As the Jerry Sloan dynasty crumbled, Mike Brown was high on Adderall speed dating at Green Street. How sad. Illustration: Phil Cannon
The editorial staff at SLUG knows how much I like Coach Sloan. Because of this, they gave me the option of writing this month’s article about the best coach who ever lived. Overwhelmed with feelings of panic, confusion and more panic, all I was able to muster was that Phil Johnson and Jerry’s resignations seemed like a repeat 9/11. It felt more like I was writing an obituary and I just couldn’t bring the funny. I figured the loyal SLUG readers would enjoy hearing more about where I was when these terrorist actions against the stable franchise took place.
Jerry was Tower One, and Phil was Tower Two. When they crumbled last Wednesday night, where the fuck was I? At the game? No. Watching it in beautiful high def with surround sound at Dick and Dixie’s? No. I was high on speed, going speed dating at Green Street.
Let me tell you, snorting Adderall and the hollow winds of desperation blowing created the perfect flavor of frosting to top the shit cake that the Utah Jazz and my dating life have become as of late. (Let me stay optimistic here, though. Who knows, by the time this article hits the streets, Ty Corbin could be doing an awesome job, and all anyone will talk about is how shitty Coach Sloan was. Fucking fair-weather fans. I can’t win either way.)
So, here’s how it all started. My friend Grace (same Grace who pretended to be my wife when we stalked my ex-girlfriend) heard about speed dating and wanted to try it. I told her I would go with her, but I wanted to do some speed beforehand, strictly so I could name the article “Speed Dating on Speed.”
After I registered online with meetup.com, the local chapter of speed dating in this city, I had to find a way to get some speed. Fortunately, with our state’s high tolerance for prescription drug abuse and the fact that I live in close proximity to the University, finding some legal uppers was as easy as drinking a glass of water. I found a college kid who was more than happy to share his prescription with me in the name of journalism.
I convinced my roommate, Abu, to snort Adderall and come with Grace and me. We then created our online profiles for the event. The day of the event, I stopped by the Jackalope to say hello to one of the regulars, whom we will just call Choady. Choady asked me what I was up to for the day, and when I told him I was going speed dating on speed, he instantly wanted to join.
I figured it was a good idea to bring Choady along for a couple reasons. I thought he would make a great wingman because I’m much more attractive and charming than he is. No offense meant, because I love Choady, but I did think it would be a good idea to bring someone along who would make me look better. That sure as fuck wasn’t going to be Abu or Grace, two of the most attractive people I know.
Also, since Abu and I never snort anything, we needed someone with, ahem, “experience” to show us how to properly abuse a legal drug. Choady was just the man for the job! He helped us crush up our Adderall and send it up our faces with ease.
We made Grace the DD for the night: our designated driver and our designated dater. We were all excited to try out this speed-dating thing until we got there. Then we were just glad we were in a bar that had booze in it.
I looked around and noticed the makings of a sausage fest. When trolling for trim, one of the first rules of thumb is wherever you are—house party, bar or sacrament meeting—a good ratio is important. Fourteen hungry penises to seven desperate vaginas were not good odds by any means.
Here’s how it worked. Each girl sat at a table with a number on it. You got a score card and six minutes for each date. After your six minutes of hell, you got to discreetly check a “yes” or “no” box if you wanted to exchange e-mails with your date. If the “yes” boxes matched up? Well then, game on, baby.
For me, this was seven really really bad dates in a row. I’ve always been terrible at first impressions, which I’ve grown OK with because I’ve decided that if you make a bad impression the first time you meet a girl, you can only go up from there. The fact that snorting Adderall makes me grumpy, the Jazz were losing and I ended up kinda drunk weren’t helping my cause either.
Two of the girls that worked for the speed-dating company had to fill in as dates, and one was my friend Grace, so really, only four broads showed up. One of my dates with the lady who worked for the company told me that in New York, there’s a six-month waiting list for this shit. I didn’t call her a liar but I let her know a couple things. One: I was high on speed. Two: She clearly needs help promoting this shit show. Three: Look around. We sure as fuck ain’t in New York City.