9.8 meters per second.
...Until now. I have taken it upon myself to defy gravity. No longer will I be bound to the land. The days of lowly loneliness are over. I believe I can fly; I believe I can touch the sky. In the names of R. Kelly, Brent Barry, and Woody Harrelson, I will dunk a basketball on a standard 10-foot rim by September 1st. You are all witnesses.
Cheerful rhetoric aside, let's briefly examine this endeavor in scientific terms. Here are my measureables:
Height
5'11 3/8
Weight
158 lbs. of pure athleticism
Vertical Leap (as of 5/27)
25 inches
Gender (as of 5/27)
Male
Sign
Leo
Career Dunks
0*
*Subject to change
With a running start, I can catch the rim with my right hand, as well as dunk a tennis ball. The problem is that I cannot reliably grip a basketball, so I need to be able to jump high enough to comfortably dunk two-handed. As such, by my esitmate I'll have to improve my vertical from 25" to about 29" over the course of the next three months. Thus, my incremental goal involves adding at least 1.5 inches per month, which would put me at 29.5" on September 1st. If I can build myself all the way up to 32", I might be able to throw one down within the flow of an actual game. Make no mistake: this is going to happen.
I'll be back with periodic updates, recounting the successes and failures throughout my noble quest to inhabit a new altitude. Please try to contain your excitement.
-----Original Message----- From: Will "The Thrill" Grasty Sent: Friday, May 22, 2009 1:30 AM To: Self-righteous bouncers Subject: The futility of your existence
Dear cocksuckers,
Allow me to speak for the general public when I say that we're all terribly intimidated by your husky physique, cargo shorts, and $1 sunglasses. Your brand of toughness should be bottled, packaged, and sold in GNC store locations everywhere. We cannot help but envy your status amongst the cultural elite. If only one day we could have the power to waddle into a bar, fill out an application, and sheepishly admit to having no skills beyond existing. What a wonderfully impressive form of social climbing. But alas, that's what separates the doers from the dreamers.
Yeah, I get it. You smash that which you don't understand, you think Lattimer from The Program is the coolest guy since Rocky Balboa, and you were voted Most Likely to Commit Statutory Rape in high school. You are a regular Joe Beefcake, women swoon at the sight of your barbwire tattoo, and the world salutes your courageous efforts in the war against underage drinking. Every night you pound your HGH shake, drive your Mazda 6 to work, use the employees' entrance, and flat-out get the job DONE. You are a true competitor; your prideful spirit coupled with your minimum wage salary has cemented the bouncer species as recession-proof.
Unfortunately, you are not the gatekeepers of responsible alcohol consumption, nor are you the heroic protectors of sanctity. You are not a beloved warrior who gracefully walks the earth, instilling justice and retribution along the way. Nope, you are just another guy with a buzzcut and misappropriated facial hair who just happens to sit on a stool outside a bar with the task of subtracting 1988 from 2009. While you might believe that you stand between good and evil, much like Gandalf (oops, nerd reference), you actually stand between prospective drinkers and their inevitable battles with their own inner demons. In the grand scheme of things, that's a pretty insignificant place to occupy.
In case you forgot, your primary job requirements involve (a) wearing a t-shirt, (b) sweating a lot, and (c) taking up space. Without question, security is a necessary evil, especially when alcohol is prominently involved. But you untrained and unskilled meatheads don't secure anything. If I'm ever in danger, I really hope my livelihood doesn't rest in the clumsy hands of Ram, the former D-III special teamer.
Please don't misunderstand: this is not to say that all bouncers are bad. Certainly there exists a noble contingent that thankfully understands the meaningless nature of their career. We appreciate the humble bouncers who quietly and respectfully spot fake IDs, escort belligerent patrons outside, and even break up the occassional fight. But too many of you take yourselves too seriously. You know who you are. If you cross your arms, chew on a toothpick, and use oh-so-witty catchphrases like "Time for you to leave," then do us all a favor and reevaluate your inflated sense of self-worth. Your cankles are not a force to be reckoned with. For realz.
Everything was great. He blessed us with his seemingly-endless talent. No one had ever seen such things, and from the most unlikeliest of sources, a 5'10 skinny white guy. There was no question he was the best there is, and then one day, he was gone. Without warning, without rationale, and without a goodbye. He left the industry, and it fell into disarray. Everyone was left thinking: "How can we replace him?" and "When will he come back?"
