The Philly Psyche

Well, that was wild. With all the news coming out of the Keystone state that Fat Andy would be gone, Donovan McNabb had choked in a big spot again and the world was coming to an end after that travesty in D.C. last week, the Eagles got every bounce yesterday and have made it into the NFL's year-end tournament. They will play Minnesota, coached by Reid's protégé, in a battle of the minds next week (seriously, where are the jokes here from the Philly papers? I thought Minnesota was going to blow it yesterday at the end of the game when they let a good 20 seconds run off the clock before calling a timeout, then called a play with nine seconds left, which was incomplete, before kicking the game winning field goal. How many terrible challenges and wasted timeouts will we see next week in the Dome with these two guys sitting down at the chess board?).

But, as I have learned so many times before, rooting for those infuriating teams from the seat of Democracy does a good deal of damage to the brain, as evidenced by the truly horrid night of sleep I just had. I was awoken in a fit of panic by Teddie's cries at 6 a.m. after dreaming that the Eagles had beaten Dallas in a blowout, only to be forced to play Pittsburgh for the right to go to the playoffs. In that game, the Eagles led 33-3 entering the fourth quarter before blowing it and missing out on the playoffs (333=(1/2)666?). I woke up and had to smack myself to remember that that did not actually happen and the Eagles had in fact secured their playoff ticket.

Then, with only about 40 more minutes of sleep to enjoy before my alarm went off at 7:10, I entered another horrifying dream. I was back in my high school's neighborhood in Metropolis after hours, which isn't the safest part of the city. In the dream, I lived about 15 blocks away and I was walking to my apartment, but I was not using the sidewalk, I was wandering down the deserted street. I saw four men coming toward me, all wielding baseball bats. Inexplicably, after three of the four had passed me without even a wary glance, I dove at the last's knees, taking him out like a cornerback fells a running back. I trembled in fear as the other three came to his defense and threatened to beat the life out of me. They wanted all the money I had on me, which I was reluctant to give because I needed all of it to pay down my mounting credit card bills, all of which I had just secured by gifts for Christmas and deftly was carrying on my person. I remember mustering an excuse of a car accident that left me woozy, and that's why I had fallen and taken out the last man, but they advanced anyway...

RING...RING...RING

My alarm clock saved me from the beating and the ensuing robbery that would have left me in credit card hell. So, the next time you call out your whiny Philadelphia fan for complaining about a skewed run-pass ratio, remember what we suffer in the dead of night, even after stunning fortune and a dominating victory over a hated rival.

Giving Thanks: Pop

The Christmas Eve’s of my childhood were always spent with Pop at his office in Metropolis. It was a great treat for a young boy, riding the train in from the suburbs, staring up at the huge buildings as we walked to his office, and of course, a trip to a fancy, sit-down restaurant for lunch (which probably wasn’t all that fancy thinking back on it.) Today, the tradition has not changed much, but I was not nearly as excited to wake up before noon, stand on a windy platform waiting for the train, and instead of zooming around his office waiting for lunch, I’m instead at my desk waiting for 1 p.m. so I can go back home.

Writing about your dad is an impossibly difficult thing to do. You love your father, but you never say it, and you often don’t feel it if he’s doing his job right. He has a constant watch on you to ensure you don’t fall into the traps that fell many young men without fathers, and you can never quite understand why he’s always on your ass, always scrutinizing. His criticism is “constructive,” but is rarely partnered with praise, building a vicious circle where you chase your father’s approval but can never quite catch it.

He was the disciplinarian, the one I feared. I ran to my mother to shield me from his anger and disappointment over my mistakes, and she called for him when I refused to budge for her. His heavy feet on the stairs caused me to tremble, fearing he was coming to admonish me for another mistake, be it an unclean dish, a stray shoe or a call from school complaining of my talkative and disruptive day in class. We were not buddies; he was the master, I the apprentice, and I was to learn his trade the way he saw fit.

I never wanted to take his advice, I always wanted to complete a task my way, even if it wasn’t as good or took me a great deal longer. I wanted to prove to him that I could succeed without his aid, but for all my efforts, I was rarely rewarded. I couldn’t understand why he nit-picked, even at things I considered accomplishments, when all I ever wanted to hear was, “Good job, bud.”

As we parted ways this morning, I mentioned the memory of Christmas Eve’s past and how we’ve come full circle, and he gave me a wink and a smirk, and I know I’ve finally caught the carrot. He and I are so different from one another; he has a logical, math-oriented brain that served him well through his doctoral work in economics, whereas I am more creative, toiling instead with words and aphorisms. He can build a car engine, I can only build a casserole. I am emotional, talkative and loud, whereas he is pensive, quiet and stoic.

But, our differences aside, never have I revered anyone the way I do my father. His accomplishments are staggering in my eyes, and for the majority of my childhood, I was crippled in an attempt to earn his praise. I often acted not for myself, but for what I believed my father wanted. I cannot recall all the times he would turn to me in frustration and say, “You know Bud, I don’t know everything.” But he did to me; anything I ever wondered, I asked him. Looking back, it was absurd to think he’d have an answer, but he was my Dad, he had to know.

I remember seeing my parents at the dinner table, tired, frustrated and weak from their days at the office, and I often thought, “Why do they do this?” I always knew they worked as hard as they did because of us; neither of my parents has terribly stimulating jobs. They traded that perk in for more pesos. They always drove crappy cars and wore cheap clothes, and I always got the new basketball shoes. Growing up, I promised myself I’d never have kids, because the way I saw it, I ruined their lives, because they were all about me and Lil’ Sis. They never took time for themselves, never went out because they were too tired from work and running us to and fro, and they never seemed to have money left over to spend on extravagant gifts for one another. I was as appreciative as a 15-year old could be expected to be, but my response was a selfish one, a promise I would never turn into my parents.

My parents taught me a powerful lesson, though. They work hard for their money, and a lot of it still is spent on my sister and I, but I know they are happy. Pops lost his mother when he was three, and spent his childhood in and out of orphanages and group homes as his father struggled to hold a job in the 1970s. He would eventually drop out of high school, something he is still embarrassed of today, but secured his GED, worked his way through college and on to graduate school, where he earned his doctorate in economics. I have always been so proud of that, the true rags-to-riches story that causes millions to flock to the U.S.’s shores. I am most proud of his outlook on life, that his wife and children are what he cares about and works for, even more so because he had a father that did not do that for him, who often was not there for him. He has built a family, and given me every advantage that I could ever hope for or need; he fulfills that great Jackie Robinson line, “A life is only worth the impact it has on others.” I’ve always loved that quote, but I never appreciated it until associating it with my father.

My life will not be guided by money or fame. I hope to teach people the lesson of my father, that your unique gifts and talents are not for you alone to profit from, but to be shared to build up all those you come in contact with. He has spent 21 years teaching me how to be a man, a man that gives to the world, a man that takes responsibility when no one else wants to (“If not you, then who?”) and to leave your mark with all who will listen. I do not know what lies ahead of me after leaving school, but my Pop has given me a solid base to face the world with. I hope everyone has a Blessed holiday, and that you are as lucky as I am in friends and family.

Where ya been at?

Finals, Christmas shopping, Northeast power outages and general fatigue have slowed my publishing numbers, but fear not, I am hard at work and will have posts up throughout the Christmas holiday for all my loyal readers. In the mean time, read someone else's hard work about the continued redevelopment of New Orleans. The city continues to struggle two and half years after Katrina, and I have a soft spot for any good news coming out of the city.

I'd like to wish all of Press On's readers a happy, blessed Christmas, and to thank all of you who log on and keep up with my life. It has been a great experience these first five months, and I look forward to what 2009 will bring. Please find me on facebook, and if you like what you are reading, let me and your friends know!

