The HuffPo-ization of Saturday Night Live

 I made that same face through this entire sketch.

Let's start this out with some very necessary disclaimers: I believe the writers of Saturday Night Live are very, very talented. Writing and producing a live sketch show every week from scratch is a superhuman effort, the likes of which I cannot conceive. I want to enjoy SNL very much, and I don't enjoy using it as a punching bag. I like laughing more than I like criticizing.

We clear on that? Okay, great. Now it's time to state the obvious: Saturday Night Live is not funny anymore. I'm not breaking any ground on that one, of course. That's a widely held opinion. I'll take it one step further, though: I don't believe being funny is even SNL's primary goal anymore.

The current state of SNL is rather bleak; gone is the unholy comedic talent from the mid-to-late  '80s or the absurdist, experimental streak of the mid-'90s. The turn-of-the-century slapstick has ceded time and territory to an incessant parade of celebrity send-ups, and the resultant effect is a comedy show ripped straight from the headlines of US Weekly.

I don't know what the show's overriding philosophy actually is, but the only way I can make sense of it is this: it's as if the writers don't consider a skit a success unless it gets written up on the Huffington Post. Like it's done more for the resultant headline than the quality of the skit itself.

This phenomenon is encapsulated perfectly in last week's "Waking Up With Kimye" spoof talk show¹, and if the simple incantation of "Kimye" wasn't groan-inducing enough, there's the exercise in banality that actually ensued.



As comedy sins go, Nasim Pedrad's Kardashian impression is about a 5 on a scale of 10. The empty-headedness is fine—we're not exactly talking about Neil deGrasse Tyson here—but Kim Kardashian is the walking, talking embodiment of passive self-promotion and capitalizing on the male gaze. So how on earth does Kim draw herself in a wedding dress without it being, like, 90% ass? Or, like, I'd be willing to believe a character would draw herself without boobs if they didn't give said character giant prosthetic cleavage (that was fake, right?). I mean... this is basic stuff.

If the Kardashian impression was a 5 on the comedy sin scale, Jay Pharaoh's Kanye West is about a 73.  Yes, it sounds great. It also rings less true than basically any impression I've ever seen on professionally-produced television. It's beyond disappointing. Kanye West is a hyper-talented, hyper-sensitive manbaby who conjures slights from thin air and carries a sense of entitlement that you'd normally only expect from, like, a sophomore at Northwestern. Andy Samberg's character throws shade at the whole wedding and Pharaoh's Kanye basically responds with "yes all those facts are correct." He should be throwing furniture at the first sign of disrespect! You should be able to get 30 seconds of pure comedy out of Kanye explaining why he needs a leather Batman groom suit without even breaking a sweat! And instead Pharaoh uses the opportunity to show off his Kanye "HEAAHHHH." Has Jay Pharaoh ever actually heard Kanye West speak? That is a dead serious question.

Here's the deal. If you're going to spoof celebrities, pick a good reason to make fun of them, and it should be crystal clear what that is. Otherwise, don't do it.² Simply sounding like them is not comedy, no matter how good you are at it. Impressions are only funny if you make the character say funny things. Again: truly basic stuff.

I'm not even saying this from a "think of the poor celebrities" mindset. It's "think of the poor viewers." Like, Kanye West and Kim Kardashian are two of the most ripe-for-parody celebrities in modern history. This is not an exaggeration. And with that golden opportunity, SNL goes with a Kanye West who can't stop saying his own lyrics and a Kim Kardashian who is essentially a blow-up doll with a pulse. That is a situational deafness of staggering proportions.

This is not an aberration; it's the norm on that show anymore. Even on the Weekend Update segment, where all they have to do is say a joke about a person without putting someone in makeup to act and sound like that person, when presented with an opportunity to make a Donald Sterling joke—you know, the vile 80-year-old megaracist—here is the entirety of SNL's zinger on him.

"In an interview this week, Donald Sterling said that he was set up, saying 'I was baited.' And baited is the right word, because Sterling himself is a catfish."³

That absolutely cannot be the best you can do. Donald Sterling is an old guy who looks like an old guy. That's basically the only normal thing about him! That's a joke Donald Sterling would write about Donald Sterling to try to prove he's self-deprecating as part of some awful PR reclamation project. It's a joke someone who has never heard Donald Sterling talk would write about Donald Sterling. It is a joke about Donald Sterling strictly for the purposes of being a joke about Donald Sterling. It is a checked box and nothing more.

