Pittsburgh

There are only two places that I’ve ever had a sustained yearning to live in besides Minneapolis.

Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of places I love to visit. And on certain perfect nights of alcohol, communion, and warm wind blasting in through open car windows on the way to the next bar, I can catch a mental glimpse of myself picking up stakes and making a new life in a new place – anonymous, lost, a brand-new baby bird.

But only Chicago and San Francisco have had real staying power in my psyche as places where I actually belong. Like I could and should have started my life there but have just chosen to live another one back in Minneapolis for 15 years instead.

But there’s a reason that home is home. And my lust for these two rubies isn’t hearty enough to roam. I also honestly love Minneapolis independent of the fact that I’ve lived here since I was 12. Right now especially, what with the Water Park of America opening right next to the Mall of America. Having those sorts of American amenities close at hand makes it hard to leave.

Interestingly, it’s the place that I’ve had maybe the least desire to actually live in that has intrigued me the most in my travels, has crawled inside my brain and refused to leave. Hands down, that is Pittsburgh. Disarmingly beautiful, with a storied past, a bleak present, and an uncertain future. The Jewel of the Rust Belt. Home of the 2006 Super Bowl Champion Steelers. Hell With the Lid Off.

The Topography Quotient

I don’t think people who’ve never been to Pittsburgh understand how striking and unexpectedly gorgeous it is. I know I didn’t when I first went. Western Pennsylvania is just the beginning of miles upon miles of bumps and bruises and breaks in the earth that comprise this region.

So the approach by car is obscured by foothills and valleys and gives you no indication that you’re actually nearing the city center. Then you turn around a bend and it’s RIGHT FUCKING THERE, and you’re almost right in it, right in the belly of the beast, with no warning or provocation, and its big and its terrible and its terrifying and its epic and its ancient.

A mangled and beautiful mess of hills and valleys, drops and curves, sudden and jarring inclines and declines in elevation, leafy and unlit passages, ancient trees and unforgiving roads, jagged angles and startling vistas. Bricks and mortar and concrete and sagging foundations, dense row housing placed carefully and cautiously wherever it won’t fall over from harsh gradients. A city built in-spite-of rather than because-of.

Sutured and connected by bridge after bridge after bridge over three troubled waters, three converging and colossal rivers that meet together at the tip of the center city, as old as the earth and death and time, worked to exhaustion carrying decades of coal and steel.

When driving on high-arcing roads perched precariously far above the winding rivers, one can look out on the whole horrible and gorgeous clutter all at once and get the unshakable feeling that they are not tethered to this earth, but rather flying with great velocity and confidence through the air. At the summit of Mt. Washington, minutes from downtown, looking down upon massive skyscrapers as if they’re children’s playthings, you are floating effortlessly above the city like an angel on silk wings.

I guess my point is that it looks kinda cool.

The view from the top of Mt. Washington (photo by Alison):


The Shame Quotient

There was a time when Pittsburgh was On Top Of It All. People will tell you this and it will be true.

Steel and Coal were King and Pittsburgh was Queen. Jobs plentiful, homes abundant, schools full, beers cold, skies black with coal smoke, but hearts content. Like Detroit, Cleveland, and every other city in the Rust Belt, everything changed as manufacturing production moved overseas in search of cheap and unregulated labor.

After Big Industry left town, water and air purity went up. But job opportunities, apartment rents, municipal revenues, and spirits certainly went down. This marked the true beginnings of a palpable Pittsburgh Shame.

Defining Pittsburgh Shame with precision is a challenge as its not shame in the purest sense of the word. There are no hung heads or long faces. Its more akin to a knowing smirk while shaking one’s head and tossing back another Iron City, a shared collective humor built on celebrating the absurd and comical elements of one’s hometown. While most Pittsburgh residents – current or former – probably harbor some semblance of this consciousness, Pittsburgh Shame is most prevalent in those born after 1980.

There’s a reason.