Clean the Halls

I was short an apron and a hairnet, but after handing in the extensive term paper than has kept me from blogging the past week, I decided the old creaky apartment I call home needed my best Martha Stewart this afternoon.

After cleaning the shower stall, wiping the toilet and scrubbing the bathroom floor, I turned my attention to the dishes in the sink before finishing with clean sheets on my bed. I did all this why Audrey was off at work, and I jokingly passed along an acknowledgement of our role reversal.

I finished my audition for June Cleaver by putting together a casserole of stir fried potatoes, sauteed ground beef and vegetables, macaroni and cheese which I topped off with mashed potatoes and gravy. Audrey came in the door from work, and her dinner came out of the oven. I had misplaced the pearls and high heels, but I still had a hug and a kiss for her before she slumped into a chair with a deep sigh. We ate dinner on the freshly laundered table cloth and chatted about the day, but I couldn’t help but chuckle about mine.

I lack the male gene that carries the “I can tolerate my own filth” trait, or maybe my mother just taught me well. I also love to cook and hope to teach middle school next year. And I recently read during my daily blog roll that MacBooks are preferred by guys that are a little light in the loafers, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m not worried about my sexual preference, but Audrey is in a high paying field, and my career track does not appear to be taking me in that direction. She has asked me before if it’ll bother me if she brings home the bacon while I collect the feet, and I have always responded that my ego is secure.

Today got me thinking more about it, though. Stay-at-home moms are a thing of the past, ever more so in this time of economic turmoil. Audrey has a co-worker who is on the verge of divorce, with the problem being that she has recently gone back to work and is “never home,” a new problem in the relationship that has been sputtering for years. Apparently, the guy can’t make up his mind, and used to groan when she spent her days with the kids while he sweated out for all the income. So, what’s the problem with having the dual income? And I hate scrubbing the toilets, but isn’t it nice to have a happy wife and a fat bank account?

A serious relationship teaches the valuable lesson of humility, a quality not often found on college campuses. Humility is more than breaking a stereotype and wringing a mop, though. It is understanding the needs of others and putting them before your own without expecting it in return. I am given the opportunity to reach out and help people countless times a day, and I often fail, due to my first ever economic lesson: “People respond to incentives.” If you cannot expect anything in return for your action, what is your incentive for doing it? But that is the beauty of a humble act; it is for the other person, and hopefully, your incentive is the happiness derived from doing the good deed.
So, gentleman, if your wife one day gets a raise that puts her in a higher tax bracket than you, think not of the shame you will endure from your beer buddies, but rather the excitement and joy she must feel. No man is an island, to borrow and old cliche, so work to find joy in others, so that they might find joy in you.

True Life: I'm a College Graduate

Mondays are a dreaded day for all, and I am no exception. It is one of two days that I work, Friday being the other, and often I don’t return home till past 9 p.m. after the Fraternity’s meeting. Today, I trudged through the door as the night creeped past 10, but was cheerily greeted by my roommate, Muffin, who you may remember from my first Spring Break story.

Muffin graduated last spring with a business degree, and after traveling in Europe for the summer, he returned home without a job or a place to rest his head. He secured a position at a software company he interned at while in school, but only through December, and because one of my roommates is abroad for the semester, we invited him to live with us.

Fresh out of meeting, I regaled a tale to Muffin from another epic Away Weekend (stories forthcoming) in which one of our younger brothers sustained a hand injury that required medical attention. Baby D was coaxed to jump into the rapidly accumulating pile of trash that had amassed over three days worth of partying, and after emerging from his booze-induced dive, he noticed he had sliced his hand open. This set the decision makers into a fit of panic as they quickly tried to think up a cover story and another tried to find a vet to stitch up his hand. Undaunted, Baby D sauntered into the emergency room, and offered this beauty for how his hand became mangled.

“Well, I was busy raging on top of the counter, and I remember crashing into a pile of trash, and when I got up, my hand looked like this,” he stated to the attendant. Honesty is the best policy.

After a hearty chuckle, Muffin and I began to speculate how Baby D’s parents took the news of an emergency room trip. My parents recently received a bill for $452 for my trip a few weeks back, all but $75 of which was covered by our insurance. Our conversation then turned to our president-elect, and his plans for universal health care. Muffin let on that he was paying his own medical insurance because he is hired through a temp agency, and not the company he works for. He pays $20 a week for it, and the maximum the company will pay out for medical attention he receives is $2000 a year. He then launched into a story highlighting the difficulties he has had with the company just to receive payment for medical attention.

A few weeks back, he decided to make a doctor’s appointment because he has had trouble sleeping and has noticed that since returning from Europe, his memory has been in decline. It took him two hours in the doctor’s waiting room merely to ensure his insurance would cover the visit. After securing that, along with a $15 copay, the doctor prescribed an anxiety medication, blood work and an MRI. But his headache did not end there. He learned the blood work would cost $800, nearly half of his yearly allowance, and an MRI would use up all $2000 plus an extra $450 out of pocket. He declined the MRI, but through one of his brother’s clients, he secured an appointment for blood work under the table at a lab an hour’s drive away, which still cost him $250 out of pocket. To fill the prescription, he went to the pharmacist, but was told there was a problem and was forced to call the insurance company. He was then given a list of 20 numbers, which he jotted down on a napkin in the middle of CVS in order to receive the discount, but after the pharmacist entered them into the computer, it still didn’t work. He tried again, another 20 numbers, and still no luck. He finally gave up only to be told the prescription was a mere $8, and which has proved to be worthless, because they merely put him to sleep.

My father’s a federal employee, so I’ve never worried a day in my life about medical insurance, nor did I have any idea how unbelievably complicated and unhelpful it can be. Muffin had to take off work, costing him money, drive all around the state in order to receive affordable help and still didn’t get all the services the doctor prescribed for him. And the kicker is that the insurance company does not pay for the services; instead, he pays out of pocket, sends the company a receipt, and they then decide how much to reimburse him. Health insurance is an unbelievable safety net; without it, that beer can I tossed would have cost me 500 bucks, but not one that everyone enjoys. And that may be the worst part; my roommate is not alone, he is just another sad story in a sea of economic turmoil.

Get Out of Jail Free

Many months ago, I received my very first moving violation, tarnishing a sterling record I proudly boasted to all who would hear. I was driving around State College Town in Audrey's car, and made a U-turn I make at least once a week, but unbeknowest to me, it was illegal, and there was a county officer in an unmarked car waiting idly for ne'er-do-wells like myself to slip up. The ticket was exorbitant: $90 for an illegal U-turn, but I was told I'd have the opportunity to fight it in court.

I had forgotten all about it until a few months ago when the subpoena came in. Being even more broke than I was back in the summer, when I was at least working full time, I searched for some way to get out of the fine. After polling the mass grouping of idiot drivers that make up any college fraternity, I learned my best bet was to attempt to reschedule the court date so the officer who pulled me over would fail to show up, and the fine would be waived. Below is the excuse I just finished penning.

"The Honorable (name redacted),

I am requesting a new trial date with respect to the citation noted above, currently scheduled for December 9 at 10:30 a.m. Upon returning home for Thanksgiving Break from my studies at the University of (name redacted), I learned I had been summoned to court for an infraction that occurred many months ago, and as 21-year olds are wont to do, had been forgotten about by me. The current trial date is of inconvenience to me because I work Tuesday mornings and have class in the afternoon. Due to my late realization of the trial date, I do not have sufficient time to call out of work, and with finals fast approaching, it would be damaging to miss class this late in the semester. I am on a very fixed budget, as most college students are, and it would be difficult to overcome the lost wages to appear in court. I apologize 1000 times over for the late notice, but I would greatly appreciate a rescheduling of my court appearance. Thank you in advance for your consideration of my request.

Sincerely yours,

Carter Wayne Jones"

Feel free to use this as a template should your county grab you by the ankles and try to shake your milk money loose.

