Saturday, June 27, 2009

Summer Recess Entry 3: A Brief Yet Triumphant(?) Intermission

Ladies and Gentleman, today Kinger broke his digital hunger strike.

"*Gasp* Why, Bob? Why?"

Well, folks, our dear Kinger underwent some mindblowing shit today: specifically, some pretty hefty trauma to his testicular region.

"*Double Gasp*"

I know, I know.

Right now I'm still pretty out of the loop, but I received word via text message from the ER at approximately 9:30 this evening of the news. Apparently, earlier in the day Kinger had left his keys in his "other pants" when he left the house(Yes, I too am surprised that this has actually happened to someone I know now.) Seeing that nobody else was home upon his return, he had no choice but to pull an impromptu break-in.

Whilst gracing his majestic frame through his basement window, Kinger's lovesack seemed to have graced a little too hard against the windowsill.

Not being the type of man to make a big deal out of anything, he chose to ice the royal cajones for hours before finally deciding to sack up and get the injury looked at.

So, regardless of whether or not Kinger was trying to teach everyone an annoying lesson about relying on digital communication, at least we know that he's not unreasonable enough to keep playing the game when his little dangle-babies are in jeopardy.

And with that, dear readers, the plot officially thickens. Stay tuned for the next sizzling installment of The Kinger and I Summer Break: Thunder in Paradise

It was kinda like this, except the blue-panted leg was a windowsill

Friday, June 26, 2009

Summer Recess Entry 2: Like, Far Out?

I like to check my e-mail in the morning before I go to work. There's just nothing like using the internet with a cup of coffee by my side before putting on a stupid t-shirt and making terrible sandwiches for a few hours.

It helps me deal better with the fact that I'm 22, still in school, and making 100 dollars or less a week. In fact, if I have enough time to essentially do nothing in the morning, I'm usually quite chipper by the time I'm behind the grill.

Unfortunately, after today, I was left only with a sense of ambivalence.

Today I opened up my Yahoo! e-mail account and things looked pretty normal. Most of the time, the only e-mails I receive involve Facebook telling me that someone did something on or around my profile.

Most people deem these irritating enough to tear their eyeballs out and then subsequently eat them. I voluntarily signed up for them because otherwise I would get next to no e-mail. It helps me feel involved with the digital revolution.

I promptly deleted the e-mail and logged onto Facebook (yes, that's correct. I don't read them.)

Anyway, this is where things became not so normal.

Kinger had sent me, and I'm assuming a couple other individuals, a somewhat lengthy message that I will spare all of you from. To briefly sum it up, he has decided to "go incommunicado," as he put it. Basically, he will be turning off his cell phone and not logging into any means of online communication for an unknown amount of time.

This is not an unfamiliar concept to me. I've known many people who decided to shun digital communication for a small amount of time before. The length of time it lasted and the media boycotted varied, but two things were always the same: these people were all of the occasionally irritating sort, and they were all doing it just to prove a point.

Yes, JUST to prove a point.

The idea that Kinger would ever conceivably think of engaging in this sort of pretentious, "back you into a corner" hackery is the singlemost disheartening thing I have ever run into in years. Before you jump all over me with "why, Bob? Maybe it's a good point," let me tell you something about the type of people who do things just to prove a point.

This is the kind of fucker that does things "just to prove a point, man." Now, let me cover my ass here: my political beliefs are, more or less without exception, so far left Rush Limbaugh would melt if he came within 10 miles of the last place I took a shit. I wear annoying little peace sign pins on every hoodie I own. I would say that I more than likely believe about everything that this sorry sucker does.

What's the difference? Well, I'm not a douche about it.

If I think that people are too reliant on the internet, sure, I'll talk about it, but I'm not going to completely abandon all 21st century communication for a month just to prove that I'd be living some sort of unimaginably better life.

You know why? Because I like the internet. And chances are Sunflower Starchild over here does too. I bet you he's on environment-conscious and animal-free living message boards every day.

In fact, let's knock those out right here. I choose not to eat meat. I don't fucking brag about it all day. I may not be so good with my electricity use or gas consumption, but I guarantee you that Sunflower's car doesn't run on vegetable oil. And he's using the fucking internet to talk with his brethren anyway.

Still, hypocrites like this will do things like choose not to use a cell phone to prove they're not reliant on digital media, or simply rail on you for engaging in pretty much anything that isn't listening to Phish or buying really expensive organic onions (which he will then do in front of you.)

Too bad his macbook counts as digital communication and the taco bell wrapper in his gas-guzzling peacemobile (see: SUV) doesn't exactly smell like anything remotely organic.

Now, don't get me wrong, I respect protesting and example-setting. In fact, I've met people who fit into Sunflower's little social group (which I thought died in the 70's) that are very nice, down-to-earth, intelligent, and REASONABLE individuals. I'd say that about 7-8 times out of ten, I really like modern hippies.

However, for every 10 people like this, there are 100 bags of bad weed like Sunflower that give an otherwise legitimate worldview a shitty reputation. Sadly, this is the case with any great social movement that becomes a fashion trend.

So, with all this in mind, you can see where I'm worried as fuck-all about Kinger. If Kinger has, in fact, stumbled into improper practice of progressive, respectable politics, I fear that he will be too far gone to receive my aid.

