December 2, 2009

Well, it’s over. Done. Finished. Finito. No more. Gone. Dead. In short, so long Sober Movember—may we never meet again.

This was, by far, the most boring month of my life. Now, boring wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—it was nice to have nothing to do but sit in my chair, read my book and watch football. I had a legitimate excuse for not going to trendy over-priced, cover-charging clubs which I loathe, but seem to get invited to regularly. I’m down two notches on my belt, and I haven’t done a lick of exercising (by my estimates, about 12 pounds). So, there were some good things that came out of this.

Yesterday, I had what can only be described as the most unfathomably bad day of my career thus far. I won’t go into details, but by the time I walked out the door at 5:15pm last night, I was miserable. Beyond miserable. I’ll take you through a timeline of my evening.

5:15 – Leave work.

5:45 – Enter grocery store.

5:45:01 – Make a  B-line for the beer aisle.

5:45:15 – Have wave of euphoria hit me as I enter the aisle, knowing that I no longer have to avert my eyes like I was looking at the Ark of the Covenant a la Raiders of the Lost Ark.

6:02 – Finally finish giddily pacing up and down the aisle, make selection of beer.

6:03 – Leave beer aisle with a twelve-pack of Full Sail Sessions Lager, six-packs of Widmer BRRR! and Bridgeport Ebenezer, 26oz bottle of Rogue Double Dead Guy, 22oz bottles of Deschutes Abyss and Dechutes Black Butte XII

6:04 – Realize that I have what can only be described as a shit-ton of ABV and IBU in my cart, and nothing to absorb said ABV.

6:06 – Get bread, sandwich meat and cheese. Feel better about myself for not loading up completely on beer.

6:10 – Go to check-stand, get $66 total, $58 of which is on beer. No longer feel good about myself for buying food while I was at it, but don’t really care.

6:15 – Get home. Turn on Michigan State/North Carolina basketball game.

6:16 – Call Betsy, make her listen as I open the Double Dead Guy.

6:45 – Finish Double Dead Guy, realize that I am, in fact, pretty buzzed (the Rogue Double Dead Guy is 9.2% ABV and only comes in a 26 oz bottle, so that’s like drinking 4.5 beers in one shot. Cut me a little slack here).

6:47 – Make sandwich, crack open a BRRR! Only a 12oz bottle, but 7.2% ABV. Not shabby.

7:00 – Drunk.

7:05 – Get calls from many people asking me if I’m drunk yet. HELL YEAH I’M DRUNK! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo

9:30 – Finish talking on the phone to people

10:00 – A little hazy. Tried to watch Heroes, I think? End up missing Victoria Secret Fashion Show. Shit. I was exhausted and a little boozed-up. Cut me some slack.

5:30am – By the grace of god, somehow wake up at 5:30 with a minor hangover, laptop on chest (battery drained), and with none of my alarms set to go off. Way to go, body—thanks for waking me up on time.

So there’s a brief rundown of my first night in the realm of boozery. I am what can only be called a lightweight in comparison to the Jeff Kennedy of October 31, 2009. I’m also a lightweight in comparison to, well, everyone. The alcohol-content-equivalent of six beers, and I was on my lips. Dear lord, did I just time-travel back to my freshman year? I was like a virgin, touched for the very first time.

All that being said, I had it built up in my head that the first sip of that sweet nectar from the gods to touch my lip would be nigh-orgasmic in experience. It wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong, it was pretty darn good, but I guess I had just built up my expectations too high. But beer, honey, don’t ever leave me again. Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough to keep me from loving you.

So, this is the end of Sober Movember. I know you’ll all be distraught to not read what I have to say on a pseudo-daily basis. But fear not, fair readers! My buddy Deaton and I are starting a yet-to-be-named blog about general dudery: booze, boobs, sports, sarcasm—you know, the good stuff. We’re still tossing around a few names before we get started, so stay tuned for the latest and greatest in JK blog news.