And you know what? If you care more about who it is you're spoofing than how, then job well done! That (sigh) Kimye thing was most certainly a sketch centered around famous people! You did it! And as a result, SNL—with a level of resources at its disposal that most comedians would kill to have—has become borderline unwatchable. It is substance-free fetishization of celebrity. For crying out loud, write like you're funny again. Please. I'm begging you.


1. I have no idea where SNL's fascination with the "how about a talk show where..." premise came from, but it's not just a crutch, it's the pavement on which the show treads.
2. Note that even Will Ferrell's insane Neil Diamond absolutely qualifies here; Diamond's pristine reputation and popcorn musical catalog are the perfect setup for the psychosis that ensues. Oh, and Ferrell's impression is pure garbage from a technical standpoint and it matters not one iota. Because it's funny.
3. This, mind you, is hot on the heels of a goof on Karl Rove being a fat tub of goo. That's how they opened Weekend Update this week. What's next, "Hitler's moustache was stupid"?

One Hundred Goodbyes

Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

My mother died on Thursday, felled by a brutal complication of cancer treatment. Her death was simultaneously merciful and unfair, sparing her from weeks of teetering on the edge of life with god knows how many tubes going in and out of her, and yet taking our mother away from us, away from the world, away from a home she was so achingly close to returning to after weeks in a hospital bed. 

Saying goodbye to a parent is an experience that words cannot fully encapsulate--and that's under the best of circumstances. Being there as she passed was horrible, obviously, but not nearly as horrible as not having the opportunity to be there. That happens to so many people, and it is a different fresh slice of hell to have such a large part of your life taken away while you can only hear about it from afar, I imagine. Anyway. 

Regardless, what comes next is the absence, coping with the void and what's left when someone passes away. And I sit here in my mother's house, surrounded by all these things that were just for her, just so, these things waiting for someone who would never be back. Files. Notes to self. Underwear. Dishes she could have done a better job of cleaning but she's my mom so of course she didn't do a better job of cleaning them. Art, wonderful art, hers and others.

Then, hiding behind a plant, an IV pole. A harrowing pile of medications. Unopened cans of food for her gastrointestinal tube. All these things waited too. 

But mostly, what remained were objects of love, reminders that a grandmother accrues over nearly 67 years and surrounds herself with. A cocoon of memories that I'm sure she had and that I can no longer ask her about. And you have to do something with all of them.

In one drawer of random things, this little picture thing. It's old, and kinda gross, because Mom was not the cleanest person. The sort of cheap little thing that comes from these vacation spots, because they can be, and that's okay. On the other side:

This nice, tiny picture. It is not my mother's only treasure from that vacation, obviously. She had numerous bigger, better pictures. And they weren't in weird, gross plastic keychains. I wasn't there with them. And yet it's the sort of thing that someone could not possibly convince a grandmother to get rid of, with all the memories she associates with it. But now, it's a thing. That's not to say it has no sentimental value, but again, there are other pictures from then that my sister and her family already have, ones not ensconced in plastic and grime. But the thought of just... throwing a picture away seems unfathomable.

I'm keeping it. I don't know yet if I'll wash it.

That is one decision. It takes 15 seconds. There are one hundred such decisions to make, one hundred more things that belonged to her and only her, one hundred more instances of having to tell my beautiful, departed mother goodbye.

Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

A Response To Danger Guerrero's Fifty Ticket Oak Questions

Hello, Mr. Guerrero! I'm Rick Reynolds with Live Oaks, the Midwest's premier Ticket Oak dealer. I understand you've got a lot of questions about how Ticket Oaks operate, and some hesitancy about whether a Ticket Oak would be right for you. Well, I've got good news: the time has never been better to own your very own Ticket Oak, and we would be happy to create a custom Ticket Oak solution that's just right for you!


Anyway, let's begin with your questions. Sure looks like you've got a lot of 'em! Heh! That's what we're here for. Okay.

- Your Ticket Oak is a genetically modified organism with highly developed speech function. Ticket Oaks undergo years of training before being shipped to your yard to ensure the highest satisfaction.

- I wish it were that easy to grow a Ticket Oak! The germination process is very complex and takes place in our special Ticket Oak farms.

- We don't use "wizards" in your classical definition, Mr. Guerrero, but our botanists, genetic engineers and ticket agents may seem like wizards with the level of service they provide!

