The Hylton Memoirs

At the request of my friend and former Nevada FFA state officer teammate Lauren the Law Student, tonight’s discussion centers on an incredibly important and pertinent topic of the Olympic variety.

Namely, should snowboarder Scotty Lago mime sex acts with his newly acquired bronze medal?

This is one topic I honestly thought I’d never have to discuss on this blog – and that’s saying something considering I’ve spent time discussing Viking helmets, adult diapers and Wal-Mart (in the same post, nonetheless) – but Lago, who won his bronze in the men’s halfpipe last week, left Vancouver Monday (on his own accord, although the U.S. Olympic Committee was apparently prepared to ask him to leave if he didn’t) after photos surfaced that featured the American snowboarder and an undisclosed Asian woman flaunting the medal in a provocative manner in a public venue.

My first reaction is “No, Scotty, allowing somebody to air-felate your Olympic medal is obviously a stupid life choice,” but that’s mostly because I’m opposed to any sort of mimery on the grounds of general creepiness (some kids fear clowns, I was scared of mimes. Don’t judge me).

The guy just accomplished a life-long goal, however, so I’m inclined to spot him a few nights of drunken celebrating. Lago definitely didn’t make the brightest decision, especially in a place with cameras snapping all over, but it’s his medal. He won it. He should be able to do what he wants with it.

Besides, I’ve over-imbibed and gone jogging pantsless through Reno before, so I can understand how that might happen. Honestly, if you’re a dude, drunk, and in possession of an Olympic medal (regardless of whether it’s actually yours) are you going to do anything all that different?

Didn’t think so.

Forget tact and decency, it’s just not that big of a deal. It’s not like Lago urinated on an American flag. He essentially took the same exact photo that about 90 percent of all college dudes have used for Facebook profile photos at some point or another, only Lago has an Olympic medal in his. This leads to conclude that my answer is actually “Yes, Scotty Lago, sex-mime your big bronze heart out.”

Still, something about Lago’s indiscretion doesn’t sit quite right. Call my parents conservative, but I’ve been brought up with the general belief that you shouldn’t use a prestigious award won while representing your country to simulate sexual activities in a public place.

A few other things bother me, too.

First, what kind of douche bag hits the town with his medal?

As you can see in the photos, Lago is playing things classy by wearing a Team USA t-shirt, sweatpants, and…a fricking Olympic medal. Seriously? When you go out wearing sweatpants and an Olympic medal, you’re after one thing and one thing only (hint: the act is being mimed in the photos). And that’s just not fair. Olympic medals are like the performance enhancing drugs of the drunken hookup game. Even a bridge troll could get chicks with an Olympic medal (See: Phelps, Michael). Would I do the same thing? Maybe, but it’s still a violation Dude Code. And I can’t respect that.

Also, Lago celebrated with a bronze medal. Since when is third place worth celebrating? And Lago got absolutely smoked by gold medalist Shaun White. Come on, you saw the freeze frames, White was higher than any (drug-free) snowboarder in history and a good five feet higher than Lago. Commemorating that sort of butt-kicking would be like the Canadian hockey team celebrating a bronze medal and getting beat by the Americans. It’s just not going to happen. Nor should it.

Winning any Olympic medal is a tremendous achievement, and nobody should take that away from Lago. But medal-dropping should be permitted for gold medalists only.

Which leads to the most important, and most incriminating, point of all. What kind of girl gives it up for a bronze medal?

I’m guessing the kind of girl who still wears trucker hats and thinks boxed wine is classy. Bronze-chasing has to qualify a girl for the lowest ring of groupies, right next to the ladies who fawn over Creed and Nickelback. I’m not touching that and neither should Scotty Lago. He’s better than that.

So, in the end, no, Scotty Lago probably shouldn’t mime sex acts with his Olympics medal, but the punishment was fair. If you go out to a bar in the real world, get drunk, and act obnoxiously, the bartender is probably going to ask you to leave. If you’re a reasonable human being you cut your losses, appreciate your night, and call it quits. You leave before it gets worse.

Well, the Olympics were Lago’s bar. Reports I hear of the Olympic experience generally describe the games as one giant party interrupted by sports. So, with his event over, Lago got in a few good days of celebrating, he acted obnoxiously, and he was asked to leave. Like a reasonable human being he cut his losses, left the scene, and he can still appreciate a great performance and some nights of partying.

He didn’t make the best decision, but worse things have happened. Whatever.

Actually, the biggest outrage is that the USOC is actually outraged.