Going Live

In an attempt to increase traffic and networking, I've created a Facebook profile. If you are a regular reader, please add me. Search for Carter Wayne Jones. This will allow me to inform you about updates and be another medium for feedback. Thanks!

Giving Thanks: Lil' Sis

The turkey has been put away, the mashed potatoes enjoyed and the plans for Christmas decorations drawn; yes, another Thanksgiving has come to a close.

My family and I arose before dawn, served our soup and thanked God for all that he has given us. After our good deeds, we braced ourselves for another chapter of amateur athletic competition. It has become a Jones family Thanksgiving tradition that we compete prior to our yearly feast. Around 2 o’clock, our guests and the four of us head out to the local field and line up with a pigskin in between us, and every year, we fight my Dad and try to convince him to call the game off. The women don’t want to play, my cousins produce notes from their dive coach (they’re on a Big Ten school’s team) and my sister and I just roll our eyes. But every year my father prevails, and every year we head home an hour later hungry and happy from the friendly game.

Yesterday, however, we did not go home happy, and our hunger was a bit dampened by the first injury in the long history of our Turkey Bowl. Lil’ Sis was defending on a long ball, got tangled with one of my cousins as they both leaped for the pass, and ended up spraining her ankle. I stood there watching her writhe in pain, and my heart went out to her. I have suffered more ankle injuries than I can count, and the first one was the worst; the pain is unbearable, plus you are embarrassed that a simple leap in the air has left you a blithering lump on the cold, damp ground and you fear what the trip to the doctor will bear. A big brother never likes to see his baby sister cry, never likes to see her hurt, and never wants to know a situation in which he cannot help her.

She spent the day in doctors’ offices, awaiting X-rays and a prognosis. It ended up being merely a sprain, but she’ll be on crutches for a few days while the swelling subsides. I spent the day with the women, namely my aunt, grandmother and mother. Mostly they talked, and I listened. My mother and aunt did what they always do; talk about their kids and families and reminisce about the past. They were talking about friends they’d lost because of their jobs, marriages and children, and all the people that have come in and out of their life. But despite all the changes, my aunt mentioned that she still had her sisters, something I found incredibly poetic. I am always thankful for my family and our home, but this year in particular, I truly appreciated coming home for the holidays because I do not know what the future holds for me. I may not spend the holidays with my family next year, and I may not always be so near to come calling whenever I wish.

The conversation got me thinking about my sister and what she means to me. The years have fallen away, and they have taken our childish sibling rivalry along with them. I have told her before about my appreciation for her valuable advice on girls and dating, but my affection for her is due to more than that. I have grown to admire her, and it hurt to see her reduced to pain yesterday. She has told me countless times that she looks up to me, but she has grown and matured and earned the same respect from me. She really isn’t my baby sister anymore; she is a strong, smart, gifted woman. I always longed for a younger brother to toss a ball around with, but I am eternally grateful that the good Lord gave my parents a daughter to tell me how to dress. My sister will always hold a special place in my heart, like my aunts do in my mother’s, but to a greater degree, because she is all I have in the way of siblings. She understands me like no one else can, because she knows where I come from and by whom I was raised. She can make me smile as easily as she can make me scream in frustration, a special gift all little sisters possess. And while our time as neighbors has long passed, it will always be imprinted on my soul, along with her, no matter the distance the wind, or some boy, takes her from me.

Giving Thanks: My Ma

The car door slammed shut, a great thud that continues to reverberate through my head to this day. I peered back at the faces that had greeted me each day with a smile and a wink and took the first anxious step toward my future.

I will not soon forget the day I left home for the dorms, because my mother won’t let me. It was the day I gained independence from my parents’ watchful and all-knowing eyes, and I knew it as I trudged up the steps to my second floor room. I had longed for it, longed to be out of the reach of my (sometimes) overbearing and nosy mother, who never let an opportunity pass to remind me how I should behave, speak, act and even eat. But not till last week did I realize that mothering is all the woman knows, and when my sister and I handed her her pink slip, all she was left with was her duties to pay our rents.

Oh, she still showed up for work everyday I let her in the door, chiding me for living at school on summer and winter breaks as opposed to her domicile only 12 miles away. She took it personally when I stayed by myself in the crappy three bedroom I call home, braving the oppressive humidity of July in a building that knows no air conditioning. She cried as our relationship deteriorated, with her working harder to get us back to what we once knew, while I chafed under her relentless attempt to force her way into my life. Why couldn’t she let me go? Why didn’t she understand I was forging my own path, that I longed to be free of her “house rules” and obligations, that I wished to be on my own, with my own money, my own “house rules?”

What I didn’t realize was that I was killing the poor woman, robbing her of her daily duties and, in a small way, her dignity. Her children had left her, her nest was empty, and all she had left was to improve my Pop, but after 27 years of marriage, she has done all she can with him. After 20 years on the job, she was rudely shown the door, before she could collect her things or even secure a severance package.

So when I made my weekly sojourn home to do my laundry last week, and was greeted by a pair of eyes that could stop your heart, I couldn’t help but drop my bags to the floor with a start. I stood frozen as the owner of the eyes stared back at me, leaping at the barrier that separated us in an attempt to inspect this new visitor in her new habitat. There would be no return to school for my mother, because her resume had finally been accepted, and she had gotten her old job back.

Watching my mother with the adorable Teddie, a half poodle, half shitzu, calling herself “mommy” as the doting ball of fur followed her every stride brought a grin to my face; it was as if I had seen her reborn. I couldn’t remember seeing her so happy, so full of energy and excitement. But as the joy of seeing my mother this way began to fade, I began to understand our relationship better. I’ve seen this woman mostly as an obstacle since that car door slammed shut, someone who was more concerned with holding on to what I once was, as opposed to helping me realize what I would become. I thought she wanted her little boy, that she was too scared to admit I had grown up and left her, but that was not it at all. She wanted to know she was still important, that I still valued her in my life, and when I made it apparent that I believed I know longer needed her, it broke her heart. She didn’t want to tell me what to do anymore, she only wanted to offer advice because she didn’t want to see me fall, she wanted to lend a hand so that I didn’t have to feel pain. I thought I had matured because I no longer relied on her, but what I realized was that I had one step left, and that was to learn how to still let her in on my life.

Our newest member of the family can’t speak, read or write, but somehow, it taught me a lesson about my relationship with my mother. My mother has bucked the employment trend, and I’ve taken one more step out of adolescence.

Spreading Holiday Cheer

The holiday season is upon us, as signaled by the endless seasonal music that greats your ears every time to break the threshold of a merchant. In light of this, I will be debuting a series I have been working on for a few weeks about my family, beginning on Tuesday when Lil’ Sis returns from her long sojourn from school. She is an avid reader of Press On, and has been pestering me, as little sisters always do, to write more about her, because she feels it will improve traffic. How modest she is.

Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday of the year. I am an avid preparer and consumer of food, and I look forward to the feast each year. Like many American families, mine has a yearly tradition of a heated football contest prior to the meal, and, fortunately, it typically ends in smiles and laughs no matter the outcome. My immediate family of four will be joined this year by my grandmother, aunt and her three sons, all of whom I cannot wait to spend the weekend with.

I can only hope all of you are so fortunate. Thanksgiving break is a great time to take a step back from class, relax a little and refocus for finals, but it is also a great time to reflect on what is important in your own life. I encourage you all to embrace your mother, thank her for all she has given you and offer to help out with the day’s festivities any way you can. We travel far from the homes our parents have made for us for school, and often, returning there can be a boring chore. But this time, remember the love that cannot be replicated in your dorm, the closeness that you will not find in your local bar, and the memories from holidays past. I wish all my readers a safe and happy Thanksgiving, and I hope that you get to spend it with friends and family.