- The use of a tree is so that tickets can become a renewable resource, not to mention the oxygen trees generate. We are proudly carbon neutral at Live Oaks.

- Wizards are not lonely. They're wizards! Ladies love wizards.

- Our Ticket Oaks lose their leaves in accordance with regular oaks' natural life cycle but the tickets are generated year-round in order to best suit our customers' needs.

- You may request tickets for any event at any time over the course of the year.

- Even football games.

- You may choose to select your tickets several months in advance in order to facilitate making plans for the autumn and winter, but short of catching fire, your Ticket Oak will always be able to accommodate your requests, because it is an oak that grows tickets.

- Your Ticket Oak should have no concept of awkwardness and be happy to interact with you in whatever manner you prefer. Please just realize that Ticket Oaks are not human and as such, in accordance with federal law, they may not be used for romantic purposes.

- Please don't insult our botanists, genetic engineers and ticket agents by calling them "dumb" or "lonely." All species of trees were considered and tested before we settled on the mighty oak.

Ticket Oaks cannot digest with their mouths and as such this little girl is safe.

- Your Ticket Oak will not have tear ducts and its ability to be sad was phased out of genetic engineering after we determined that would have no positive effects on the ownership experience.

- While we cannot guarantee that your Ticket Oak will not suffer damage over its lifetime much in the same way a regular tree would, rest assured that it would not lose its tickets in "a little breezy" conditions. Also, it has no nerve endings so it will never feel pain.

- You will not be held liable for tickets that accidentally go those who don't ask for them—though we must point out that in the scenario you described, where a 13-year-old girl just so happens to come across Rihanna tickets, that 90-95% of the time, the teenager merely steals the ticket directly from the oak. For this reason we recommend a security camera on your Ticket Oak.

- Again, though we don't know all the details, the teenager is almost certainly at fault here.

- You don't know how hard it is to raise a teenage girl, Mr. Guerrero. You just do the best you can and hope others don't undo your work.

- Our Ticket Oaks begin speech therapy at the age of 8 years, when its mouth and treelarynx begin developing. This may seem like a long time but any sooner and you risk permanent damage.

- Dishonest Ticket Oaks are rare, thanks to our breeding process that focuses on maximizing positive traits and eliminating negative traits. In addition, our Ticket Oaks undergo years of customer service training and testing to ensure you will not encounter a negative experience like this.

- If you have a problem with one of our trees, please contact Customer Service immediately. Do not attempt to discipline your Ticket Oak yourself.

- Do not threaten anybody's Ticket Oak.

- Your Ticket Oak needs to be able to trust you.

- We are still working in conjunction with legislators to determine the appropriate penalty for maiming or destroy a Ticket Oak. We believe 5-10 years of prison is appropriate as it's an act of ecoterrorism and one that inhibits commerce.

- As mentioned before, your Ticket Oak has no nerve endings so you don't have to worry about hurting it. Please maintain the utmost of care, though.

Do not kill trees around your Ticket Oak.

- If your Ticket Oak loses a branch, don't panic! Be sure to gather as many of the tickets as possible before they sit on the ground too long and decompose. If it's a small branch, don't worry; trees are resilient. If it's a major branch and you're concerned about your Ticket Oak's health, please contact Customer Service and we will be happy to refer a Ticket Oak Certified® tree care specialist to your residence.

- You will never wake up to your Ticket Oak screaming in your backyard.

- Your Ticket Oak should not scare you at any point in its life.

- How often your friends ask you for tickets is up to them and you. If there are any types of ticket you would prefer your Ticket Oak not produce, please let us know upon ordering and we can customize your Ticket Oak accordingly.

- Federal OSHA regulations require that you be given a full hour for lunch, so if your co-worker interrupts you to ask for tickets, you should feel free to assert your rights as a worker.

- Part of responsible Ticket Oak ownership is knowing whom to inform about it. If you're not comfortable with casual acquaintances hitting you up for tickets, keep the information to yourself.

- This guy sounds like a real jerk, although "Jeff Dunham tickets" was a pretty big giveaway on that one.

- Please inform your family and friends that no-showing on a Ticket Oak ticket may endanger our ongoing relationships with event hosts and other ticket providers. They count on us to be there!

- Please flip out responsibly.

- Supervisor-subordinate relationships can be very tricky. If you're asked to do something you're not comfortable doing, contact your company's Human Resources department.