Unless you’re going to Carnegie Mellon or UPitt there’s not a lot for people under 30 to do (beyond develop a sizeable drinking problem). Some of my favorite people in the world are from Pittsburgh, and most of them left after high school for cities with, you know, other young people in them. They speak about their old hometown with the dark and self-deprecating humor that is the hallmark of Pittsburgh Shame.

They explain that Allegheny County has the second oldest population in the entire country, second only to some coastal Florida county filled with retirement communities. I’ve never actually checked Census records to confirm the veracity of this statement, because that’s not the point. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It matters that their Pittsburgh Shame leads them to believe its true.

Drunk and/or stoned after 3AM is usually the best time to talk to them about these things.

The Pride Quotient


As insistent or moreso than Pittsburgh Shame is Pittsburgh Pride.

Pittsburgh Pride is the kind of indignant and slightly resentful dignity that can only be forged in places that are overlooked by mainstream media and the majority of the country (see also: Flyover Country). A unique, insular sort of pride that shows wild and enthusiastic support for all things local. Hometown heroes and sports icons, mostly.

Hometown Heroes
In Oakland, just to the east of Pittsburgh proper, there is a huge wooden sign standing firmly and confidently in the midst of a quiet residential neighborhood. The first time we ever visited Pittsburgh, my friend Ryan made a point to drive us to this sign during our tour of the city. He thought we should see it because it represented something significant about the Pittsburgh Experience™.

It meant little to him personally (his Pittsburgh Shame caused him to find it more hilarious than inspirational), but he knew it was a meaningful symbol for the lionization of hometown heroes that is endemic to Pittsburgh Pride.

The sign (photo by Alison):


Sports Icons

There are probably very few things in the world more awesome than being in Pittsburgh and being Mario Lemieux or Bill Cowher. This is because if you are Mario Lemieux or Bill Cowher and you are in the Pittsburgh vicinity, you are a Golden God.

You have both pulled your respective franchises (Pens and Steelers, duh) from ruin and placed them among the league elite. You have consistently performed at an extremely high level, with the utmost class and professionalism.

Perhaps most importantly, you have never expressed an interest in leaving the Pittsburgh area and you have consciously chosen to make Pittsburgh your home. For your loyalty to this city, a city that so many denigrate and so few understand, you have been anointed as saviors by the soldiers of Pittsburgh Pride. Congratulations. Yinz done us proud.

SECTION DELETED.

Yinz Gon’ Dahn-Tahn?

As I said before, I really have no desire to live in Pittsburgh. But something about it is undeniably compelling. It rose to glory and fell from glory – a fallen angel, a dashed dream – but stubbornly perseveres with equal parts grace, shame and pride.

Visiting it reminds me why I love cities. They’re the massive, intricate and ancient representations of our hopes, fears, needs, and wants all laid out together – raw, urgent, complex and hopeful – in a physical, built form that took centuries to grow.

Blurhackppthbht. Oh shit, sorry, I just threw up in my own mouth. A natural gagging reflex to my own pretention. My bad.

Go Steelers.

Post-Post Modernity and America's Funniest Videos

When "America's Funniest Home Videos" premiered on ABC in 1989 I was 7 years old, single, living in Brookfield, 8 minutes to the west of Milwaukee, under the watchful and Lutheran eyes of my parents. It is now 2006 and I am 25 years old, married, living in St. Paul, 8 minutes to the west of Woodbury, under the watchful and perverted eyes of the Level III sex offenders who live in the apartment building across the street.

Communism has fallen in Eastern Europe. Two Gulf Wars have been fought. A new millennium has started. Jesus Jones, EMF, and Eve 6, came and went, unceremoniously. I graduated elementary school, then junior high, then high school, then college.

America's Funniest Home Videos is still on the air.

It is less a television show and more a social institution. Irrepressible. Ancient. Forever. No beginning and no end.