Shatner, Eat Your Heart Out

November 30, 2009

So here it is: the second-to-last post of the Sober Movember variety. I’m approximately 29 hours and 45 minutes from having my first sip of that sweet, sweet (well, in all likelihood, incredibly bitter) beer. I’ve been going back and forth for the last few days as to what my first sip is going to be: Bridgeport’s winter brew, Ebenezer, or their splendid ultra-IPA Hop Czar, or Widmer Brothers’ BRRR!, or Full Sail’s Sessions Lager (which our bar got specifically for the three of us to drink) or, or, or…

 Spalding: I want a hamburger. No, cheeseburger. I want a hot dog. I want a milkshake. I want potato chips—

Judge Smails: Spalding! You’ll get nothing and like it!

 Fine, fine, I know. I’ll have plenty of time to rediscover all these brews in due time. I’m just…just…excited. What’s that old corny phrase? “If you love something, set it free, and if it comes back, it’s meant to be”? Something like that. Well, guess what, booze? I’m coming back, baby. I missed you. Did you miss me? Let’s be friends forever!

 A lot of people find it difficult to believe that I actually have gone what-will-be a month without a sip of alcohol. I mean, there’s no accountability here. I’m not sending in piss-tests, nor is there a webcam on me 24 hours a day, so how does anyone know that I’m not drinking my ass off and lying to all your lovely faces? It’s all about the honor system, and as much as I would like to have that money, I can’t take it without earning it. I have morals? Whoa, no way! It’s hard to believe for some of you, I know. Just don’t tell anyone—it’ll ruin my street cred.

 I don’t know if I’ll keep writing regularly after this. I mean, yeah, I miss writing regularly, but it’s definitely been a drain on me the last few weeks. I only have so much to write about. Plus, the less I write, the more you jerks will appreciate it when I do. So stay tuned, but don’t hold your breath, if that makes sense.

 Here’s your mustache.

 Don't be jealous of my elegance.

She packed my bags last night, pre-flight.

Zero hour, Nine Aye Em,.

And I’m gonna be HIGGHHHHHH as a kite by then.

I miss the Earth so much, I miss my wife.

It’s lonely out in space

On such a timeless flight

 Look up Shatner’s spoken-word version of this on Youtube. It’s life-altering.

Gobble. Fuckin’. Gobble.

November 26, 2009

I’m not going back home to dear old Indiana for either holiday this year. I spent a metric fuckton (which, by the way, is 103 metric shittons and 2.783 x 104 English turd-loades) going back east for the weddings and homecoming (both on airfare and booze, naturally), so I can’t really afford to go back again. Thankfully, my parents are coming out here for Christmas, so they’ll get to experience the joy of it not being quite cold enough to snow, but still getting a plethora of wind, rain and just-above-freezing temperatures. So they got that goin’ for ‘em…which is nice.

 Howie’s family is taking me in today, much as they did on Christmas Eve last year. The main difference between this year and last is that I am still, to this day, astonished that Howie and I made it home alive from Christmas Eve. We. Were. Drunk. Later on that evening, we got thrown out of the only bar open in Howie’s pohdunk little town because I was trying to give some girl my number, didn’t have a pen, and went behind the bar to get one. Turns out, that’s a no-no. Luckily, as I was being escorted out, I remembered that I had my business cards in my wallet (the only legitimate use of such things) and threw one at her as I went out the door*. As I stood outside, waiting for my asshole friends, smoking a cigarette and calling who I believe was Ms. Maggie E Tiernan to tell her that I had gotten thrown out of a bar on Christmas Eve, out came my buddy Mike. He had done the same damn thing for a coaster. Shortly thereafter, out came Howie. What had he done? Nothing. But his two moron friends had done something, so they just threw him out for good measure. This is what friends are for.

I’m bringing the Apple Pie and the whiskey to Thanksgiving. I’m using a long, until-now secret family recipe for the pie. I’m going to share the recipe with you—don’t tell anyone! You saw it here first, folks.