Do not give your Ticket Oak even mild sedatives or stimulants. Live Oaks will not be held responsible for your Ticket Oak's behavior under mind-altering substances.

- Reselling Ticket Oak tickets without a license is heavily frowned upon.

- Your Ticket Oak will not pass judgment on what you get tickets for or how you use them—too many gray areas—but if found reselling Ticket Oak tickets, you could be liable for heavy monetary fines and/or scalping charges.

- Please see the above answer. Your Ticket Oak will not be offended by you, but that doesn't make everything you do with it okay.

- It may or may not be illegal to scalp tickets in your area, depending on local laws, but it is a direct violation of your Ticket Oak Terms of Service and it can result in the termination of your Ticket Oak privileges.

- Again, this is an illicit means of making a living.

- All Ticket Oaks' ticket-generating capabilities are capped at a fixed amount, depending on your license, but it is a small enough amount that even if you were to sell all your tickets (again, in direct violation of your Ticket Oak Terms of Service), you would not recoup an amount of money that would merit an all-caps reaction.

- Your Ticket Oak has no use for money.

- Feeding your Ticket Oak premium fertilizer and mulch is a good idea for its long-term health!

- TicketMaster and Live Nation both have ongoing licensing relationships with Live Oaks and Ticket Oak, and as such have no incentive to kill Ticket Oaks. Your Ticket Oak can only grow tickets that it was genetically programmed to grow, thanks to the licenses mentioned earlier. If you suspect someone is trying to kill your Ticket Oak, please contact the local authorities. It is a crime!

- As mentioned before, your Ticket Oak has no use for money and as such cannot voluntarily reject its partnership with you. If it is placed in an unhealthy environment for tree or is otherwise stressed out, it may not bloom tickets, but we inspect all future Ticket Oak homes to prevent this from occurring.

- Please contact Customer Service if your Ticket Oak becomes stubborn.

-  There should be nothing "hard to maintain" about a lifestyle that includes going to whatever shows you like, and as long as you are not reselling tickets in violation of the Ticket Oak Terms of Service, your relationship with your Ticket Oak should be long and sustainable.

- We cannot stop you from selling a property where your Ticket Oak resides; we merely ask that the new buyer is aware of the Ticket Oak on the premises and can care for it accordingly. Also, please file the appropriate paperwork with us in this event so we may keep our records up to date.

- Please do not take things you think after several glasses of wine seriously.

- Your Ticket Oak should be very worth it to you if you care for it as described above! I'd be happy to speak with you about our reasonable prices and finance plans so you can take the first step toward ownership of a Live Oaks-certified Ticket Oak today!

How Tonight's Breaking Bad Premiere Will Definitely Play Out

Obviously, Season 6 (or 5.2 or 5 1/2 or Five The Second or however we're going to characterize this) must start right where we left off: with Hank discovering the poetry book Gale gave to Walter and thus discovering that Walt is Heisenberg.

So as we're treated to the end of that scene again, with a year's anxiety and anticipation packed into wondering what he'll do next, Hank's eyes flit away.

Suddenly, a gunshot as the screen cuts immediately to black.

Roll opening credits. Breaking Bad is back, bitch.



As we return, Hank's dead body is in the bathroom, a single gunshot to the head felling the bald bull. Police and paramedics are everywhere, but the sheet being pulled over Hank says enough: he's gone, and with him the secret about Walt. A police officer fishes the poetry book out of the toilet, stained with Hank's defecate, and informs the family that it looks like a loss. We cut to a close shot of the bottom of the book, with blue and black ink dripping from the pages. We don't see any poop on the book because come on, grow up. The officer apologetically tells the family they need to take the book into evidence, just in case, and none of the stunned bystanders offers any objection.

Everyone who was there at the cookout stands together in shock and sadness—even Walt—as the investigator informs them that this looks like a routine (but still tragic) suicide. The gunshot came from Hank's service firearm, all the adults were outside together when they heard the shot ring out, and everybody there tested negative for gunshot residue. There are no signs of forced entry, no eyewitness accounts of anybody entering or leaving the house except for those present and accounted for, and most importantly no fingerprints other than Hank's on the gun.

Hank's body is loaded onto an ambulance which then drives away. Its siren is silent; its lights remain dark.