The bottom line is that the USOC should have seen this coming. Dude’s a snowboarder, after all. They’re the renegades of the Winter Olympics. One of the Olympians was bound to get a little too deep into the alcohol and make a scene, and the USOC should have had a pretty good idea it was going to be an American and it was going to be a snowboarder.

Hey, snowboarders do the darndest things. Deal with it.

You crashed my server.

Things have been a little slow around here the last couple days because I haven’t had access to the blog. Turns out enough people have been reading lately to exceed the bandwidth of the server that hosts my blog and take down the site.

What’s that mean?

Well, probably not much. As much as I wish I were rolling in 60,000 hits a day, I think I’m a few (tens of thousands) of followers short of that. In technical terms, the lovely Chelsea has described my server as “shitty,” so I’m going to guess it didn’t take much traffic to take it down.

But, on a bright note, it does confirm that I have more than five readers. So thank you guys so much for all your support. You rock.

Oh, and words can’t express how less creepy I feel now that I know I’m not just writing an online journal to my mother. So keep on dropping by and be sure to leave a comment to let me know what you think.

Celebrities say stupid things. They have been since the dude who invented fire started spouting off about the significance of Wooly Mammoth-Saber-Toothed Tiger relations back in the ice age.

The statements have changed over the centuries – comments on large cats have been replaced by humanitarian and political opinions that nobody wants to hear – but celebrity stupidity is something we expect. Narcissism, pretension and massive substance abuse will do that.

Still, celebrities have an obligation to be cool and, sometimes, the things they say in an effort to sound as such are idiotically hilarious.

Last week, singer/whiner John Mayer made a statement that didn’t quite register when he referred to ex-girlfriend Jessica Simpson as “sexual napalm.”

The broody crooner no doubt made the comparison because, first, he thought it sounded cool and, second, he enjoyed spending time naked with Ms. Simpson. And, on the surface, this statement makes sense. “Sexual napalm” admittedly has a nice ring to it and Simpson may or may not light the world on fire in the bedroom (despite several sincere attempts, The Hylton Memoirs was not able confirm Simpson’s sexual prowess, so we’ll have to take Mayer’s word for it).

But Mayer obviously didn’t think it through.

Honestly, if one of your friends approaches you on the quad or in the gymnasium or wherever people hang out nowadays and refers to somebody as “sexual napalm,” are you going to think that’s a good thing? Because I’m not. Napalm is a burning agent that scourges the earth, after all, so I’m going to assume said party is some sort of advanced STD-missile developed by the pharmaceutical companies in an effort to increase the necessity of penicillin.

So while Mayer was trying to compliment Simpson on her lovemaking skills, I’m pretty sure he actually called her the human embodiment of Chlamydia. I’m guessing he was trying instead to say that Simpson’s “sex is on fire,” but, alas, The Kings of Leon beat him to it.

Garage rock wins, John Mayer loses. Again. Everything is right in the world.

My city friends make fun of my hometown all the time, mostly in the form of sheep jokes and stupid questions.

Do you guys have electricity yet? Did you go to prom with you cousin? What’s it like using an outhouse in the winter?

Obviously we have electricity (hence this blog), of course I didn’t go to prom with a cousin (I went with a cousin’s ex-girlfriend), and, finally, who doesn’t enjoy the freedom of peeing outside (which may or may not be the subject of a future blog)?

But in some cases, Wells is a little bit behind, primarily in that it is only semi-Mac-compatible. For whatever reason I haven’t been able to use the internet all weekend, which means I haven’t been able to post any blogs.

So there’s a story about my disdain for Valentine’s Day and its roll in my recent record-setting drinking binge, but that’ll have to wait for another day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe this weekend. Maybe never. Who knows?

In the meantime, here’s a little homage to V-Day and love and all that horse crap.

I watch this video whenever I have a rough day because it makes me smile every time I see it. More than that, I hope to someday be involved in a similar event. As much as I love slaying the crowd with Alex during our Michael Jackson “Beat It” dance-off at weddings, this takes wedding dancing to a whole new level.

The Wedding March

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my decision to move home from Miami.

All in all, maybe it was the right decision. After all, I have got a bit of writing done. Other than that, though, I can’t help but feel like the last year of my life has been and EPIC waste of of time.

Anyway, I came across this essay today. It’s one of the essays that helped me get internships at The Arizona Republic and Miami Herald, and I wonder if I’m the same person now as I was when I wrote this. More than anything, I want to feel this way about Wells again someday.