Step 1:

Go to the store.

Step 2:

Buy a damn pie.

Step 3:

Go home.

Step 4:

Eat pie, possibly with ice cream.

And now that I’ve given away the last of the Roland family secrets, here’s your holiday-appropriate mustache.


*She never called the guy who got thrown out trying to hit on her. Shocker, I know.

What Will Your Daddy Do…

November 25, 2009

…when he finds your mommy kissing Santa Claus?

There’s only one reason to listen to Christmas music before Thanksgiving, and that’s Die Roten Rosen’s “…wir Warten Auf’s Christkind” album. When I lived with Huizenga—who, by the way, might very soon be an employee of my company—he introduced me to it. It’s a German punk-rock Christmas album. Just take my word for it and download the album. You’ll never hear a more tear-jerking “Oh Tannenbaum,” not because it’s so good—because it’s so deliciously bad.

Well, I got some good motivation (other than being sick) to quit smoking. Somehow, some way, I got talked into doing a half-marathon in May, so I had better get my ass in gear. It’ll be good for me, but I know I’m going to hate myself every step of the way. My boss, Neal, astonishes me: he does this race called Hood to Coast every year, which is a relay race from Mt Hood to Seaside, OR. You know how much training he does before it? Zero. The man plays co-ed indoor soccer on Sundays, and that’s it. I’ll be lucky to walk this half-marathon if I don’t start now.

And now, in completion of the Muppets blog-post trifecta, this made my day yesterday:

I got one final shave in to end the month this morning. Please take note of how quickly my chin has kicked my upper lip’s ass.


The Boss

November 23, 2009

There’s a running joke (one for which I don’t particularly care) between my parents and myself. It involves the last thing any child wants to hear from their parents—the story of my conception. Here’s what I wrote in February of this year on my old blog:

Often times, your personal traits and characterstics are from sources unknown. Maybe you have an inkling of a clue as to where or what formed that trait, but for the most part, you are who you are and it’s hard to tell where you got *you* from. If there’s one aspect of my life where I do know the source, however, it’s my hair-trigger gag-reflex aversion to Bruce Springstein.

About a month ago, my mom called me. We were just chit-chatting about whatever, and she says to me “Hey, did you see the Bruce Springstein is doing the halftime show at the Super Bowl?” “Yeah, so?” Well, I guess it’s just different for me, but I was excited. You know…you were conceived after a Bruce Springstein concert.” “I’m getting off the phone now.”

I was doing well last night. We had won free stuff at the bar, and I had drank enough by halftime to almost, *almost* forget about that little tidbit my mom had shared with me. Hell, I was even watching the halftime show. And then my phone rang. “Hello?” Mom and Dad: “TRAMPS LIKE US! BABY WE WERE BORN TO RUNNNNNNNNNN!!!” I proceeded to spend the rest of the game drinking at a furious pace in order to try to force the image of my conception out of my head. GROSS.

I’ll just say that I ended the night with a $90 bar tab and a cab-ride home. Mission: accomplished.

Well, as I mentioned vaguely in my haikus a few days ago, I got a turntable for free, and am now spinning some sweet 33’s on a nightly basis. As it turns out, Ross had some old records stashed away somewhere including such great hits as “Smurfing Sing Song” and “The Smurfs All-Star Show” to name a few. And when I say “a few others,” I mean Springstein’s “Born to Run” album. When I came in last night, he had “Born to Run” cranked up as loud as it would go. I think I had told him the aforementioned story before, and he was doing it to spite me because I said I’d be running around the apartment naked when Carolyne, his girlfriend, gets here on Tuesday. Suffice it to say that I tore the record off of there with a classic SKREEEEEETCH on the record player. Not that exciting, I know. But I’m running on fumes in the funny-stuff-to-talk-about department. Man, don’t you hate it when comics recycle old material?

OHHOLYSHIT! I saw a Delorian the other day. I don’t really have anything else to say on the matter other than that I was disappointed that he wasn’t driving 88mph.

