The Sasquatch Journal

Three years ago, I had this article published in Relevant Magazine about my 26th birthday:

http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life_article.php?id=2435

Since today I'm 29, I thought I'd do a little bit more self-conscious navel gazing. First off, I wish I could say I've done a lot more maturing and growing up since I wrote this, but the truth is...I haven't. I'm still in an entry level job, single and in debt. And I'd still say I am "straddling that line" between adolescence and adulthood, though I did make a bold decision to move out to L.A. in the first place.

But of course it doesn't help that I live in the most immature city in the world. L.A. is what I like to call a theme park for twenty and thirtysomethings, especially for singles. I also spend almost all my time hanging out with people 5 years younger than me - those still in the same stage of quasi-adulthood. And then there is just the mere fact that I can just be insanely immature sometimes. I laugh sometimes when I should be serious, I can be awkward in normal social situations, I duck some responsibilities I should take care of, I still like to play video games and fantasy sports, etc.

At the same time, nobody's perfect. As immature as I can be, most importantly I've shaped my life around a God centered community and made sacrifices to do so and I've not let my career or other things get in the way of things that are most important in life. I feel like been successful though not in the conventional sense that our culture thinks about success AKA 1. Made a lot of money. 2. Become famous.

Anyway, enough of that... I thought I'd make a few footnotes to the article I originally wrote:

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Twenty Six Times Two

Today is my birthday, and I can’t even crawl out of bed. For what feels like the 20 millionth Tuesday in a row, I have to wake up at 7 a.m.

The trusty snooze button, like always, is my temporary savior, but today it seems more of a nine-minute reminder of my own weakness. I finally tear myself from my bed, hunched over from the pulsating pain in my upper back as punishment for playing tennis two days in a row. Yes, you read that correctly … tennis. Excuse me while I smash my face into the monitor. (This isn't a problem anymore. Mostly because I've only played tennis once in the past 9 months.)

If age 30 is the new 21, how come 26 feels like the next 52? That’s what I am today— 26 years old. The party side of the 20s behind me, the business side in the front. Thirty is just a hop and a skip away, and 40 is within screaming distance. Baby steps towards Death’s Door. Forget dating. If Joshua Harris would have had a book called I Kissed Aging Goodbye, he might have been on to something. (*Yeah, that line sounds even more cheesy and dated three years later.)

It’s a morbidly exaggerated observation, but that’s how I felt at 7 a.m. on this Tuesday.

But now, 15 minutes later, cruising in my car with a little caffeine injected in my system, I’m feeling a wee bit more spry.

Twenty-six ain’t so bad. And it seems like as good as time as any to reflect on my life. At least it’s better than listening to this P. Diddy song. (*Let the record show he is just Diddy now.) Like many other middle class mid-twentysomethings, I am in the midst of one of those too familiar post-college hazes—entry-level job, single and in debt.

The MTV show The Real World has it all wrong. Twentysomething life isn’t one melodramatic soliloquy after another in between crazy relationships and wild drunken experiences. That’s just college minus the classes. In real life, no one has time to be that pathetically self-absorbed, not when you’ve got deadlines and 8 a.m. meetings.

I experience most of the trappings of the clichéd middle class “real-world” existence: the soul-crushing daily grind, a 30-minute commute, a desk where I park my rear 40 hours a week and gossipy and bitter coworkers. And believe me, it’s nothing like Friends.(*My job now makes me feel like I'm 18. I play video games all day with guys who talk about Kevin Smith movies, World of Warcraft and sex.)

On the other hand, I, like Tyler Durden, am not my job, anly am not my bleeping khakis (though I do wear the same pair just about every day). I cringe at the idea of cocktail parties, barbecues and other social staples of “adult life.” I don’t want to talk about kids, mortgages and health plans. Just the word “wedding” makes my mouth go dry. (*I have no idea why I put barbecues in this list, barbecues rock.)
And in some ways I’m still living in the shadows of my teens, I think to myself as I shout out the lyrics to a Nelly song in between sips of a Dr. Pepper and the awkward bulge of a Game Boy Advance in my back pocket. (*Wow, I have a lot of dated references in this article. For instance, I have a Game Boy DS now. Not a Game Boy Advance. Hah)

Contradiction? Probably. Complication? Definitely.

But it comes with the territory. We’re a generation rife with both. We say we don’t care about the American Dream, but the vast majority of us spend thousands of dollars on college and work 50-hour work weeks.