***

What is the most important, life-shaping experience you have had?

I grew up in the country.

Now I don’t mean country like “we’ve got a few cows” country.

I mean country like “sometimes it takes longer to get to school because there’s a tractor on the road” country.

I grew up in Wells, Nev., population 1,200 — give or take.

There’s one grocery store in my hometown, the nearest movie theatre is 40 minutes away, and the term “everybody knows everybody” isn’t a cliché.

I graduated with a class of 28 and, when I was a senior on the golf team, our team was an hour late for the first day of the state tournament because a cattle drive was crossing the freeway.

No single moment has shaped my life more than any other, but the combined experience of growing up in rural America has made me the person I am today.

Not that morals aren’t strong everywhere in America, but they are definitely the way of life where I grew up.

Neither of my parents finished college, but they did grow up on ranches.

With that experience, they taught me the value of working hard, the importance of education, and most importantly that I could chase my dreams from anywhere.

I also had 22 family members around at all times to let them know every time I deviated from that path.

Nonetheless, I learned a lot of useless things growing up in Wells — I can execute the perfectly fundamental cow tip and I understand why wood, matches, bug spray, and a strong head wind can be a lethal combination.

But I also learned how to interact with people.

I’ve observed in college that it’s easy in a big place to find a corner and hide there, but you can never get lost in a small town — the mathematics simply don’t allow it.

Everyone has a story, and they all want to share it.

In Wells, picking up milk at the store was an hour-long conversation waiting to happen. I learned that people aren’t an inconvenience, they’re a reason to share some time.

Because I grew up in a rural town, I think I also have a much more diverse understanding of the world.

As a country boy, it’s been easy for me to continue to observe people as I travel and stay in the cities of the world. I’m not so sure city boys get that same experience with the rural part of life.

Growing up in a rural town has given me perspective on life, and knowledge of how it works for people everywhere.

But mostly, growing up in a town where I could walk from one end to the other in less than an hour created a sense of wonder in me that has never faded.

When you live in a bubble, knowing what’s outside is a big deal.

I still look at the world with that same sense of wonder, which is my defining trait as a human being.

I was going to live-tweet my Super Bowl experience, but I was busy double-fisting. So it’s a day late, but here’s what happened during Super Bowl Sunday at Ty’s house in Spring Creek.

2:15-3:15 – Drive from home to Spring Creek with mother. During the course of the first half hour mom makes no less than five driving criticisms and thinks she hears at least two problems with the engine. Dad and I had put the over/under at four.

3:15 – Arrive at Ty and Sarah’s. Open first beer.

3:17 – Reach front door. First beer finished.

3:22 – Carrie Underwood sings national anthem. I realize the rest of Super Bowl will be nothing more than a string of diminishing returns.

3:30 – Game time. And by game time, I don’t mean Super Bowl. I mean the “Drink Whenever Anything Happens” game. We invented this game our first year at college. Basically, everybody picks a team before the game starts and writes the letter of the mascot on their hand. Then, whenever stuff happens, you drink. You’re team drops a pass. Drink. Turnover. Drink. Other team scores. Finish beer. Word on the street says Hasbro is interested in purchasing the rights.

3:32 – In a potentially tragic decision, my left hand has decided to root for the Colts while my right hand remembers fondly our time in New Orleans (surprisingly, that was not a masturbation reference). Double-fisting: engage. I am a veteran of the “Drink Whenever Anything Happens” game.

3:37 – Discover that Carrie Underwood is engaged to a Canadian hockey player. Weep privately, then claim that hockey players are pussies and that I fear no Canadian.

3:41 – Colts laser-rocket-armed quarterback Peyton Manning completes a pass to Pierre Garcon. Hatian catches pass – drink.

3:43 – Garcon drops pass. Hatian drop – drink.

3:50 – Saints go three-and-out on consecutive possessions and the house is aflutter with technical football talk. I, wearing my soccer jersey, baby blue bandana and scarf, am trying to find ways to preempt the “Flashdance” jokes I’m sure to face.

3:55 – Wide shot of Dolphin Stadium (it has a different name now, but I’m not looking it up). First bit of nostalgia. I’ve covered games at the stadium and, for the first time, I’m a bit sad I’m not still there.

4:00ish – Touchdown! Manning to Garcon. The right hand is already on beer three and we’re not out of the first quarter. At this point I realize that I can tell who is winning by which hand is lightest. Being able to keep track of a winner without paying attention to the score will come in handy later.