Its impact on our cultural world is deceptive. Its about more than the face value, the sledding accidents, the funny dogs, the stupid babies tripping all over themselves. There is something significant underneath it all related to how we view human creation. It's about a new way of looking at the world called post-post modernism.

Let's take a closer look by examining first the common perceptions of AFV.

Perception #1: AFV is 100% Horrible

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I could/should poke fun at AFV (*ed. note: the show was changed to an acronym in the early 2000s in the interest of greater efficiency). You're thinking that the humor is simple, infantile, predictable. You're thinking that the host (Saget, Fuentes, Bergeron - take your pick) and their riffing and quipping are rote, safe, and unfunny. You're thinking I'm going to rip AFV the proverbial new asshole.

You are kind of right.

Perception #2: AFV is 100% Hilarious Due to the Fact that it is Horrible

I know what else you're thinking. You're thinking that I could/should talk about how AFV is actually quite hilarious because of just how ridiculous it is. You're thinking it is an ironic-comedic gem, what with the zany sound effects, bizarre "funny" voices from the host and horrible theme song with its awkward and obvious refrain: "America, This Is You."

You are kind of right.



Perception #3: AFV is 100% Sincerely Great

I know the final thing you're thinking. You're thinking that I could/should cut AFV a break because in all sincerity it is a funny TV show filled to the brim with funny videos that are actually funny for real reasons related to the fact that they're funny in reality for real. You're thinking that there is something undeniably compelling about watching a man get hit in the penis with a baseball, and you're thinking that you are tired of feeling guilty and/or unsophisticated for thinking so.

You are also thinking that this singing cat is better than most things on television.

You are kind of right.



The Real Shit

The real shit, the heart of the matter, is that you are right on all three accounts.

1) AFV is horrible.

2) AFV is so horrible that its hilarious.

3) AFV is actually really great.

Reading those statements, do any of them strike you as inaccurate? More likely now than ever before, none of them will, despite the fact that they're contradictory to one another.

How can this be?

This can be, my friends, because we have evolved as a society to the final stage of arts and entertainment appreciation: post-post modernity. We are beginning to see that all human creation can be understood on no less than three levels simultaneously, with levels contradicting each other but still working in concert. It's post-post modernity. A subtle and nuanced experience. That's the real shit.

The Real, Real Shit

And the real, real shit here, the key to post-post modernity, lies in the exploding resurgence of sincerity. It's back. And it's better than ever, a newer and more evolved level of sincerity forged in the flames of what's come before.

It is again okay to genuinely and honestly appreciate human creations despite the fact that much of society shits upon them. This can be done without fear of retribution from our cultural elite (i.e. writers for Pitchfork, your cool cousin with the tortoise-shell glasses) because post-post modern appreciation is coupled with a healthy appreciation for irony and critical thinking. It is the perfect amalgamation of the naive sincerity of modernity and the unrelenting, exhuasting irony and detachment of post-modernity.

It is the Post-Post Modern Age of Enlightened Sincerity. We are finally able to recognize the ugly and uninspired and awkward, and the pure and graceful and daring -- all in the same places and at the same times, with equal reverence given to each.

That's the real, real shit.

America's Funniest Videos is but one example. Everything can and should be viewed with enightened sincerity.

Here are but a few other examples of cultural items that can be easily appreciated using the post-post modernist approach:

My Chemical Romance
Top Chef
Coldplay
Michael Bay Films
The VFW Bar on Lyndale and 28th, The One with Karaoke

I am no established cultural theorist, mind you. No semiotic credentials. But its unmistakable. Post-post modernity is here, and here to stay.

Throw away your ironic mesh trucker hat and throw on your ironic-and-sincere-at-the-same-time mesh trucker hat. AFV is up next.

++++++++++++

Post-Script
Some Additional Thoughts on AFV and Bob Saget



In 1989, when AFV hit the air on ABC, The Oakland Athletics were in the process of dismantling the San Francisco Giants in a four game sweep of the famous Battle of the Bay Series, hiccuped and sutured in the middle by the massive Loma Prieta earthquake that shook the entire Bay Area just as Game 3 started. A huge fan of the Bash Brothers and the dominant Cy Young season of Dave Stewart, I held a rabid interest in the series, as well as the San Francisco metropolitan area. Moreso than most 7 year olds from the Upper Midwest, at the least.