If a senior falls but no one is around to hear it...

Oh Fall ’08, where have you gone? The autumn wind that brings fallen leaves to my window also scoops up the discarded pages of my calendar, and with them, the daily reminder that my time in college is one day closer to the end. This solemn fact has stalked me since last fall, and was a big motivator in the creation of this space to chronicle my last go around.

But the time has passed too rapidly to put anything in perspective; it is hard to believe that Thanksgiving is a mere 7 days away. Soon, it will be on to December, to final exams and then to what was supposed to be a victory lap in Spring ’09.

But the parade route is still being finalized, pending approval from the Fraternity Corps of Engineers. Senioritis has gripped the vigor I felt for the Fraternity all the years it has been part of my life, and has strangled it nearly to death. The Chapter House gets vandalized, and I barely bat an eye. Party with a sorority, yet I don’t feel like dressing for that theme. Another opportunity to clinch a sports championship, but I’m too consumed with my own stuff to attend and cheer the team to victory.

The Fraternity was my chance to meet friends, girls and people to fill the time between class and bed every day, but now having achieved a girl, friends and some people, what personal incentive is there to continue with it? It has given me fond memories, great parties and funny stories, but my senior year has been devoid of many of the people and things that had me banging on its door each day in my younger years. This does not appear to be my problem alone; on Tuesday night, the Fraternity had a pre-drink with Audrey’s sorority, and she was the only senior in attendance. Where, oh, where, have the seniors gone?

I relayed this to Lil’ Sis last night, the oddity of being the oldest guy in the room at parties. She just laughed and told me I’m making a big deal out of nothing, that I’m only two years older than “people her age” and should stop pretending that I’m too old for college. I agree that two years isn’t that great a gap, and that I’m certainly still ok with having too much to drink, but there isn’t the same fulfillment there once was.

It is impossible to deny the differences I as a senior have with sophomore girls at parties. I am concerned with finding a job and paying my bills, and they’re just too busy talking about their cute TA and complaining that we’re out of Rikaloff. I wondered aloud the other night if I had become uncool and too boring to meet and make friends as I once did. But Audrey said she had the same problem, so much so that she knew more of my friends than she did girls in her own sorority at the event two nights ago.

“It’s not fun anymore,” she said. “And other girls feel the same way. We used to go to things, look around the room and know everyone there, but they’ve all come and graduated, and now the room is dominated by the new girls. A lot of the older girls just say ‘Fuck it,’ because our friends aren’t out.”

I had always heard the senior classes of the past complain about the senior girls of Greek Life, huddled away at home with boyfriends, but I never grasped it till now. My time to party and act irresponsibly is coming to a close, and I fear I am failing to seize it. What once was fun seems dull, and what used to be important is now on the back burner. I got what I needed from the Fraternity, and now that she has little to give that I wish to take, I make little time for it. I just hope my last memory will not be as a bored, bitter senior.

Class Wear

The changing of the guard is nearly complete, and Snow Miser has taken the position he will hold until early April when his brother Heat Miser takes it back. And while this means I get to dust off my favorite old Christmas movies, it also means summer has come and gone, and the impending winter chill has sent the skirts, sundresses and halter tops that make my treks to class so pleasant into the back of girls’ closets.

(Now that Audrey has stopped beating me, I can continue with this post.)

There is one saving grace, however. One delightful, common female clothing of the winter that far surpasses the summer skin-showing line up. This wonderful piece of dressing was a foreign concept before I arrived in State College Town, but it has quickly become my favorite. I am of course referring to the 80s inspired spandex leggings that adorn the bottom half of girls everywhere I turn, and I have to admit, their climb to the top of the fashion food chain has got me excited (no pun intended).

They are typically accompanied by Uggs, which is fine, because I do not have as much hatred for them as some males. They are held in such high esteem because they accomplish the two goals of the vain-driven college female population: stay warm and show off the goods. I remember first encountering this craze as an NBA fan, and soon thereafter, girls were wearing them under their dresses to the bar during the colder months of the year. But pretty soon, they would stand alone, and they have become the first article of clothing that can be both warm and slutty. They have gone from an item of necessity, to a fashion statement to nearly a staple in girls’ winter wear.

While I am such a champion of them, there is really no nicer way of describing them, because, they take the place of pants, but are skin tight, so that any casual observer can get a pretty decent idea of what you look like naked. And this, of course, is why the superficial male takes such a great interest in them. But why would girls chose to walk around half-naked? From what I can tell, it takes a greater amount of time to put on spandex than it does a pair of jeans or sweatpants, and the skin tight fabric can’t be terribly comfortable. No, this reeks of attracting the other sex, and the unfortunate thing is that as a male, I have no equivalent to return the generous favor.

Some girls have even taken it so far as to sport form-fitting tops. One such girl strolled into class yesterday, a foolish decision seeing as how each member of the class would be forced to present a power point. Aside from being dressed straight from the gym, this poor girl got a case of the shivers while on stage, and her unmentionables reacted for all the class to see. But that wasn’t all. She had done a poor job of arranging her apples, so that when the stems became erect, she looked like a kid with a lazy eye. While one “eye” starred straight out at the class, the other cast down and to the side. All the superficial males in the class traded amused glances, but the girls cringed. I just hope it doesn’t put an early end to the great winter ass parade.

Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moon light?

The sun-soaked afternoons quickly turn into brisk, moon-lit nights as winter sneaks up from behind on State College Town. I donned my parka and headed out to the library the other night, and as I approached the edge of campus, I noticed a middle-aged man leaning over the railing that prevented traffic from entering campus as the lights flashed from his van that rested ten feet away.

“How are you tonight?” I called out to him as I approached. Our campus locks down after 10 p.m. to divert traffic through the main entrance so the cars entering can be recorded by security.

“Fine, and how about yourself?” he replied friendly.

“Not too bad,” I retuned, shivering through the brisk wind that blew through the layers that become my companions when the mercury falls. I reached into my wallet and produced my student ID in order to proceed beyond his post. “I’m headed to the library to study, I suppose you will need documentation?”

He chuckled softy and shook his head. “No, they pay me just to make sure the bus comes through on time, but I appreciate you recognizing me as something more important.”

“Oh, very good then. Stay warm, and have a good night,” I offered as I passed him by.

I went on my way to cram for the next day’s exam in an effort to raise my GPA beyond its present level of mediocrity, but the encounter stayed with me. At first, I cursed the university for forcing such a pleasant fellow to brave the wintry weather we have been experiencing for such a menial task. I wondered aloud why it was necessary to allocate additional resources merely as a check on the unmotivated college students who captain the buses that transport drunk freshman from their dorms to the bars, but my momentary annoyance passed as I crossed the threshold into the warmth of our library.

But as I finished and began the walk back to my apartment, my mind returned to the genteel man I had encountered before. How remarkable of him to keep such high spirits despite his placement in our class system. There is not a day that goes by in which I fail to complain about my financial situation and the dread I have over facing a declining job market that awaits me following graduation. He works a forgotten position nightly, likely for a pittance, but he does it with a warm smile and a kind word. How many times was I ungrateful for his service as I huddled with strangers and waited for the bus three years ago? How quickly my frustration would have boiled over if I waited impatiently as my lips turned blue because of a tardy chariot.

The world is full of men and women like him, who man thankless posts, taking care of tasks I do not even consider or deem worthy of employment. It is truly remarkable considering my whole life has been a quest to earn an esteemed position in our society, and should I fail, the scorn and disappointment that would fall down upon me from family, friends and peers would be swift and unmerciful. And why are some positions more honored than others? Doctors save lives, lawyers keep the law and teachers educate the population, but where would we be without the people that lord over our conveniences? How, when and who deemed some employment more important than others, and why is there so much shame associated with the less esteemed ones? Are those that don hardhats and carry shovels less skilled, less important than the doctor or lawyer? Could the doctor or lawyer have achieved their titles without the bus checker ensuring they returned to their homes promptly in order to receive a good night’s rest? Why do we build up those men only to tear the others down for their “shortcomings?”