[commercial break featuring Taco Bell's new Loaded Taco Burrito]


The next scene is Hank's funeral, an appropriately large and ceremonial affair. Hank's colleagues from the Albuquerque Police Department and DEA are all there, somber and dressed impeccably. Marie is wracked with grief, and who can blame her, while the light has gone out from Skyler's eyes. Walt is alternatingly dazed and horrified, unable to comprehend the suicide that took place in his own house right as he was ready to close the book on that chapter of his life. Things were supposed to be better.

During the seemingly endless stream of fellow officers politely offering the family their condolences, the crime scene investigator approaches Walt and Skyler. He apologizes for bringing business to them at a time like this but just wants to keep it brief. He tells them that they found Hank's fingerprints on the book, which is explains how it ended up away from the rest of the books, and that if they wanted it back that's fine; the print stayed intact on the pages, but whatever someone wrote inside the cover was lost, and there's, well... "water damage" to boot. Walt's eyes widen briefly before he informs the investigator that it's okay, it was just a book. The investigator nods and continues that as near as anyone can tell, Hank was holding the book when he killed himself, and it just fell in. Walt thanks the investigator for checking in, and the investigator leaves as Walt continues to console his wife. Walt looks off into the distance, his eyes betraying a deep pain.


[commercial break featuring Golden Corral's new endless shrimp fountain]


Scene: Jesse's house. There's a substantial fence around the perimeter now, cameras here and there, and we see three locks on the door and bars on the first floor windows. Jesse sits alone on an large, impeccable white leather couch. A large bong sits idly on the table in front of him, and he's holding a beer as he watches a nature show. His phone rings, and he blanches in terror.

"Hello?"
"We need to talk."
"I'm not cooking anymore. You know that, Mr. White."
"Neither am I. We need to talk."
"Is something wrong? Am I in danger?"
"No. But we need to talk."
"Dammit, Mr. White, I thought we were done here!"
"We are. And we need to talk."

We cut to Walt at Jesse's front door, through the view of the security camera. Walt's now-trademark porkpie hat is doffed, and he is sullen. Jesse welcomes him in, and in an absence of other suitable seating, Walt sits uncomfortably on Jesse's giant bean bag chair.

"Hank's dead," Walt says.
"Did... did you," Jesse begins to ask, but Walt is already shaking his head.

Walt then explains what happened: that the operation had ended, then Hank found out the secret, and the shock drove him to do something awful to himself. This shakes Walt to the core: though he and Jesse are now out of the business and so well compensated for their troubles that they may never have to involve themselves in that business or with those in it ever again—that they have essentially "gotten away with it"—the very knowledge of their involvement is so caustic, such a deep shame that they cannot control what happens to the ones they love if that knowledge ever gets out. Walt implores Jesse—with a genuine despondency we've never seen out of him—to protect his secret, and to make sure nobody finds out. At this point Chekhov's Ricin is irrelevant; information is the poison in their lives now.


[commercial break featuring new Star Trek-themed breath mints]


Walt returns home, where Skyler sits in a darkened living room. She's still at a loss as to why Hank would do that, and to a large extent, Walt is too. They talk about the things Hank had going for him, and it's a substantial list. He helped clean up his city's streets. He battled back from near-paralysis. He was the best investigator the police had. Why then?

And then because no grief comes without guilt, Skyler turns to Walt and asks, "...do you think he knew?" And because Walt is Walt, because he cannot bear to hurt Skyler again, because it is a truth not even he wants to confront, he tells her, stammering, no. He tells her that this is not their fault, and that everyone else is probably blaming themselves too. He is lying, and probably not very well, but it is the only way either of them will ever be able to convince themselves that Hank's blood is not on their hands.


[commercial break featuring little kids reciting talking points about the new Ford Focus in a conversation that doesn't even remotely resemble normal human interaction]


Skyler is in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner. Holly sits in a nearby playpen, doing baby things. Skyler tells Walt that she'd feel better if Marie was taken care of for the rest of her life. Walt reminds her that Hank's pension will help with that, and Skyler agrees, but wants to see a small portion of their amassed fortune go toward helping Marie stay out of any financial straits that might make her... act out. The money has been sufficiently laundered and Marie doesn't have to know how much there is; she should just get a little something extra every month so she knows she still has a family she can call hers, even after Hank's suicide.

"And we're still out?" Walt asks.
"And we're still out."

Holly begins to cry, and Skyler rushes off to attend to her.