This poster hung above my bed:



Another equally enthralling and socially important event at this time was Full House, an extremely popular television show about a bunch of middle-aged dudes with feathered mullets (related? they might have been related, but maybe not) taking care of three precocious and annoying children (retarded? was the baby retarded? the baby might have had down syndrome, I can't remember) in a large row house on a steep San Francisco hill overlooking the city.

I absolutely fucking loved this show. My brother and I did not miss an episode. The Friday night adventures of Michelle ("Don't Have a Cow, Man"), Stephanie ("How Rude"), Uncle Jesse ("Have Mercy"), Uncle Joey ("Cut. It. Out."), DJ (no catch phrase) and Danny (ditto) were heart-warming, charming.



Between the earthquakes, the baseball, the large-muscled (probably steroid-juiced) baseball players who hit many home runs and dressed like SNL characters I had never seen, the Tanners and their wacky neighbor Kimmy, the milkman, the paperboy, the evening TV, shibidoop dwop dwa dow, it's easy to see that the San Francisco Bay Area loomed large in my conscience at this time.

As such, when Bob Saget, Danny Tanner, host of Wake Up San Francisco, was tapped to host the maiden edition of AFV, the show could not miss in the eyes of this towheaded and rambunctious Cream City sprite.

The key point here is that I may be somewhat biased about the greatness of AFV due to my own personal history.

Please take my endorsement with a grain of salt.

The Baltimore Connection

He ambles over. This is it. He is really coming over.

Bright, shiny, round, ample, redfaced, lightly-sweated, fucking glowing like fucking Santa Claus. Outfitted in logoless black sweat pants and a matching black sweat shirt - a retired, out of shape Ninja. A 5' 5" black, rotund monolith with white New Balance hightops, a daring and unashamed contrast with the rest of his getup. A Guinness pint in his massive right hand. Smiling.

George Fucking Wendt. In Baltimore.

"Hey man," he says, amicably. His voice is the voice of Norm. Norm from Cheers. He reaches to shake my hand. I extend mine out in return, as if I somehow deserve to touch the hand of Norm. Norm from Cheers. "Really hot set tonight, man. No, really, great stuff."

Blushing? Did I blush in response to Norm? Norm from Cheers? Yes, that's it. My initial response to Norm from Cheers was to blush, to make my face red. "Oh wow, thanks a lot man! Thanks for coming!" He nods and ambles away, back to his friend and their conversation.

I lean over to the dude I was talking to, our eyes lock and bulge in unison. We return to our previous conversation. We are nonchalant. To the public, we give the impression that this shit is cool. This shit happens all the time when you are in a professional touring rock band. This is what happens at "gigs." This is par for the proverbial course. We are unaffected. Nonplussed.

On the inside, I can only think one thing. "Thank God that shit with me and Wendt is cool again."

+++++++++++++++++++++

Let me start at the beginning by telling you that playing a rock show in Baltimore on a Monday night, if you are not from Baltimore and do not possess hundreds of old friends and family members that want to see your rock band, is an inherently bad idea. People will not come to see your rock band play music. This is possibly because people are too busy trying to not be murdered to come see your rock band. Really, being anywhere in Baltimore on any night is a dicey proposition.

I exaggerate. Baltimore is actually quite beautiful on the approach. But I exaggerate for a reason. When the first band begins on this night, there are exactly 2 paying customers present at the show. No one is really that upset because, actually, this is normal, in Baltimore at least.

Slowly it becomes a known fact among the bands that good god holy fuck george wendt is here yeah norm norm from cheers the fat one yeah the one that always drank, oh yeah that one was he also the one who was the mailman who knew all that trivia no that was cliff cleven oh yeah right oh okay yeah holy shit there he is at the bar what the fuck this is nuts dude.

