Generally speaking, you don’t need a gun to your head to do stupid things. Most of the time, you do stupid things because you want to and/or think it’s a good idea. As people age, that desire to do stupid things tends to subside, especially when you throw esoteric concepts like children and mortgages into the mix. So why did I think it was a good idea to eat nine hotdogs and drink nine beers in under two hours? At a St. Louis Cardinals game of all places!?!
The fast answer to the question is “I don’t know why I did it.” The long answer requires a bit of unpacking, a lot of reflection, and the constant gnawing need to catch up for lost time.
We can probably back track to when I was young. I definitely did not grow up popular. I definitely had trouble interacting with people. Most people just say i’m autistic, but I actually have an anxiety disorder that makes me hate public spaces. I hate crowds. I hate talking in front of crowds. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin. That lent heavily to my inability to be socialable and scratch out a level of popularity that would make me look back in high school in the kind of wistful way so many do. A million jokes are made about people who never quite got over high school. But getting as far away from those years as possible while still having a yearning desire to make those youthful mistakes is probably just as laughable, if not the specific reason I keep finding myself in the messes I get myself in.
I’m sure there is a deeper reasoning to why I chase the feeling of popularity in the absolute stupidest ways possible. I really can’t blame social media because of how nascent the technology still was when I was going through school. We had AOL Instant Messenger, but I was definitely already out of high school before even Myspace came around. I love Jackass and always have, but nothing i’ve really done is physically self destructive. Ok, that’s a lie, but for the most part, I come by that statement honestly.
I’ve nearly died three times since February 2023. The most recent time was September of 2024, when I passed out at Target while shopping for baby items (my wife was 5 months pregnant at this point) and when I went to urgent care after (my wife was convinced I had bronchitis), I had my vitals checked and was immediately rushed to the ER because my heart had fallen out of rhythm two days earlier and I was about to go into cardiac arrest. Or in other words, if I’d slept in that day, I might be dead.
The look on my wife’s face as I was being put on the gurney, seeing my unknown fate flashing in front of her, is permanently etched into my brain, haunting me in moments when I think i’m being a bad husband/father/friend.
So why do I keep doing reckless things?
I’m not a big lesson learner, would probably be the easiest way to put it. I’m just kind of stubborn. If I think I can do something, I’m going to do it.
Honestly, this isn’t even really about doing the 9x9x9 challenge on Friday night. I mean, I definitely did it. I know that most (all) people reading this can’t do it themselves, because you have to have this weird broken-brain drive and will to keep doing stupid things in spite of yourself.
For those not aware, which would be weird if you are reading me, but the 9x9x9 challenge is the challenge to eat nine hotdogs and drink nine beers in nine innings of a baseball game. I drank three beers before even entering the stadium. I also hate half a bag of pork rinds before leaving the hotel. And then I just up and did the challenge. What’s more impressive (in my mind) is that I pulled it off in an absolute pitchers duel, and I did it by the 7th inning. I ate a plate of chicken tenders and a couple sodas in the middle of it, as well. A side quest I smartly abandoned early in the adventure.
Fun aside about it: It’s not the beer that is the hard part. It is definitely the hot dogs. Especially during the summer, you are going to sweat out the beer as you go. But the hot dogs. My god. The hot dogs.
I started to struggle with the hot dogs around dog five. At this point, I was already done with eight beers. I was closing in on the finish of that. But I was taking a bite of hot dog, just chewing it, and hoping I could mash it down so far in my mouth, that it would dissolve. Every bite just felt like I as gnawing on a salt lick, due to the nitrates in the glizzies. I ended up eating the last three hot dogs like I was at the Nathan’s hot dog contest, I would chew them, then swallow it with a big drink of Coke Zero. It wasn’t particularly fun towards the end. But there was no chance I wasn’t gonna finish it.
It’s not a big deal, though. I mean, eating nine hot dogs is never healthy for you, but i’ve also lost 60 pounds in the past 9 months, so I had room for it. If you know me, nine beers is not a thing, either. I’m one of two Brandon’s I know that has done the six pack challenge (drink six beers in the time it takes to listen to the Black Flag song Six Pack, which is 2:20). I’ve competed in food eating competitions (I deserved to win that stupid chicken wing eat off!) and I also used to do semi-athletic things like the Warrior Dash and whatnot.
My brain chemistry does not allow me to focus on things like making myself better, though. I believe, deep down, it’s a chase to do something legendary. Instead, I find myself mostly doing legendarily stupid things. Sometimes it works (becoming a first time dad at 40), sometimes it kinda works (standup comedy), and sometimes it doesn’t work at all (pretty much everything else).
And I think it goes back to what I said earlier, about socially losing my high school years to my own anxiety. I’m, by all accounts, too old to still be chasing that invincible feeling of being young. Most people my age would love to have that feeling, but aren’t willing to put in the reckless, stupid effort that goes into it. Hell, even i’ve settled down since my health scares.
Maybe it’s partially overcoming the anxiety by trying to be a “performer” at all times, and I don’t mean that in a profoundly stupid way that you see people post on LinkedIn acting like. I mean it in the way that if I’m putting on an act, if i’m entertaining, then i’m masking the things that make me unhappy. I’m hiding the pain i’m in.
And I promise you, i’m in pain. Part of being reckless for me seemed to be a hatred for going to the doctor and preventative health. Now i’ve got arthritis in my right knee and two fingers in my right hand. I get horrible pain in my triceps still from when I tore it 70 percent off the bone, got put in a full arm cast, then cut it off after a couple weeks because I didn’t want to miss the start of softball season. I’ve had a bad back for a couple years that makes it hard for me to sleep comfortably. Gout is my apex predator.
Maybe I do it because I want people to like me, and I’m just not good at much else. I can’t have a normal conversation, but watch me take a shot of the hottest hot sauce you’ve ever had the misfortune of seeing.
I think the truth is, though, the reason I do things and continue to live stupidly, is that i’m just chasing a feeling.
It’s not a tangible feeling. It’s not fear. It’s not excitement. It’s hard to describe. I just know i’m chasing it. Thank god I’ve never done heroin, because that’s definitely the same way addicts describe using it.
This is in no way an indictment of the people in my life. I’m not getting away from them. In many ways, i’m trying to push myself towards them. Always trying to be the center of attention. Always trying to push myself. Always trying to have all eyes on me, just to prove to myself that I can always get past the barriers in my head, the biological stop signs that I blow past with the impunity of someone who is on the right side of father time.
Or maybe, deep down, I just enjoy it. What was the line from that one country song by the guy I don’t remember? Maybe I just get off on the pain.
Fancy Boys Club 