A job is just that; it is a way to collect a paycheck so you can provide for yourself and those that depend upon you. But often, a job title carries with it a significance, or an insignificance, that raises its profile and labels the individual that carries it. Dedication is necessary to carry out a task sufficiently, and pride is a prime motivator in ensuring success. But a person’s office number should not define their personality, and it should not help form your opinion of a person. An honest day’s work is often more important than sitting at a machine and plugging in numbers, and we should all remember that before we cast a disapproving eye at an undervalued member of the workforce.

An Historic Senior Year

Quite often when you are on the precipice of history, you are too caught up in the moment to realize it.

Last week, a parade went through a city that had to wake the dead to learn the route. Beers were spilled, Kleenex’s stock skyrocketed and the FCC cringed. And so the city of Philadelphia rocked and rolled, but before the ink dried on the “c” of historic, Barack Obama’s name was announced over the PA system and he strode to the plate as the 44th President of the United States.

The first thing that left my lips as Brad Lidge returned to Earth and fell to his knees was “I never thought I’d see this day,” and I was not alone. For any Philadelphia fan born after June 1983, a world championship was a foreign concept. So when Eric Hinske swung through strike three on Oct. 29, it marked a cosmic shift in the psyche of pouting Philly fans. No longer are we losers, no longer will we expect heartache and forever will we remember that day (This does not apply to you, wearers of midnight green. Please do not think you are off the hook. This Phillies’ championship only makes the fact that you are without a Lombardi trophy beyond pathetic.).

How fitting then, in a fall of firsts, that U.S. voters took the last (public) step to bury the long, ugly past of discrimination against blacks in this country. As I watched our next president give a stirring acceptance speech just before the calendar read 5, I recalled my childhood growing up in a county where I was the minority. I remember 5th grade, and learning of the horrible history of race relations, stunned by the words I read in Roll of Thunder, Here My Cry. I had sat next to my black peers all my life, but my adolescent naiveté was shaken upon learning that was not always the case.

From there, the crusade was on; I devoured the rest of Mildred D. Taylor’s books, I pressed my parents for more information and I opened my eyes to see if this was still a problem around me. I did everything a 10-year old could to learn about racism and be sure that I was never a part of it.

However, it never occurred to me that racism went both ways. I never thought of the mistrust and the scars that remained with much of the black population. But when I reached high school, one of my basketball teammates went out of his way to express his misgivings of the fair-skinned fellows. He had been raised with an admirable level of pride for his race, but along with it, an utter lack of courtesy or interest in his white classmates.

This was stunning to me. For so long, I had been concerned with racism going one way, but never had thought of it coming back at me. I had never been disliked because of my skin color, or at least not to my knowledge. Despite this, he and I would eventually become friends after he was injured and forced to share the bench with me for the season. I would eventually learn of his fears and feelings, some understandable, some uninformed. I only hope I helped him grow as much as he did for me.

This story, and ones like it, became history on Tuesday night. 2008 was not a presidential election; it was a sea-change. As a white man, I cannot begin to understand the pain, the humiliation and the frustrations that black men and women have felt over the course of their lives, but the elation I saw on their faces Tuesday night helped explain it. Barack Obama has energized a generation, educated a population and made good on the promise that in America, anything is possible. Fortunately and unfortunately, this election had everything to do with race, but now that Barack has achieved the highest position in the land, hopefully it will be the last time that that is ever the case.

Rosa sat so Martin could walk, Martin walked so Barack could run, and Barack ran so our children could fly. Wise words from a source smarter than me.

Flordia/Georgia Weekend

I decided to get out of State College Town this past weekend to head down to the yearly shit show in Jacksonville, commonly referred to as “Florida/Georgia” Weekend.

The city of Jacksonville and Alltell Stadium host the yearly matchup between the bitter SEC rivals, and because of Jacksonville’s proximity to both Gainesville, Fla., and Athens, Ga., the fans travel extremely well. Many head down to start the festivities as early as the Wednesday before the game, populating “RV City,” as it is known by the locals. It is little more than an asphalt expanse that becomes home to the rowdy out-of-towners and their rolling tailgate machines.

With an off day for State University’s squad and the “World’s Largest Cocktail Party” beckoning, I set off on the trip with four brothers, a graduate brother and a friend of his from home down I-95. We met up with another graduate brother who makes his home there, and joined in on the madness.

The game is no longer known by that appropriate aforementioned moniker, because the powers at be did not feel it a good representation of their schools or conference, but a rose by any other name is still a rose. It was like nothing I had seen before; someone had described it to me as Mardi Gras, but the Crescent City’s most well-known bash is not fueled by SEC football fervor as Jacksonville’s party is.

While we were all impressed with the all-out rage that went from morning till the next day’s dawn, what struck me most was the southern culture that dripped from every participant in Duval County. As we headed home Sunday in an intoxicated haze through Georgia, one of the passengers in the car pointed out the fleet of decked out RVs that rumbled down the highway across from us. I lifted my head and peered across to see about 15 luxury vehicles that double as condos gliding down the highway. The sight joggled my beer and bourbon flooded brain and I couldn’t help but smile at the time honored tradition of tailgating that these people take so seriously and do so well.

This weekend transcends tailgates or football contests for its fans. The jersey clad supporters who flock to this southern metropolis are not merely co-eds and frat daddies; no, it brings with it the young, the old and the infirm. College students shotgunned beers along with their grandfathers. Middle-school aged children viewed with awe as their fathers tossed ping pong balls across stained fold-up tables. Women crowed at televisions when a call went against the squad they supported.

I love football, and I really love tailgating, but these people put me to shame. College football, drinking and grilling double as vacations and family reunions down south, and you don’t have to look any further than the grand domiciles on wheels they boast to prove it. Those fans were not huddling around 10’’ black and whites adorned with rabbit ears; rather, on display were 35’’ HDTVs hooked up to satellite dishes, some equipped with surround sound so the whole “block” could listen in. The grills and the steaks were industrial sized.

The whole scene was fascinating. At first, I chuckled at the simplicity of these “hicks” who spend all of their disposable income on getting drunk and watching 20-year olds crash into one another. But, after seeing the proud fleet rolling down 95, I began to sing a different tune. Sure, my parents and their friends would be aghast at people their age drinking and behaving as though they were my age, and perhaps that isn’t the healthiest of behavior in front of offspring, but the sense of community and pride these people displayed was refreshing. We Yanks fret about our savings and 401ks so we can jet off to the Caribbean or sport a new Beemer every few months, mostly to one up our neighbors, friends and relatives. But that’s not what I witnessed in Jacksonville.

Instead, I saw friends, family and neighbors taking part in a holiday, and the expenses they put into it were not for show but for celebration. They happily swapped hamburgers for beers, chairs for cornhole sets and made room for everyone to gather around their tvs. We northerners poke fun at the Confederacy and the simpletons that call it home, mainly because they buy into the country singer stereotype. And even though I can now confirm those stereotypes are accurate, they are rooted in the southern culture of hospitality. The community feel is intoxicating, and even though it might not win any of them prize money on Jeopardy!, it is a sweet and happy way to go through life.

A Day Late and a Dollar Short...

Although the 2008 election has come to a close, I couldn't help but wonder if the outcome would have been different if Sen. McCain had tried a different public image. I give you, McCain the jock.

Success in politics is rooted in strategy and execution, knowledge of the opponent and his weaknesses along with a fervent backing from supporters. Sports are much the same, and it is not a new practice to use sports analogies along the campaign trail.