Let me interject here that famous people do not come to see rock bands of our size play. It is not something that happens in life.

He's with a friend, of similar age and disposition, though not famous, at least to me. They are drinking Guinness pints together and seem to be having a good time. This is a mystery on par with Stonehenge. Did they wind up here by accident? Do they know the owner and drink for free? Maybe the most interesting question: Does George Wendt live in Baltimore? Who would consciously choose to retire here? The questions are endless. Ryan starts talking to him and his friend. They are taking for a long time. It seems friendly. Ryan is actually talking to Norm from Cheers and his not-famous friend and it is going well. Holy shit.

It is discovered by those of us who are not-too-subtly eavesdropping on their conversation that George Wendt and his friend are a) big fans of underground music b) used to go see shows together all the time in L.A. "back in the day" c) have heard of Thunderbirds are Now, the band Ryan is in, because the not-famous friend has a son who is a big fan d) are coming to "check out" the bands. Also, George Wendt is in town doing Twelve Angry Men at the Hippodrome Theatre in Downtown Baltimore and his friend is a TV critic who now lives in Baltimore.

Word gets around. The realization sinks in that George Wendt is like, sort of, like, one of us. He is down with the "jams." Excitement builds. Imagined comfort levels are raised. Shit will be cool with us and George Wendt.

Murmurs begin floating around between a few of the bands about dude we should get a picture yeah you're right but wouldn't that be weird yeah probably a little awkward i don't want to be that guy that's all like yo dude can i get a picture yeah but when's the next time norm from cheers is gonna be at your show yeah good point i should get a picture. I mean, George Wendt probably gets asked for his picture all the time, right? He's used to it, and maybe a little honored and touched? Especially considering the imagined kinship we now feel due to rumors of his interest in the rock music we are going to play tonight. He would be down, right?

This is what I tell myself when I decide to ask for a photo. Matt will be the cameraman. I will be in a picture with Norm, Norm from Cheers and it will be triumphant and pure and something for the ages. A document looked back upon by historians and scholars, surely. We walk over to Mr. Wendt and his dude.

I try to sound polite, eager, interested. Maybe too much. "Hey there, sorry to interrupt, do you think there's any chance we could take a quick photo?"

A pause. Oh god. The pause is interminable. Will he ever respond? He is not responding. It's easily been 3 hours since I asked, right? Fuck. I shouldn't have done this. This was a mistake. I never wanted to be that guy that asks for the photo.

Finally, after epochs of torture he responds, unsmiling, annoyed. "Yeah sure."

I am the scum of the earth. I am a pariah, a parasite, a desperate bitch in the eyes of Norm from Cheers. He has no respect for me. I am the guy who asks for the photo when he is just trying to chill, down some brews with his homie, and watch some jams. The evidence is clear:


On the left, you'll see Norm from Cheers stifling his anger and resentment through a mask of stoicism. On the right, you'll see me disguising my self-loathing and regret through a stiff, terse smile. No teeth. Halfheartedly raising my beer to some sort of communion of souls that never really took place. Striking, really, this image of dashed dreams and ugly ambitions gone wrong.

I thank George Wendt for his time and walk back backstage with Matt. We both know that what went down was not right. Awkward. Not right. We feel dirty. Ashamed. The one time in our entire lives that we will be in the same room as Norm from Cheers was spent being the guys who ask for the photo. He hates us. Despite my initial hopes, shit is most definitely not cool with me and George Wendt and probably never will be. The guilt and dread is monumental. I resign myself to this destiny.

A funny thing happens though.

Despite the small crowd, my band plays our rock music on this night with some chutzpah, gusto, hoohah, whizbang. Sweat flies, blood runs free on fret boards, legs are kicked in the air, amps are turned up, hearts are set afire, ears are left ringing. I'm not ashamed to admit that we kinda brought the pain on this Monday night in Baltimore. Maybe Wendt was the catalyst, I don't know. His presence may have ignited a passion, that next gear.