4:04 – Saints running back Pierre Thomas breaks a tackle and runs for a first down, setting a new world record for the number of people named “Pierre” performing manly acts in a single day. Drink.

4:20 – In order to even out the beer inequity between my left and right hand, I also start drinking for good and bad commercials. Super Bowl Shuffle. Bad commercial drink. Doritos shock collar. Good commercial drink. NBC apparently airing an entire episode of NCIS during the game. Chug to forget. Megan Fox in a bubble bath. Chug and then go through puberty for a second time.

5:10ish – Saints close the half with a couple of field goals. My twelve pack of Miller Light is already gone. I am both impressed and appalled with myself.

5:11-8:00 – Mostly a haze. I remember telling my grandma that she needed to spank my mother for being mean to me and exactly two plays from the entire second half (basically). Pierre Thomas’ touchdown catch and the interception/Peyton Manning poopy-face that sealed the game. Eight more beers and a rather stiff mixed beverage later and I’m painfully aware that substitute teaching the next day (Monday) is going to suck. Also not sure how I’m getting home because mom had to go mid-third quarter

8:05 – Lucas asks me when if I’m a maniac and if I’m planning to dance like I’ve never danced before. Flashdance references ensue. Drunken dancing as well.

9:05 – Riding home with one of Ty’s aunt and uncles (not my parents). Cop pulls us over for speeding. Problem: everybody in the vehicle but the driver is drinking. I manage to hide my beer by pinching it between my calf and hamstring for about five minutes. My drunken coordination turns out to be the true winner of Super Bowl Sunday.

OK, so I realize that Super Bowl stands as America’s No. 1 tradition.

For most of life, Super Bowl Sunday was the only holy day of my year.

It’s the grand championship of the only truly American game in the world and everyone watches.

I also realize that this year’s matchup is particularly savory – two high-powered offenses, the feel-good New Orleans Saints, and that laser-rocket-armed quarterback Peyton Manning.

So I feel a little bad about how little I care. As horrible and unpatriotic as that might sound, I don’t even particularly want to watch the game. Most of you know that I spent five years of my life as a sportswriter, and that I’ve spent most of my life consuming all things sport. But I’m burnt out and the game just doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.

But, I have to watch. I think it’s like a felony not to. Or is it treason? I’m not sure. Either way, I’ll be struggling through the nine-hour game in a couple hours.

In protest, I’ll be wearing an English Premier League soccer jersey – you know, a real football jersey – and saying things like “that was absolute pants” and “what a bloody cock-up that munter is.”

I also have a secret weapon. Millions of Americans will be drinking during Super Bowl, but I’m turning Super Bowl into a drinking game.

So for all of you less than thrilled with watching or anyone who just wants to spice things up. Here’s the rule:

DRINK WHEN ANYTHING HAPPENS.

First down. Drink.

Touchdown. Drink.

Tackle. Drink.

Funny commercial. Drink.

Stupid Commercial. Drink.

Kardashian sighting…CHUG.

Get it? Let’s all have a great day. Check in with how it’s going.

Oh, and I’m live-tweeting this bitch, too.

I got wasted at home by myself tonight, but the soundtrack was superb.

Here’s a little sample of the good stuff still going on in the world:

The Avett Brothers – I and Love and You

Blitzen Trapper – Furr

Band of Horses – Detlef Schrempf

Blind Pilot – One Red Thread

Frightened Rabbit – The Twist

And and oldie:

The Shins – A Comet Appears

If you need a cover:

Ryan Adams – Wonderwall

And for the metal-heads:

Mastodon – Crack the Skye

Coheed and Cambria – Welcome Home

1. Buy a pair of TOMS shoes
They’re comfortable, they’re cool, and, best of all, for every pair you buy, TOMS gives another pair to a child without. In developing nations, infections and illnesses are one of the leading causes of death and most kids walk with bare feet on unsanitary roads. Seriously, we both know you’re going to buy casual canvas shoes that you can slip on anyway, so why not go with a pair that looks great and can do some actual good?

2. Spend a couple minutes a day on Freerice.com.
The web site is an effort by the United Nations World Food Programme to provide free rice to the world’s hungry. The site asks questions on a variety of subjects (English vocab., English grammar, chemistry, art, geography, foreign languages) and donates 10 grains of rice for every correct response. That might not seem like much, but spend 10 minutes answering questions and you can generate about 1,000 grains of rice. How much is 1,000 grains of rice? I have no idea (Google tells me it’s about 1/4 serving), but it’s enough to make a small difference in a short amount of time.