Alright, it’s time to regroup. I’ll come back with something more entertaining tomorrow. And how, here’s your moment of Zen mustache.

That’s the Name of the Game

November 22, 2009

Sober Movember is, supposedly, a three-pronged attack of self-awareness. Part one was to embarrass myself on a daily basis by giving everyone an excuse to say “Hey man, I think you got some dirt on your upper lip.” Twenty-two days in, I think we can consider this one a success. Check. If I weren’t so full of myself my self-esteem would be in the shitter by now.

Secondly, it was to prove to myself (and, I suppose, all y’all who read this) that I can do something I haven’t done regularly since my freshman year of college: have fun without drinking. I think this one can, thus far, be considered a success as well. I’ve gone to a Blazer game, the best concert of my life, DD’d for the first time (I think) since I turned 21 (and actually enjoyed it), hung out with a bunch of damn rednecks and not drank a half-rack of Busch Light in the process, met new people, gotten a lot of reading done and most importantly, generally enjoyed life. So let’s put a check-mark next to that one.

The third and final prong of said attack, to carry on this weak military-strategy metaphor, came around my flank and bit me right in my ghetto ass. I was supposed to see how much money I saved by not drinking for a month. I mean, I can do some quick math: $7 at the bar after work four days a week ($112), usually $20-30 on redneck weekends and $50-75 on downtown weekends ($140-210) for a maximum total of about $325 per month. So we’re talking a decent chunk of change—enough to pay for most of a plane-ticket back east if I had the vacation time to go back every month. It’s also slightly more than my monthly car-payment. However, there was one factor I didn’t take into account: if I want to have fun, I still have to spend money, and Holy Fuckin’ Moses did I spend some cash. Thank god I have four years of college under my belt and remember how to survive 10 days under the poverty line.

So, lesson learned? Keep drinking. I actually spend less money when I’m out making a scene somewhere in the greater Portland-metro area. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. Naturally, there were extenuating circumstances leading to my broke-osity, but if Fox News can, um, spin news about what’s going on in the country, then I can spin news about myself if I damn well please. You came here to hear the latest and greatest Jeff Kennedy news, and as editor-and-chief, director, producer, interviewer and interviewee, and I’m more than happy to provide a fair and balanced perspective to you all—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stop deluding myself.

We’re in the home-stretch of the most mustachioed and least drunk month of Anno Domini 2009. I can now start saying things like “A week from Tuesday, my upper lip is going to be slightly colder than usual, and I can’t wait,” or “In eight days, I’m going to drink two beers and slur my words as I call everyone to celebrate with me.” This makes me happy. Don’t get me wrong—it’s been enjoyable thus far, and will continue to be, but sometimes you just want a beer. And as I sit here watching the Colts possibly choke away a game (12:13 left in the 4, 14-12 Colts with the Ravens in the redzone), listening to my roommate cheer every time the Ravens do something well or, as is much more often the case with him, every time the Colts fuck something up, I want a goddamn beer.

And now, here’s a mustache and asian chick interlude.

For the record, yes, that is a piece of art we have hanging in our apartment. We found it on the street and knew it must be ours. We’re extra classy.

I Think I’m Going Japanese, I Think I’m Going Japanese, I Really Think So…

November 20, 2009

Big red stamp: “LOSE WEIGHT,”

—Report from work’s health screener.

I’m fat? Big shocker.


Health screeners give cash,

Tell you your obvious flaws.

Used cash to buy smokes.


Got free turntable,

Bought three albums on vinyl.

Swanky, Kennedy.


Like the hipsters say,

“It just sounds better on vinyl.”

I sadly concur.


Turntable spinning

“Let’s Get it On” – Marvin Gaye.

Chicks really dig it.


Mustache getting long,

Sadly, shall never be thick.

Fuck you, Movember.


Twelve-One: beer in hand,

Razor ready to cleanse lip.

Bad combination?