While packing up guitars and moving amps off stage for the next band to start, we are told that George Wendt, Norm, Norm from Cheers was moved enough by our flailing rock boom to actually leave the stools he and his friend were sitting on at the upper bar and head down to the main floor to watch us from a closer vantage point. This did not happen for other bands on this Monday night in Baltimore. This, this, this is something. We moved Norm from Cheers off of his fucking BAR STOOL, which, if you're at all a fan of the television show Cheers, you know is where he spent all of his time. Getting him off his stool was difficult on that show. It was a task.

We fucking did that shit. Read em' and weep, Vera (Norm's unseen wife on the show who was often unsuccessful at getting Norm to come home from aforementioned bar stool). I begin to wonder if maybe, shit is cool with me and George Wendt again. I hope. I pray. I go to the bar for a beer, Budweiser bottle. Start talking to my friend Michael.

That's when Norm, Norm from Cheers, George Wendt, ambles over to me, right hand extended out in a show of friendship. I am redeemed, forgiven, absolved, triumphant.

Shit is cool with me and Wendt.

Gilbert Arenas - The Takeover

Hands down, I have a new favorite blog.

Do you know Gilbert Arenas? If you don't you should.

He's the starting point guard for the Washington Wizards. A two-time All Star. 29 PPG last year, good for fourth in the league. Wears the number "0." Takes off his jersey at the end of every home game and throws it in the crowd before walking into the locker room shirtless. Gives bizarre but disarmingly honest quotes after games. On former teammate Larry Hughes' return from injury in 2005 remarked: "I don't want to see him come back like Ma$e did and be a flop."

This man has a blog and it is the most compelling thing I've read on the internet since that one time I saw that one message board where people talked about stuff.

His blog is a lot like his game: creative, eccentric, daring, exciting and completely self-absorbed (though what blogger isn't?).



++++++++++++++

On the upcoming 2006-2007 NBA season, a season he has publicly dubbed "The Takeover":
The Takeover is just about everything. From taking over the city, I'm trying to take over the league, taking over sponsors, taking over you know ... Just the industry of everything ... Getting buildings in my name, getting leagues in my name ... This is the time where, you know, me as a person is gonna go get bigger.

On the fact that he wore a robe (yes, a robe) to opening night this year:
I was planning on doing it last year, but I just thought the way this year was going, it's just The Takeover. I'm trying be mentioned. If I came out in that robe and had a bad game, they was gonna make fun of me. That's how I was getting pumped for the game. I want all of this to come back on me. A lady made it for me for my birthday two years ago. I used to use it when I used to beat Chucky Atkins in dominoes. I used to come out to the gym after I'd beat him and I'd say, "I'm the king!" and I'd hold the belt. And Chucky used to die laughing from it.

On his recent charity work in Washington D.C. and his future political aspirations:
I'm doing a thing for the D.C. metropolitan area called Scores for Kids, wait, no, Scores for Schools, so every point I score at a home game, I donate a hundred bucks to that school. So, if they would have added up the home games last year I would have owed them probably $120,000. It was just for me to help better our public schools and our private schools out there. You know, help them fund to keep kids in school, keep kids wanting to come to school because you know, it's the young generation that's going to help us grow old so we have to better their lives.

James Brown was excited to be a part of the whole movement that I call The Takeover that I'm trying to just ... One day run for mayor! In Washington, but that's a long way, that's 30 years from now.

On his other business ventures:
Right now, me and DeShawn Stevenson are collaborating. We're going to start a talent agency called 0-2 Talents and we're going to start it out by having a model calendar.

We're going to have female models, we're going to do little kid modeling calendars. Just, we're trying to do everything with little kids, and with AAU teams, we're going to have a lot of AAU teams. We're just going to be a talent agency, just me and him. We're starting it off, we're kicking it off by having a calendar of some of the top celebrity women and models out there.