With that in mind and an historic election set to commence in less than 24 hours, Sen. John McCain tried to rally the troops with an inspirational and lasting memory for voters who would see his name on the ballot the following day. What was the message, you ask?

“HE...COULD...GO...ALL...THE...WAY...TO THE WHITE HOUSE!” he bellowed on Monday Night Football on ESPN as anchor Chris Berman smiled, dipped his head, and shook it in suspended disbelief.

McCain wasn’t done. He went on to reference his deficit in the polls that many pundits have deemed insurmountable, and uttered one more tired cliche in response.

“That’s why they play the game,” McCain beamed, as Berman did his best bobble head impression.

Americans love an underdog, but they hate George Bush, and McCain has been trying to run from those comparisons for months now. Perhaps he should have dropped the tired war veteran, bible thumping, baby kissing routine months ago, and instead of resorting to cheap gimmicks and tired puns, he could have appeared on ESPN like his adversary, Sen. Barack Obama did, with a self-assured grin and an air of unmistakable confidence.

Instead, he blew a golden opportunity to forge an identity that would have reverberated beyond party lines. Every week, millions of Americans stuff themselves into athletic cathedrals and hug, high-five and celebrate no matter what their political party affiliation. John, if you are such a maverick, how did you miss this boat? Dump the executive experience mumbo jumbo, and start talking up your All-American boy image. How can Obama compete with a guy who lettered in three macho sports, football, boxing and wrestling (they give out letters for the jayvee, right?).

While Obama was off scrimmaging with those losers from Chapel Hill, you should have been in the breadbasket working on your fallaway with Mario Chalmers. John, as a military boxer and a survivor of a POW camp, how could you not have at least challenged that nancy boy from Hawaii to an arm-wrestling match?

What’s that John? You said you can’t raise your arms above your shoulders anymore? And I should be well aware of that fact because you flail around like a turtle on its back whenever in front of a camera?

That’s ok, John, I understand you are getting on in years, but that’s why you nabbed Gov. Sarah Palin as your running mate. I’ll bet the two of you would make a fine one-two punch on skates against your Democratic opponents.

You can’t get ahold of Mrs. Palin, John? She’s on the phone with France, you say? She’d probably be tied up putting lipstick on her bulldog, anyway.

You’re running out of options fast here, John. Basketball is out, arm wrestling isn’t an option and Palin’s in Quebec getting directions to the ice rink. That only leaves you with a couple of options. You said yourself you weren’t very good at football, so I can’t imagine that’s a good option for you, but neither was siding with Bush back in ’03, so you could gamble here, too. Obama might try to get you on a surf board, but I wouldn’t recommend a man of your, uh, physique, to be shirtless in public.

No, I’ve got the perfect competition for you, one people of your generation dominate every time they step on the court, and one you can surely crush Obama in.

Shuffleboard. Years of grizzled competition at the Del Boca Vista-esque condos that dot your great state have prepared you for your moment of glory. It’s here, John, take it.

It’s a great idea, right? Oh jeez, you are right, I never thought of that. Obama will have a tough time finding identification to get him into the 65-and over clubs in order to compete.

Well, it’s not looking too good for you in the sports department, John. But if you do pick up an Obama fumble tomorrow, don’t use Leon Lett as your inspiration on the way to the White House.

It'll be a cold day in Hell before...

"The million-to-one shot came in. Hell froze over. A month of Sundays hit the calendar. Don Larsen today pitched a no-hit, no-run, no-man-reach-first game in a World Series."
-Shirley Povich in The Washington Post, 1956

That unforgettable lead penned by the best sportswriter the world has ever known described the first and only time a man pitched a perfect game in the Fall Classic, but I couldn't help but play it over and over in my head Monday as I gleefully anticipated Game 5 in Philadelphia, when incandescently hot Cole Hamels was set to take the hill and end a 25-year Depression in the City of Brotherly Love. I wondered if I would cry when that last out was recorded, as the Red Stripers poured out of the dugout to gang pile their perfect closer, Brad Lidge, as he posed for immortality in a city that never forgets.

But it wouldn't be on that night, or even this night, as rain pelted Willy Penn and snow floated throughout the region, and so we wait, with the aforementioned lonely Cole Hamels stuck on 75 pitches and stranded in the home team's batter's box holding his breath for the conclusion of the 6th inning of Game 5 of the 103rd World Series.

As the Phillies teeter on a precipice I often wondered whether they'd ever achieve, I tried to comprehend the moment, soak in every last detail, because at 21 years of age, this is a long time to wait for one stinkin' championship.

But it's more than that; as I poured over the comments page on philly.com following their NLCS clinching win a few weeks back, I saw a litany of references to deceased family members smiling from above, optimistic outlooks despite dreary financial and professional news and too many happy father-son stories to count.

And so, I can wait another day, spend it wondering in facisination how the last out will be recorded, where I will be sitting, how I will react, and what it will finally feel like, all while imploring the Phillies not to break my heart like so many of their predecessors.

Homecoming, Part I

The joys of Homecoming week are well-chronicled. Midterms are completed, parties are a nightly given and the tailgate of the year looms to culminate a great week.

This week did not follow the script. To begin, we were burdened with a sorority that was our not our first choice, not even our second, but instead our sixth choice, all after locking with our number 1. Unfortunately, due to some sororities' improper gift giving after the original match ups were determined, the Office of Fraternity Life took this opportunity to reshuffle how match ups are determined, and elected to have fraternities select the sorority of their choice, with the selection order to be determined by grade point average. Needless to say, this put us at a severe disadvantage, and our sorority of choice was snatched up long before we were called to the podium to make our selection.

Then, a bomb exploded. I was forced to remove a pledge from the process, and worse of all, I could not detail to him, his pledge brothers or the fraternity why. And even now, the issue is still too fresh for me to detail it in this space, so that story will have to wait for a later date.

Finally, mercifully, the weekend came and with it, the yearly Homecoming tailgate. Graduate Brothers from near and far flood State College Town, all looking to reminisce and drink their asses off. Unfortunately, they brought the first rain drops State College Town has seen in some weeks, casting a frown upon the glorious celebration.

Undeterred, we pressed on through the droplets and the wind; food and beer were abundant, there was a great turn out of faces I hadn't seen in months, and pretty soon the competitions got under way. Unfortunately, that competition cut my day short.

I am an avid cornhole player. It has quickly become my favorite game, far surpassing washers, ladder golf, and even beer pong. As such, I am a horrible sport in defeat, and my losses are typically accompanied with a fit of rage. Saturday, I was playing with my dear friend and recent graduate, Cheesy. Unfortunately, the wind and rain were affecting our game, but not our opponents, and we were getting worked. With the game to 21, and the other team already at 20, my opponent stepped up and sank his first shot, worth three points. I then attempted to respond by going for the cornhole, which I missed and left off the board. He responded by walking off, declaring victory and refusing to shoot further, leaving me to shoot my last three shots consecutively, and should I miss the board even one time, defeat would be sealed. Needless to say, this show of disrespect riled and my booze-addled brain up.

Throughout the game, the rain-soaked bags bounced and slid all over the place, but I had begun to find my groove, and landed my second and third shots on the board. I had already admitted defeat, but I refused to be shown up; I wanted to force him to make another shot to beat me. So I aim for the last one, it hits the board, and bounces right off. We lose, I chuck my half-full beer can as far as I can...

...Shit... and sliced open my index finger on the open aluminum top.

"Oh well, that sucked," Cheesy began, before noticing the blood streaming down my arm. "Dude, what happened?"

"I just ripped open my hand chucking that beer," I deadpanned. "Jeez, that's bleeding a ton."

"It looks pretty deep, dude," Cheesy chuckled. "You might have to go to the hospital."