As time went on, these questions remained unanswered. Rumors of Pneumonia and Drug Abuse swirled. What little hope was left would soon become lost. Dark Times...
And just as the world forgot about him, he emerged once again, but with little fan fare. Privately, he showed his confidants that he's still got "it". He reached out to his closest collaborators, and told them it was time to begin his re-ascension. "When?!" they asked. "As long as nothing leaks, the week of May 18th" he assured them.
As sort of a concession to Will, I promised to note that I am not talking about Eminem, as I am referring to yours truly. I figured it was obvious, but Will said there might be some confusion. That being said, after a few dozen mid-afternoon naps, some heavy, stressful time spent on Xbox Live, and a miraculous 11-game streak on ESPN's Streak for the Cash, I have faithfully decided to return to Shirley, You Can't Be Serious in hopes of salvaging the blogging world while making good on the promise I made to my legions of fans (I will never EVER leave you unless there's money involved). Your dreams have been realized. Please. Don't mention it.
So, the question that remains on everyone's mind, "What's next?" Well, I learned from my first reign, and I now know not to set the bar too high. After all, you still need to be able to reach the bar when you want to adjust it. Thus, I've created the "No Bar" system. (Note: I must make sure to not confuse two of my more dedicated readers Pat and Joe, and let them know that this system refers to a fictional/metaphorical bar, not the type of bar that they spend half of their time and all of their money at. And Joe, there is no free restroom access at the type of bar I'm talking about.) The "No Bar" system means no promises and no expectations. Sure, the 1% of the world's population that refers to themselves as "Chuck's Detractors" are probably calling an emergency meeting at a conveniently-located Applebee's, and I'm sure that in between bites of half-price appetizers, they are saying "Oh boy, that darned Chuck has struck again! No bar system? That's just propaganda to justify sporadically updating his blog." So, I will take the time just once to address my detractors and their apparent dissatisfaction with my "No Bar System"....
In your haste, you predictably focused on the negative, and I now ask you to put down your 20 oz. Hateamin Water and listen to what I have to say. I removed the bar so, quite simply..... my blogs can fly as high as my dreams. Namaste.
(In my last 10 words, I made references to both LOST and The Office. Don't call it a comeback!)
Some of you might remember James Harrison as the Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker who returned an interception 100 yards for a touchdown in Super Bowl XLIII. Others might identify Mr. Harrison as a two-time Pro Bowl selection and the NFL Defensive Player of the Year in 2008. Now we can all identify him for what he really is: a misunderstood genius.
In American sports, every championship team receives a cordial invitation to the White House, wherein they share photo opportunities with the President, reflect upon their achievement, and drink Dr. Pepper. By virtue of winning the Super Bowl, the Steelers are scheduled to visit sometime this summer, which is a pretty big deal since the NFL remains the most profitable and visible league in the world (let's just say Barack Obama isn't exactly circling his calendar for when the Detroit Shock come to town).
In a rebellious display, Harrison won't participate in the Steelers celebratory White House visit. If you're like me, then your first instinct was that Harrison wants to Fight the Power, Public Enemy-style. But if you assumed that this is a sophisticated form of political protest, then you are quite wrong. It turns out that James Harrison is just really dumb...
This is how I feel -- if you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. As far as I'm concerned, he [Barack Obama] would've invited Arizona if they had won.
So true. Obama totally would have invited the Cardinals and their God-lovin' Quarterback if they won the Super Bowl. Hey, when he's right, he's right.
Mother's Day holds special significance in our household. Not only are we big fans of maternity, but the holiday remains emblematic of the most tragic and retrospectively entertaining episode of my childhood...not to mention the worst day of my parents' lives.
As you might have guessed, the sad freckled little boy in that picture is me. I'm wearing a body cast that ranges from the bottom of my left foot to the top of my chest. My legs are stabilized by a horizontal rod that was built into the cast. Altogether, it's visual proof that God has a sparkling sense of humor.
Both the elaborate medical apparatus and the ensuing Kodak moment were the aftermath of Mother's Day 1993. On that day, my gift to my Mom was a remarkable stunt. Indeed, I managed to sustain the most statistically improbable injury to the human skeletal structure: somehow, against all odds, I broke my femur.