We'll include whoever we think are popular, good role models. I don't want to confirm names yet, because we're still in the process of doing that right now. I don't think there's been any NBA player that's ever did this, that were actually basically agents while they were playing. I'll be busy, but that's why we hire people to run our business.

On the new Wizards uniforms:
I like them. It's 10 times better than that, what is it? Aqua-blue?

On vitamin water:
I'm signing a deal with Vitamin Water. That's all I drink is Vitamin Water. I'm making deals, I'm making progress.

+++++++++++++

In all sincerity, no sarcasm, this stuff is enthralling. At least I think so.

Not in the way that you might assume, though. I'm not here to mock his grammar, braggadocio, or intelligence. The troublesome cultural notion of "boy, professional atheletes sure are stupid and irresponsible" is usually race and class condescension miscast as innocent fun. I don't intend to perpetuate that.

No, what I find interesting is that he carries himself more like a self-promoting rapper than a basketball player. Most NBA players will pepper their public quotes with stock, rote, boring images like "we really competed as a team tonight" or "we need to execute down the stretch" or the dreaded invocation of deity: "I just gotta thank God for helping me throw down that vicious dunk on Speedy Claxton's head tonight."

Gilbert isn't interested or capable of talking that way. He's more akin to Damon Dash, Jay-Z or 50 Cent than Lebron James or Carmelo Anthony. Vitamin water, starting a modeling agency, signing deals, making progress, eventually being the mayor of Washington D.C.

I like this. I've always liked this personality, the hustle, the paper chase. It's honest and revealing. It's easier to identify with this type of millionaire than those that don't seem to outwardly acknowledge their money. Also his name is Gilbert, which you can't help but like.

I've got a link set up to The Takeover for you on the right. Bookmark it and learn what its like to Gilbert.

The Rage Index Redux

Well.

It took three weeks and 476,893 text-messaged votes (standard texting charges + $0.99 per message) from all 50 states and however crazy many crazy provinces there are in crazy Canada. Guided by the same faultless, perfect, universal logic behind focus groups, futures markets, American Idol voting, and McCarthyism -- namely that collective intelligence is always right, all the time -- we finally have a fully-crystallized Rage Index, ready for public review.

Behold, the Arctopus:

1 - Chill (3,1,0.2)*
2 - Hang Out (3,1,0.2)
3 - Kick It (3,1,0.2)
4 - Get Wasted (5,4,0.1)
5 - Get Awesome (9,4,0.5)
6 - Get Out of Control (O.O.C.) (8,5, 0.3)
7 - Rage (10, 6, 0.4)
8 - Get Really Real (9,6, 0.3)
9 - Some Next Level Shit (10, 7, 0.3)
9.5 - Get Fucked Out of Your Minds (10,8, 0.2)
10 - Vision Quest**
*(maximum score, minimum score, range of response)
**added later due to irrefutable logic and intensity of personal experiences with evenings described as VQs

As my sociology professors always said: "Let's unpack this."

The first thing worth noting is that the bottom three choices (Chill, Hang Out, Kick It) all had identical minimums, maximums, and response ranges. They scored similarly enough amongst all the responses that we could easily interchange them to refer to the same thing. "Let's chill tonight," Let's hang out tonight," and "Let's kick it tonight" all mean basically the same thing, usually involving the drinking of less than or equal to 4 beers and going home by midnight.

The item with the lowest range of responses was Get Wasted. It's a known quantity, with little confusion or consternation surrounding what it "means" to be Get Wasted. Most people put it halfway or just below halfway on the scale. As a society, when one says "I got wasted last night," there is no uncertainty about what one means. We can easily envision what this person did (drank at least 7 beers [or 5 beers and 1 Sparks [[or 5 beers and 1 mixed drink or shot [[[or no beers but at least 3 mixed drinks or shots and any combination of Sparks]]]]]], saying some funny shit that makes only tangential sense, possibly freestyle rapping over "The Black Album" with your other drunk, white friends) without asking additional questions.