I ran to the pledges, demanded paper towels, and attempted to wrap up the crater in my finger. I have sliced my fingers many times while chopping vegetables, so this type of injury rarely makes me sweat. But there was a chunk missing from my finger, and the blood was flowing freely, coupled with the fact that I get light-headed merely from the sight of blood. After an hour of applying pressure, sitting on my hand to try to get it to go numb and slow the blood flow, I gave up, called Audrey, and she forced me to go to the ER.

We arrive at the ER, where I had to describe my idiocy for all who attend to me. I have made a couple trips to the ER before, and they are never pleasant. It usually spells a big bill and a long wait. Fortunately, I have a couple months left on mom and dad's insurance, so the first concern was nigh. Because the wound was minor, I would not be forced to see a doctor, which would shorten my wait, which only amounted to about 45 minutes, with another 45 minutes of care, so overall, not too bad.

But the 45 minutes I was forced to wait made me think. There were two other groups that arrived at about the same time as me, and I was seen betwixt them. The first was a young mother with her toddler son and elementary school-aged daughter. The toddler had a hack worthy of a blue-hair at a black jack table in Vegas, and it seemed the only thing that kept his weary mother awake at 4 p.m. on Saturday. I couldn't help but hypothesize about this poor woman, and the awful battle that was waging in her weary head. It is likely she had worked all day Friday, only to come home to find her youngest with a harrowing cough that kept her up all night. It is even more likely she is uninsured, seeing as how she brought him to the emergency room and not the family doctor, and I can only imagine the worry that went through her head as she was kept up by her son's cough the night before while she did calculations in her head, attempting to determine if he needed professional help, and if she could afford it.

I sat not ten feet away, bleeding from a self-inflicted injury, about to receive precious medical attention all because I am a drunk fool, and at the end, the tab would be picked up by pop's place of business. On the other side of the aisle sat a struggling (presumably) single mother with her two children, so exhausted she could barely lift her head to relay information to the attending nurse, gripped with worry for her son and her bank account. I felt physically ill watching this play out before me, and I do not solely contribute that feeling to blood loss. The world is a great teacher, and on a day that I bemoaned the gods for bringing rain down upon me because it didn't make enjoying food and drink with friends as pleasurable, I instead received a dose of reality and a look into how "the other half" lives.

College Triathlete

He braves early mornings, soldiers through long nights and can always be counted on when the lights shine brightest.

Of course, in college, those early mornings are to tailgate for noon games and the only thing he can be counted on for is a good laugh when drunkenly screaming at the bar lights when they come on to signal closing time.

Yes, the college triathlete is not an athlete at all, but instead, could most generously be called a functioning alcoholic. But alas, the time to shine was thrust upon my esteemed brothers this weekend as homecoming commenced with a three day event I have deemed "The Drinking Triathlon."

The first leg was a sacred competition that stretches through our chapter's lore, a twice annual occurrence that pits the most foolish 32 members of our grand fraternity against one another on 16 man teams to see who can be the first to finish a keg. I was selected to suit up for the pregame favorite, and fool-heartily prepared myself by consuming a gallon of water per day to expand my stomach for the onslaught of Natty Light it would soon encounter.

But I was not our team's hero or anchor on that day. That honor went to our captain and my former roommate, BC, who solidified his place in the hall of fame by downing 17 pints in 47 minutes last spring to pace the underdogs to victory.

He made his plans for a repeat performance no secret, and his past performance was honored by being named a team captain. Unfortunately for us, his judgment of others' abilities is not akin to his drinking.

We lost a close battle, but not before he put down 20.5 in just under 50 minutes (I merely managed nine). The sober pledges kept the official count, but his 20.5 beers went the way of Jordan's 63 in Boston (points, that is).

With a full stomach and a heavy heart for the beers lost in failure, I retired to the Chapter House to ease my soul with the herb. But, the night would still prove interesting.

My current roommate, Muffin, does not partake, so he left out for home before me. Not five minutes later, I receive a text telling me that our rival had left their Homecoming backdrop unguarded in the back yard. Giddy Up.

The Homecoming backdrop is typically designed by the sorority in the match up, and it adorns the stage while its owners perform their Homecoming skit. The banners are judged, and this score factors in to the overall score that determines the winner at the end of the week. If we could capture it, we could (illegitimately) improve our position.

So, I relayed this information to my little brother in the fraternity, Kush (aptly named for his seemingly never ending supply), and the other guy we were chilling with, George. We shed any fraternity markings, cloaked ourselves in black, and set out to do some reconnaissance. We noticed the banner lay under four cinder blocks in their well lit back yard, but the trees that ringed the property would provide excellent shelter from guarding eyes.

However, we thought it best to wait for the hour to creep closer to dawn and to recruit an additional member. No sooner did we decide this than BC burst through the doors, fresh from the bar, probably close to 40 deep on the day. His drunken recklessness was deemed an excellent quality for our task at hand, a premonition that proved true not 30 minutes later.

So, George and I left Kush and BC behind to map out our escape route. We planned how we would get it out of the yard and where we planned on taking it once we had it secured. We decided it best to head for a satellite house a few blocks away, where we could more easily secure the huge banner for eventual transport/disposal.

Satisfied on our route, we set out back to the house to wait for the bars to close and foot traffic to slow. But as we walked past our rival's house, we noticed someone in their back yard moving the cinder blocks that held the banner in place.

"Shit, those fucks are on to us," I cursed in dismay. "They're fucking taking it inside."

"Damn, we blew it," George lamented. "Are you sure? Look over my shoulder and check it out."

I cautiously glanced over just in time to see the the kid put the finishing touches on rolling it up. But, instead of heading into the house, he lit out of the yard toward the street, and started running in the opposite direction.

"Holy shit, I think someone else one upped us and stole it," I said as I gawked at the fleeing figure.

So, we turned and chased after him to see who had accomplished our goal. But, something looked really familiar about the jacket that adorned the darkly dressed theif.

"What was BC wearing?" George queried.

"I gave him Kush's coat, he didn't have anything else dark," I told him.

"Well, that looked a lot like it. I think that might have been BC," George said, optimistically.

"Get his ass on the phone," I nearly screamed in delight.

But the first call went unanswered, as did the second. We were wandering around the block, beginning to abandon hope, when a hearty chuckle emanated from down the street.

"HAHAHA, I got it!" the crazy asshole exclaimed. He had taken it upon himself to go into the enemy's back yard and take what the four of us had all plotted to pilfer.

"Unbelievable, you are such an idiot, but God do I love you," I congratulated him on his second drunken achievement of the night.

We walked the two blocks to the satellite house and went down into the basement, eager not to alert anyone for fear of the news spreading. BC got a call and ran off to meet a girl, so George and I were left with the booty.

"This is a really shitty backdrop," George noted. "Why did we bother to steal it?"

Shit.

"I don't know, because we didn't steal their backdrop. Fuck my life. This is their gay ass banner they put on their match up's house for the week."

What we had stolen was a banner adorned with the chapter's letters informing all of their possession of the sorority they are matched up with for the week. We had not improved our Homecoming standing; we had merely rid the Greek community of the obnoxious signage that would not be on a sorority house anytime soon.

We elected to dump it, deciding it was best for them not to have it, as only bad things could happen should it be found in our possession. So we rolled it up, laughed at the near miss, and chucked it in the nearest dumpster.

The next two legs of the triathlon, the next day's tailgate and Kegs and Eggs Sunday morning, proved less eventful. But despite our loss, we still managed to forge our place in the long and storied lore of The Keg Race.

Spring Break, Part 1

Welcome to all who have visited the past few days. I encourage you to share any thoughts you have on the site with me and to pass along the url to friends who might also enjoy it. My apologies for spamming on juicy campus, but I had to get the word out somehow.

What follows is the first installment of my 2007 Spring Break. I traveled with a group of 6 brothers and one pledge that spring to New Orleans on an alternative spring break. Five of us, including myself, made the trip via Honda Civic, and it made for an interesting road trip. Below is the first half of the trip.