We’ve been called the most conservative since the World War II generation, but divorce rates, children born out of wedlock and abortion rates continue to grow. We are said to be a spiritually seeking generation, but most of us spend most of our lives trying to being fulfilled by relationships, entertainment or materialism.

Of course, that’s just my guess. It would help if “my generation” were more clearly defined.

Am I part of Generation X or Y, a Baby Buster or a Post-Boomer, the MTV Generation or the Internet Generation? Can I make my own generation for fun? Someone important needs to make a final ruling on this.

In the meantime, many of us twentysomethings will keep straddling the line between adolescence and adulthood, conformity and steadfast individuality. We’ll keep working for The Man without selling our souls to him. We’ll keep one eye on the on Nasdaq and the other on the comics section. We’ll keep wearing our Star Wars T-shirts under our suits and ties. (*I'd never wear a Star Wars T-shirt. Just Mario Brothers boxer shorts.)

And most of all, we’ll keep writing deadly serious articles with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Well, we will tomorrow. Today’s my birthday.

[Ryan Smith is a reporter and freelance writer and is still a remarkable physical specimen for the ripe old age of 26. He credits his fine health to a steady diet of Whopper Juniors and Dr. Pepper.]

[Ryan Smith is a video game tester and freelance writer and can pull off 24 even though he is 29 today. He hasn't had a Whopper Jr. in sometime now because he has discovered Ameci's Pizza]

A Night of Bears and B-List Celebrities

There is strange, there's surreal, and then there is being in a club on the Sunset Strip watching four spandex clad big haired rockers channeling Poison circa 1987 singing Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" with a headbanging Billy Ray Cyrus of one hit wonder "Achy Breaky Heart" fame and a highly intoxicated Ryan Cabrera. And that's not even mentioning the shirt-ripping antics of former child star Danny Bonaduce.

Alright, so I've written about Metal Skool* in this space before, but then again we left after two songs with the initial "Welcome to L.A." shock of topless girls dancing and making out with each other while the band jumpkicked their way through Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer."

Now after eight months in Los Angeles my pure Midwest morality has been withered (insert smirk here) so my jaded new self had no problem with the debauchary. Well, OK, more like my friend Joel was in one of the opening bands and he had an unlimited guest list.
Luckily the girls that attended were more "modest" this time, and the show was about as much as you'd expect...the guitar player playing a blistering solo while flying over the crowd via harness, gratuitous remarks about women's body parts, etc. etc.

But then Billy Ray Cyrus came on stage and sung Billy Idol's "With a Rebel Yell." Cyrus now looks like a Contemporary Christian version of Red Sox era Johnny Damon.

Things got even odder when they dragged a bewildered Ryan Cabrera onstage ("Is Ashlee Simpson's dad going to let you?" the guitarist asked) to sing the aforementioned Def Leppard song. A few minutes later, Danny Bonaduce (maybe more famous now for his VH1 reality show) came up and offered to play the bass. He then ripped his shirt off and made a wrestling pose. More crazy antics ensued.
Afterwards, I felt like I needed a bath.

Part of me wished I had remained in Barney's Beanery to see the Chicago Bears' amazing comeback on Monday Night Football. Myself and a couple friends had gone to watch what we thought would be the Bears sacking Matt Leinart like the Visigoths did to Rome in the 5th century (what, you thought that History degree was for show?). Instead we witnessed one of the worst quarterback performances of all time as Rex Grossman almost singlehandedly hijacked the Bears attempt at going 6-0.

By the time the fourth quarter was ending, my friend Andy had to leave, John was ready to leave because he couldn't watch the horror, especially with the sports bar so packed with cheering Cardinals fans (Maybe they were all Leinart's frat buddies?).
So after another Bears turnover that led to an apparent 80 yard touchdown rumble that made it 29-3 with nine or so minutes left in the game, John and I split the premises.

But while riding to Hollywood I happened to look at the score on my phone and literally shrieked when I saw the score was 24-23 Bears with 2 minutes left. Then I found out Neil Rackers missed a chip shot to win it. Incredible. Even the Metal Skool guitarist made a Neil Rackers joke in the middle of the set.

Needless to say... nights like last night don't come around too often. At least I hope.

*Here's a sample of Metal Skool on YouTube when Kelly Clarkson (also very intoxicated) went on stage. (Family Friendly Warning: It's an R-rated for Profanity clip)