Posts Tagged ‘ why do I not have a tag about drinking yet ’

Rhapsodic

Today I learned that, if you’re still pounding out your thesis six days before graduation, you can write a phrase like “tripping on the carnage” and have it qualify as a legitimate theatrical critique. In your head.

And I learned that you can head out to dinner and find yourself wandering, dreamlike, into the opening strains of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue”, only to investigate and find that it is being rehearsed by a handful of Harvard seniors. For fun. The Harvard seniors have been done with finals for a week and are five days from graduation. During my senior week, I was so perpetually drunk that I walked all the way to Yankee Stadium with a huge hole in the back of my pants and never even noticed. I’m just throwing that out there.

Interecepted

If ever there is a biopic of my time in grad school, the opening scene was surely written early this evening, as I stood by the buffet table at the Harvard Teachers’ Reception, third glass of champagne in one hand, mound of melting cheese cubes in the other, stealthily avoiding a man with a name tag that read “Florian” and trying to figure out where I could stash the eclairs.

Jerk, on and off

Today I learned to stop short of telling your thesis advisor that your thesis is driving you to drink, because you might need him for a job recommendation if there are ever any jobs.

I learned that style is born from what we can’t do.

I learned that you can be a jerk sometimes if you’re not a jerk always.

And I learned that you will get angriest in a scene if your scene partner gets to live in Closure City while you’re out on the streets.

Passed out

I apologize that my log of learning has been lax. I am still learning things, but I am not sleeping enough to retain anything.

But I did learn today that some people have it worse, because waking up as Hamlet sucks. And I learned the one of the reasons people defer to smoking joints onstage is because drinking is just too complicated for the stagehands.

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Happy hour

Today I learned that sometimes the most effective work you can do on your thesis is afternoon porch drinking in 70-degree weather.

Metavodka

Today I learned that I should have known this was a grueling life.

I learned that sometimes things work and sometimes they don’t, but you have to try them in order to be considered a visionary.

I learned that one should avoid the “formulaic cage is Disney pastiche”.

I learned that Romeo is a horndog because he ends up in the midst of a love story that sparks when he never even sees the girl’s face. (I already knew this, actually. But this is one of my favorite lessons to have reiterated.)

I learned that you can take any good idea and do it badly. Likewise, I learned that “you can be a bloody genius and still be an actor in a cupboard”.

I learned that the metaphysical implications of “oooooooo” are infinite.

I learned that you shouldn’t sit in a drink.

And I learned that the correct way to order a drink is as follows: “Vodka on the rocks. No umbrella.” First time the worth of grad school has remotely approached its price tag.

Short stopped

Today I learned that when you have very few off days left, you should take advantage of them in grand fashion, because you never know: some guy you love might, at long, long last, get a pass to Cooperstown. So you might as well already be celebrating.

Cure for what ales you

Today I learned that the Queen’s Head is still standing, and still serving $3.50 pints. Your recession’s no good here, kids.

Crimson with embarrassment

Today I learned that it’s possible to completely space on the Harvard 375th anniversary dinner to which you affirmatively RSVPd with a plus one.  This social faux pas is exacerbated by the sin of passing up the free alcohol that was included with said dinner.  This would all be enough to send me to hell if I weren’t already on my way due to the great “imported cigarette” rooftop debacle of 2002.

(OF COURSE the 375th anniversary has its own logo.)

(This logo may or may not have been made with ClipArt.)

Boston scotch party

Today I noticed for the first time that there’s no tax on store-bought booze in Massachusetts.  This liberation of your pocketbook is brought to you by the same state that has outlawed happy hour. Massachusetts clearly prefers that its residents drink alone. Fortunately, I’m in grad school.