To make matters worse, I have no way of reaching our loudmouthed hero. Aside from Timapalooza, my relationship with Kinger had been relegated to the occasional IM session or text message.

And all I can do is sit here and wait...

So, here's hoping to whatever God there may be that Kinger has not fallen in with the likes of Sunflower. I've always believed my boy to be a worldly being above such base forms of contradication and mosquito-like annoyingness.

I am currently hypothesizing that he is not simply trying to "prove a (moot) point" and, in fact, has come into possession of a rickety old cabin in the woods somewhere.

With this new assett, he has decided to retreat deep into the greens of the forest, where he can live a life as one with nature. I further theorize that he is doing all this in hopes of channeling ancient Native American spirits through his body, and finally growing a real beard, as opposed to the patchy, prepubescent mess that would crawl across his visage after every three days without a shave. He will, ideally, emerge several weeks from now with a sleek, full mane that could kill a bear, or at least put Billy Mays in a coma.

If that or something similar is not the case, I think the nature of my chronicle will be taking a very sharp left turn in the near future. Stay tuned, folks. Big news may be afoot.

this is what Kinger will hopefully look like when he resurfaces

Monday, June 22, 2009

Summer Recess Entry 1: Everyone's Special Boy

An ancient and obscure French blowhard once said that a person's worth in the world is estimated according to the value they put on themselves.

In accordance with this (because I'm in no way doubtful that he is well-versed in the ways of ancient and obscure French philosophy), Timothy "Kinger" King throws an annual party at his parents' house to remind everyone he knows that they should love him more than any of their other friends.

And just to make sure that all those invited know that these parties are about how awesome he is and nothing else, Kinger has dubbed every single one of them "Timapalooza."

And here, we must pause.

"Now, Bob," you might say. "You're being awfully harsh about his motivations."

This could not be any further from the truth. I fully support Kinger's actions. To tell the truth, if every other young person on the planet planned a festival of drunken debauchery in their own honor once a year, I'm pretty sure we'd all feel a lot better about ourselves.

Of course, now that Kinger's done it first, every other party would obviously tank pretty hard in comparison and cause a nationwide epidemic of erectile dysfunction. So, if you were already trying to figure out how much to save for beer after that last paragraph, I would advise heavily against trying this at home.

Now, to get back on track, I have been to two out of three Timapalooza's, and both of them have been flame-headed successes. Unfortunately, being that both me and my ladyfriend guest had to drive home last year, I did not get to experience the full glory of self-indulgence until this past Friday.

To say the least, it was absolutely magical.

I arrived on the scene at about 9:30 pm, and things were already very much underway: Over 50 kids, a Beirut table, a fridge full of beer, a more or less full bar (tended by the illustrious Collin Gately,) and plenty of French techno. An overly red-faced and jovial Kinger flitted about the scene, clearly very pleased.

Whether he was capable of intending to do this or not, Kinger was the absolute center of attention. This was an evening that he had to ask no one if they knew who he was. He made sure to talk to nearly everyone, yell at the top of his lungs (garnering copious amounts of laughter and applause,) and sing a Blink 182 number with the evening's cover band, all within the first hour of my attendance. He was on fire, literally (he had procured quite a sunburn) and figuratively.

I spent these first few hours sober, as I had agreed to drive a lovely young woman named Colleen O'Keefe home at 11:30. Surprisingly, even without my dranking goggles on, everything was just as mystical as it was promised to be. In fact, I think I was happier to have witnessed this portion of the evening's antics with my senses fully intact. I may rag on our dear Kinger here and there for overstoking his own ego and legend, but the boy sure knows how to bring a bunch of people together and show them a good time.

So, I enjoyed a solid 2 hours of "not drunk" before driving the little lady home. I was pretty optimistic about my return to the party. Things were going absolutely swimmingly, and I couldn't wait to legally impair myself amongst many of my dearest friends in this most delightful of Kinger-produced environments.

I will have to take a raincheck.

So, when I kicked (see also: gently opened) the door to the King household at approximately 12:15 am, I was informed of a few things very quickly.

One: there was no more beer.

what the fuck.

Two: there were some crashers. they probably took the beer (I'm thinking this is where "kids who don't even fucking know the words" got their revenge.)

What the fuck.

Three: Kinger had already passed out in his room.

Okay, fucking seriously?

I mean, what I saw before me was far from a mess, ladies and gents, but it was also far from what I had been in the thick of before. Honestly, you could paint scenes from that golden two hours, 19th century style. This? Not so much. I was floored. My drunkety drunk time with Kinger and co. had simply become.... drunk time with... and co.

Thankfully, the evening ultimately proved to be far from ruined (in addition to all the other things it was "far" from.) I ended up meeting quite a few nice people that I had only been vaguely familiar with, and the evening ended with some marvelous quality time with two acquaintances who I now hope to consider pretty good friends. The evening may have fallen apart to a certain extent, but thankfully things were set on a nice slow burn and we could all watch the evening smolder together. It was like a bonfire, except with Tim King's hopes and dreams.

So, in a very sincere turn for my study, I've realized something. As much as I give Kinger shit for his self-declared epicness and importance, he really was keeping that party together. The post-passed out party was still a good time, but it didn't have that distinct spark present when Kinger was up and stumbling about. I have come to the conclusion that we all really need Timapalooza to remind us that there's a little Kinger (re: drunken loudmouth) in all of us, and fuck me if it's not liberating.