And I’m not just telling you this for the sake of the hungry people. The questions are informative, so do yourself a favor and get smarter. Seriously. Can you locate Luxembourg on a map? Do you know what “fulgent” means?

3. Visit Textsfromlastnight.com.
The site has ridiculous text messages submitted by readers. Guess what age group that targets. If you’ve ever been to college, the web site will have you waxing nostalgic in about two seconds.

“I’m so hungover, I actually considered rolling down the stairs to avoid walking.”

“Ok just saw a girl open a pillbox, dump it out on her notebook and count out 13 Adderall tabs and put them in a baggie and leave. Oh hey college.”

“I was so drunk last night I ate cereal with a fork.”

Honestly, who hasn’t been there?

And one thing you should not do:

Move to Wells.
Ever. That is all.

The Grammy Awards might be the most pretentious event in entertainment.

With a music collection mostly filled with the likes of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Weezer, Van Morrison, James Taylor, Johnny Cash, Garth Brooks and a bunch of indie bands, it’s pretty safe to assume that the Grammys don’t showcase a ton of music that appeals to me.

But last night’s awards seemed to have nothing except for a bunch of bands that nobody REALLY likes acting really important.

There’s just something inherently funny about a band that made its career on getting retarded and something called “lady lumps” pretending to be actual artists.

I wasn’t paying much attention, but here’s what I got out of it:

1. Gaga for, well, Gaga
Shame on you, Gay Community. Maybe this isn’t fair, but I’m holding you personally accountable for the Lady Gaga phenomenon.

Like with most things, “The Gays” (that’s hillbilly terminology) latched on to Lady Gaga long before the rest of us. Unlike male-scarf-wearing, however, this trend does not benefit the rest of us.

You’ve made countless meaningful contributions to American culture, but, alas, this is not one of them.

Now, because of you, Lady Gaga is like Jesus in vinyl. She’s everywhere. She won Grammys last night and I have no idea how other than that one time one of my students said “her music is good to dance to.” Her video for “Bad Romance” has almost 100,000,000 hits on YouTube. And no, that’s not a typo. One hundred million.

The worst part is that she’s the Nickleback of dance music. Everyone listens to her despite the fact that she’s just a mash of all the most boring elements of every similar artist that’s come before her.

It’s like TV on the Radio and MGMT had a bastard child who was then reared in a household run by pre-Judaism Madonna and T-Pain.

And do you want to know what makes me angriest?

I can’t stop listening. Seriously, what does a guy have to do to get Lady Gaga out of his head?

2. The Taylor Swift Confusion
I wasn’t keeping track, but I heard somewhere that Taylor Swift won like 30 Grammys last night.

I get it. She’s young, wholesome, cutesy and All-American. Oh, and she deserves credit for actually writing most of her own songs. Go Taylor. Still, there are two things that really bother me about Taylor Swift:

1. I can’t decide whether she’s hot or not.

And trust me, I’ve given this serious consideration since she turned 18. I’m still confused. Sometimes the little blond is smoking hot, at other times she has this buck-toothed, weird eyebrow, pasty skin thing going on that reminds of the infamous drunken college hookup where you think you snared a hot chick only to find in the morning you’ve earned your walk of shame.

Not that her looks should have anything to do with her popularity, but her hotness ambiguity is troubling.

I don’t know whether she’s a 9 or a 5, which makes me think she’s hiding something.

2. I can’t decide whether she can sing or not.

Sure, she sounds fine – relatively speaking – on her album, but she sounds terrible live. Her Grammy performance was brutal, and the legendary Stevie Nicks should be treated the same as a parent who thinks it’s cute to watch her 16-year-old get drunk.

3. A glimmer of hope
Last night’s Grammys gave me hope.

Not hope that music will someday fix the world’s injustices. Definitely not any hope that some form of quality will be hitting the mainstream anytime soon.

No, the Grammys made me believe that I can be a rock star.

Swift’s performance was pretty revealing of her singing ability, but it certainly was not alone in its suckdom. I’m pretty sure last night’s real winners were Auto Tune and vocalizers.

Beyonce excluded, apparently nobody can actually sing anymore. Even rappers are using vocalizers and whatnot.

I’ve always dreamed of being a rock star and last night showed me that I’ve got a chance.

Booze, Guns and Thunder lives. And we’re going to rock your faces off.