Some background info: This might be a surprise, but I was a showboat in my younger years. As you can see in the photo, I was an adorable little boy with sensational blond hair, a winsome smile, and a mischevious pair of blue eyes. I was quite the spaz in the classroom and on the playground because, hey, who the hell could stay mad at me? I was reckless, dangerous, and my favorite movie was Young Guns starring Emilio Estevez. The world was my stage, and I terrorized anyone who dared to interfere.
Some more background info: In an effort to get the kids outside, my Dad bought a swingset that featured two swings, one slide, a couple ladders, and a row of monkey bars. Little did he know that a structure designed for fun and exercise would instead become the source of pain, agony, and emotional trauma.
After its assembly, the swingset was an instant hit amongst the neighborhood schoolchildren. The collective enthusiasm extended into the winter of 1992, when several friends attended a playdate at my house. Because of the frigid conditions, everyone decided that the monkey bars were too slippery to cross without removing one's gloves/mittens.
As the local hero and authority on recreational gymnastics, I insisted that I could cross the monkey bars while wearing my GI Joe gloves. Not quite. Midway through the attempt, my hands slipped and I violently collided with the frozen tundra of 16 Robbins St. The result? I shattered my elbow and required three pins to set it properly. Note the camouflage cast and the Optimus Prime sweatshirt:
For most well-adjusted children, this would have been a humbling experience from which one could develop character. To the contrary, I learned that injuries create attention, ambidexterity is awesome, and asking someone to sign your cast is an endearing social tactic.
That brings us to May 9, 1993. It was a wonderful time to be alive. Bill Clinton was in the inaugural year of a spotless presidential term. Al Pacino won an Oscar for his stunning portrayal of Al Pacino. Janet Jackson not only had a functional wardrobe, but also her single "That's the Way Love Goes" began an eight-week stint atop the charts.
Anyway, 16 months after I broke my arm I was back at the scene of the crime, this time attempting to impress my family with a daring jump off the swing. In the spirit of Mother's Day I called everyone outside, got on the swing, generated momentum, and gracefully lept skyward.
Much like John F. Kennedy Jr., I didn't stick the landing.
The unfortunate combination of gravity, earth, and youthful frailty left me crumpled in a heap and crying uncontrollably. Despite my flair for the dramatic, my parents' laughter quickly turned into concern and they called 911. Enter the local paramedics.
Like all renaissance men, I've witnessed some astonishing forms of incompetence: Ashlee Simpson "singer," my brother's driving test, Chien-Ming Wang, etc. But the song and dance of volunteer EMTs assessing, treating, and mobilizing my serious leg ailment has to take the cake. Needless to say, nothing about their performance suggested "emergency," "medical," or "technician."
Their initial diagnosis was a fractured fibula. For those of you unfamiliar with the human anatomy, specifically the leg, here's an instructive diagram:
To use the parlance of our times: EPIC FAIL. In fairness, this was 1993; hospital dramas like ER and Grey's Anatomy had yet to educate obsessive American TV viewers, so perhaps I can forgive their inconceivable mistake. Nonetheless, unamused by the buffoonery, my Mom delicately pointed out that I was experiencing pain in my thigh, not my lower leg. Once the paramedics correctly identified the injury as a fractured femur, one of the brilliant EMTs said something along the lines of "Yeah, well, it's harder to tell with kids." Oh really, doctor? Let's revisit our leg diagram:
Despite the shenanigans, I was safely transferred to the hospital and successfully confined to the ridiculous body cast. For three months, I couldn't walk, swim, or go to school. Worst of all, I needed assistance every time I had to go to bathroom; believe me, there are few things more degrading than a bedpan.
In the end, everything happens for a reason. Because I broke my elbow, I became amidextrous. Because I broke my femur, I finally encountered the bitter taste of humility. I also discovered the joys of Mario & Luigi, but that's another story for another time. More important, every Mother's Day I give my Mom an intentionally stupid gift. Before she can express her disappointment, I joke "Hey, at least, I didn't break my leg!" Somehow, we regard this as funny and charming and it never gets old. Like Janet Jackson prophesized, that's the way love goes.
And since I dragged you through another boring personal story, here's an SNL Digital Short starring Chuck's favorite entertainment icon ...Susan Sarandon.
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