The family is gathered around the dinner table. They're all in obvious emotional pain (except for Holly, who is a baby) but they all know they're all hurting. Walt Jr. cracks a joke about the food being almost as good as breakfast, and his irrepressible joie de vivre brings a well-needed smile to his parents' faces. They're getting through this together.

Skyler begins to tell Walt Jr. a story, and as the camera is focused in on her, mid-sentence, there is a loud thump and clang at the table.

Walter White, Heisenberg himself, is face-down in his food, dead.

Junior calls his father's name helplessly and Skyler shakes him to no avail. The panic envelops the room until an empty vial, once filled with ricin, hits Walt in his lifeless head.

Walt Jr. and Skyler look up. It was thrown by Holly, the baby.

"Scawwed money don't make money," the baby says with cold steel in her eyes.

Just then, we cut to a flashback of Holly toddling away right as Hank excuses himself to go to the restroom, then slipping in (as a baby would) as Hank is engrossed in the Walt Whitman book. She slips the gun out of the holster on his pants as they sit crumpled at his feet, and only the raising of the handgun catches Hank's eye before the toddler fires the fatal shot. Holly wipes the prints off the gun on her clothes, then dunks the book in the toilet, keeping her father's secret safe.

Cut back to the present, with Skyler staring horrified at her baby.

Cut back to a second flashback, with Walter discussing the ricin with Jesse in the White household. The camera shifts focus from Walt to far behind one of his shoulders, as his daughter listens. We then see Holly crawling around her parents' bedroom and finding the loose electrical outlet and the vial behind it, then surreptitiously holstering the ricin in her diaper before being picked up by her mother and relocated to the playpen, where she hides the vial for future use.

Cut again to the dinner table, as Skyler sets Holly down in her booster seat then begins putting food down. Walt excuses himself to wash his hands and get Junior, and as Skyler's back is turned to continue serving the rest of the food, Holly pours a lethal amount of the ricin into her father's food while nobody watches. Walt then comes back in sits down, stirs his food absent-mindedly, and seals his own fate.

Back again to the present. "We cook again. Tonight," says the baby in her baby voice.

The camera cuts back to Skyler's face, frozen in fear, until a smile curls on her face. Holly is her father's daughter.

Little Holly puts on a little porkpie hat. Walt Jr. pulls on safety goggles. Skyler pulls out a cell phone. "Well," she says with a wry grin, "...better call Saul." Walt sits dead in his food. HEISENBABY HAS ASCENDED TO THE THRONE.

BREAKING BAD.

Thirty-Nine Days, Nine Hours, And However Many Minutes

Hello, friends. This is my own little personal blog, one where I'll sporadically post thoughts or links to what I'm doing or whatever. If it's too long for Twitter/Facebook or has nothing to do with Iowa, I'll put it here. I haven't had one of these for a while, but I've rarely felt like I needed more of an outlet than what was already available to me.

But since you're here, and since I'm here, I should write something. Something that belongs here. So even though I'm loath to discuss my personal life online, I have a story about my most recent breakup.

I'm not good at relationships. Well, check that: I've been fantastic at one. Faithful, devoted, and unwavering. I was a committed man for years, and I didn't care who knew. No matter what was happening in my life, good or bad, I never had to feel lonely. I had booze, and booze had me.

I know booze better than I've ever known a woman. I can tell you what craft beers are great and what ones are overpriced or overrated. You need a vodka or gin recommendation, I'm your man. Tell me what your budget for the night is and what in your fridge could possibly be used as a mixer—pickle juice included—and I'll make sure you and booze have a fantastic night together.

Meanwhile, I couldn't tell you what month anyone I've ever seriously dated was born in, or even the names of all the people I've slept with.

And so that relationship, going on its tenth* tumultuous but blissful year, led me to Chicago, a virtual playground of craft beers. If you like to get drunk, Chicago is fucking magical. The random burger joints have beer selections that put most cities to shame. The bartenders are friendly to anyone who can hold their alcohol, and by your third time in they'll know your name and your usual. The liquor stores are everywhere, to the point where all you need is about five minutes of walking on a major street until you're at one. Seriously: five minutes. Chicago, baby.

*We fucked around when I first got to college; as soon as I hit 21, that shit was official.

But a few months ago, something changed. Late nights with booze weren't fun anymore; they were just late. And the later the nights got, the later the mornings got, until they weren't mornings at all anymore. Combine that with a waning appetite (I know, you wouldn't know it looking at me) and the relationship had taken on a very sour tone. I felt betrayed.