The item with the highest range of responses was Get Awesome. It was voted as high as a "9" (extremely rageful) and as low as a "4" (almost halfway), which ultimately is close to where it wound up ("5"). This indicates that while most people probably consider Getting Awesome to be one step above the low-key evening described a few paragraphs ago, a select few equate it to an evening licking uncut cocaine off a Honduran child prostitute at a masked orgy. Where does the cultural confusion persist for Getting Awesome? This deserves further academic investigation from my colleagues in the Rage Studies community.

Another item with a high range of response was Rage, the very word the index is named after. While everyone placed it above the halfway mark, some made it a "10" (the most intense parties of all time, think ritualistic sacrifices), and some made it a "6" (one step above Getting Awesome, usually involves puking in a stranger's toilet before passing out on the tile while others knock angrily on the door because they have to pee and can't figure out why this asshole is hogging the bathroom). Like Getting Awesome, Rage deserves further analysis from the Ivory Tower of academia.

But this is about so much more than academia. Knowledge alone can't pay the mortgages on my Bermuda timeshares. I need THE PAPER, as the rappers would say. So, I've got a Rage Index business venture in the works.

Party-planning logarithims.

How does this work, you may ask? Let me explain.

Example 1: Mr. Wilson and Ms. Phillips would like to throw a party to celebrate Mr. Wilson's recent job promotion. They want a fun party, but don't want it to get out of control. Why? Because they are fucking pussies. Their motivations are besides the point though, the point is that they don't want to get too crazy.

So they take a look at the Rage Index (trademark*) and decide that they want a "3" -- in other words, they would like to Kick It. They input this request into the software and are immediately given 3 scenarios for how to create the party atmosphere conducive to Kicking It. See below.

Database Query Results for "Kicking It"
a) Alcohol: BYOB, only one 12-pack of high-class imported beer available as back-up
Drugs: One bowl of marijuana, shared among all guests to disperse highness
Food: vegetables and dip
Music: Dave Matthews Band
Orgy?: No
Size Limit: 8 guests

b) Alcohol: Red Wine, only four large bottles
Food: Chips and Dip (two bags, one jar)
Drugs: None
Music: Quasi-urban (i.e. yes to Justin Timberlake, no to Three Six Mafia)
Orgy?: No
Size Limit: 10 guests

c) Alcohol: Mixed drinks, one bottle of high-class vodka (tequila prohibited)
Food: Full Dinner, to counteract effects of hard alcohol
Drugs: None
Music: Ani DiFranco
Orgy?: No
Size Limit: 10 guests

Do you see how easy this makes their party planning experience? Let's look at another scenario.

Example 2: Mr. Hall and Mr. Oates are successful trial lawyers in the midst of a mid-life crisis. Their wives are out of town for the weekend. They want to almost die in the name of raging over this one weekend of sweet freedom. They look at the Rage Index (trademark*) and decide they want a "9" -- in other words, they would like to Get Into Some Next Level Shit. Beep, boop, ding, zing, the computer tells them what to do.

Database Query Results for "Some Next Level Shit"
a) Alcohol: 3 bottles of absinthe
Drugs: Cocaine, Marijuana
Music: Spank Rock, The Rapture
Orgy?: Use best judgement
Size: 20 guests

b) Alcohol: 4 kegs of low-grade domestic beer
Drugs: Cocaine, Marijuana, painkillers
Music: that one song about "sucking on my titties like you wanna" played on repeat
Orgy?: Yes
Size: 30 guests, preferably masked and physically attractive

c) Alcohol: Gin, neat
Drugs: Shrooms
Music: Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Phish, other hippy shit
Orgy?: Probably impossible
Size: Hard to tell, everything so hazy

I mean wow! What a powerful application! How much would you be willing to pay for such a revolutionary, life-changing product?

My bet is at least three installments of $99.99 (not including shipping or handling).