We used to drink to make trouble and fun, but now we drink to forget we are drunks.

And so one June night—I say "night" as if it wasn't like 5 in the morning—I decided to quit. I forgot about that decision by the time I woke up the next day, but between those two points I had sent a note to someone asking if they "could help me not drink anymore." They responded the next day, and even though I'd forgotten about that decision, any reminder is welcome when you're just sitting there hung over, tired and miserable at 6 in the evening.

So I met friends out for reasonable amounts of beer the next two evenings—preexisting plans to be kept—and the day after that I had one beer at lunch with a family member. It was the most thoroughly unappetizing beer I had ever tasted, and I didn't finish it. That was thirty-nine days, nine hours, and however many minutes ago. Haven't touched a drink since.

The decision was months in the making, but only months, because for as much as I drank it rarely got me into any serious trouble, and I could excuse my way out of anything minor. Doing terrible in school? I was like that in high school before I even thought about a drink. Hung over at work? Eh, at least I'm there. Late for work? Eh, they didn't fire me and it doesn't happen too often. Drinking alone? Psshht, I've got other drunk people to talk to on the internet. Spending roughly $2,000 a year on booze? I make that in like two or three weeks! The DUI? That was six years ago! The time when I went out to get booze at 11 pm on a windy day because I didn't want Jess to know I was already out of what we got at the store a few days prior and while I was out the door blew open and a neighbor saw the open door on a dark house and called the police because it looked like we'd been robbed and when I got back the police were already there and had woken Jess up and gotten her out of bed and she had to tell them she had no idea where I was or why the door was open? Clearly the fault of the low-budget builders and their shitty door frames!

But everything I knew about people with serious alcohol problems told me I wasn't on that level. I never drank in the morning except for tailgating, and I happily slept through half of those. No fighting or anger issues. Work was (almost) always a higher priority. I was drinking less than I had been two years before, and that had been less than the two years prior to that, etc., on and on. I wasn't managing the booze very well, but my excuse management was impeccable. And it led me quite righteously and assuredly to that early June morning and that subsequent evening where the conclusion became inescapable: that I was miserable.

At every step of the way I've had help. I'm not going to meetings but that doesn't mean I'm doing this alone by a damn stretch. My family and friends have all been supportive, I have fellow sober people I can go to with questions whenever I want, and nobody's made me feel bad about my decision. It's been surprisingly easy for me to quit, but I suppose that's only because I was ready; likewise, if you think you're ready or have any of your own questions, hey, I'm here. And I'm really easy to get a hold of.

In terms of how long it's been, I'm probably not going to keep track much longer; I'm not very good at keeping tallies straight in my head and the specific amount of time is already a pretty freaking major accomplishment, which is about all I need to know. Obviously there are many, many milestones in front of me, but we're getting past the point where a running clock is necessary. Plus the best thing about that day was a massive, antihistamine-fueled nap. It was better than the PBR, anyway.

Ah, but remember, this is a relationship. There's no such thing as a clean break—not if you ever really cared. You can end these things, but then there's a void, and the void's just as big a part of your life as the relationship was. They put it better in Swingers, but whatever. You know what I mean. So now I don't drink; I just dream about it. Specifically, I dream about the consequences of having another drink. That includes how long a streak I'm giving up, how upset people would be seeing me with a beer, the mental calculations of how much of the next day I'd have to give up on in order to sleep/laze off the hangover. I dream about all that. I don't dream about missing the booze or enjoying it, and I don't wake up wanting a drink. Nightmares they're not; just a frequent, inescapable reminder of the gravity of my decisions. It gnaws like guilt, except it doesn't make me feel even remotely bad. I don't know what the word for that would be.

But make no mistake: I'm happier. I'm healthier. I'm sharper. I'm better. The adjustment process has barely begun and I'm determined to still be me, so to speak. Like, yes, from a strictly literal standpoint that'll always be true, but what I mean is I don't want to be defined by sobriety any more than I'd like to have been defined by booze. I still like the music I liked before. My sense of humor is still... unusual. And yes, you can still drink around me. Just don't be a dick about it. Don't be a dick about anything else to anybody else, while I'm making requests.

And thanks for reading about my breakup. It's a new, weird world I'm living in and I don't know where it'll take me, but I'm looking forward to every step along the way.