Around noon on Saturday, our driver, Pickles, picks up Roy, Muffin Skinny T and me. Our plan was to do about half the trip to New Orleans, find a hotel in a city still to be determined, and then finish the trip Sunday. Because it was St. Patrick's Day, we placed a high priority on a big city where we could go out and drink. As we enter Tennessee, and realize Memphis is out of the way and out of the question, we settled on Chattanooga, exited the highway, and stopped at the first Days Inn we came across.

Skinny T and I went to secure the room for the night while the other three went out to pick up drinks for the pregame and to find a good bar. Unfortunately, although we had heard of Chattanooga, it wasn't for its night life. They returned to inform us that the place dies after nine and barely has a pulse on the weekend. That left the Days Inn Hotel Bar as our only option. So, we downed a 40 a piece and headed over to the only option in town.

The place was straight out of a southern stereotype. Country music playing softly from a juke box, guys who hadn't left their stools in 12 hours and a bar maid that wasn't securing any Coyote Ugly auditions any time soon. To complete the Hollywood cliche, in we come, loud, lude and ready for a party, only to be stopped in our tracks as this scene unfolds and every eye in the place looks us up and down. We settle down and in to table in the center of the room, the furthest away from the regulars hugging the ring of the place.

So, the bar maid comes over and asks us what we want.

"What's on special?" I ask.
"6 bucks for pitchers," she says as her voice cut through years of abusive menthol cigarrettes.

So, there's five us at a buck a pitcher, let's get nuts. Eventually, the place starts to empty out, and we inquire about closing time.

"Oh, I'll be here till 3 o'clock, sweethearts. Take your time."

Pretty soon, it's just us and her. Pickles goes off to bed to get some sleep for the next day's drive. Since she's the only chick in the place, we start to talk up the bar maid. Turns out she's from Georgia, was passing through Chattanooga and decided she liked it so much she'd set up shop. She asked us about "the North" and what we thought about Tennessee. The conversation went on like this for about 15 minutes until another group settled into a table in the corner and she went off to take their order.

So, after she leaves, we begin to wonder how much our tab is, and seeing as how we've been drinking for about three straight hours, we have no idea how much we've had between the beers we ordered and the shots she offered. So, the conversation then turns to paying for the expected monstrosity. Roy and Muffin, both with girlfriends at the time, begin to debate if either Skinny T or I could sweet talk the bar maid into giving us a price break. It is quickly decided that Skinny T should be the man for the job, since he loves to boast about all the girls he can bed (although actual figures are difficult to come by). So, we send him up to the bar to work his game and settle our debt.

While all this was going on, and unbeknowest to us, another group has followed the first in, and they have begun quietly bickering back and forth across the bar. But, things quickly escalate, signaled by Roy's sudden stricken look.

"Guys, don't turn around," he said to Muffin and I, who had our backs to the bar and were facing Roy. "There's a knife out."

"What the fuck..." I begin.

"These guys are about to rumble, lets get the hell out of here," Roy says.

"We can't just leave Skinny T, he's right in the middle of all of it," Muffin points out.

At this point, the barmaid has lost the starry gaze in her eyes that Skinny T has produced and turns her attention to the animosity right in front of her.

"You all ain't doing this shit in here!" she screams. "Get your hick asses out of my bar and do your bickerin' on the street!"

So, the two groups head out to brawl else where. Crisis averted.

Once order has been restored, we call Skinny T over, learn he is making decent progress, and hand him a credit card to pay whatever the tab ends up being. He goes back to work, and we head over the to all-night diner adjacent to the hotel bar. Hell of a Days Inn they have in Chattanooga.

As we're eating, Skinny T comes in and tells us our tab is $145, and he's talked her into knocking $25 off.

"That's not enough," we tell him. "Get back in there and hook up with that Swamp Donkey and get it down."

"All right," he drunkenly grins, and heads back to the now closed bar.

Fast forward about an hour. We've retired to bed and are shooting the shit, when I suddenly realize its 4:30 in the morning and Skinny T hasn't come up to bed. Just then, we here a knock on the door. I was closest, so I get up, dressed only in boxers, and pull the door open. It's Skinny T.

"Where the hell have you been? How much did you get off?"

"SHHHH!" he says. "She's standing right here."

So he staggers in, and in follows the slampig bar maid. My mouth agape, I fail to say anything to improve the situation, but she surveys the room, seeing four guys in two hotel beds, and utters the immortal words I shall never forget.

"Am I about to get gangbanged, y'all?" she asks, grinning, as if she was hoping we'd all say yes, hogtie her and throw her in the bathtub.

My mind went numb from shock, and I could only see Skinny T's reaction in the failing light, but it was somewhere between horror and humor. He turned, shoved her outside and closed the door behind her as he bid her good night.

"What the fuck did she just say?" Pickles asked, still not exactly sure what was going on as he had only gotten pieces of what transpired after he left from our drunk trio.

"I believe it was, 'Am I about to get gangbanged y'all?'" Roy snickered as we all doubled over in laughter.

Skinny T then describes the experience of hooking up with said swamp menance.

"Well, after you all sent me back in, she was waiting by the door and grabbed me as I came though. She pulled me behind the bar and started to do what can be best described as eating my face. Then she dragged me into a room behind the bar, up against a couch and started ripping her shirt off."

"How were the tits?" someone asked.

"They were terrible. The worst things I've ever seen. I thought she couldn't possibly get uglier, but these things were awful," he grimaced. "They were like pancakes, but then it was as if they had a scoop of ice cream on top."

At this point, we had lost it. We had sent our friend in to hook up with this random woman to save us a couple bucks, and not only had he succeeded, but he had discovered a new kind of breast; the pancake ice cream scoop.

"So, how much was the tab?"

"46," he proudly stated.

$46. He had saved us almost a hundred bucks. Unbelievable.

And thus ended the craziest St. Patrick's Day I have ever experienced, yet it was so fitting for what was yet to come in the Cresent City.

Ham and Cheese

Theft on college campuses is nothing new, especially with drunk students making such easy targets, but this was one of the stranger robberies I've ever heard about.

This is the tale of one of our newer guys; lets call him Saul. I quickly became a fan of Saul's during away weekend two semesters ago, when he accompanied me up a mountain to take in the view and a blunt. So, while he is two years my junior, him and me are pretty cool, and he told me this story from his weekend.

Saul pledged his first semester at State University and currently is our fund raising chair. Unfortunately for him, he recently broke up with his high school girlfriend, lets call her Jenna, who happens to also be in Greek Life. So, in an attempt to get over it, he's been hitting the bars pretty hard. Along the way, he's bumped into one of Jenna's sorority sisters, named Wendy, who he had gotten to know while dating Jenna. Some playful flirting ensued, but he wasn't terribly interested in her and has yet to hook up with her.

But things got interesting this weekend. Once again, they crossed paths at the bar, and she asked him to leave one bar with her to go to another. Being a slow Saturday night (they aren't actually slow, they just aren't fun because they're swamped on the weekends), he decided to go with her. After some more flirting, she asks him if he wanted to leave with her. He agreed, because they live in the same building and he figured he'd walk her home. So they get back to their apartment building.

Wendy: "I've never seen your room before, can I see it?"
Saul (unpersuaded) "Are you sure? I'm pretty certain you've seen it before."
Wendy: "No, I've been in your apartment, but never your room...Can I please see it?"

Saul relents, and takes her upstairs. There, his roommate is chilling in the living room trying to get some work done. Ten minutes of conversation pass, and the roommate gets up, leaving Saul and Wendy alone. Saul has little interest in hooking up with a girl in his ex's sorority, so he's doing his best to usher the girl out of the apartment, but she isn't taking his subtle hints.

Wendy then asks to use his cell phone, saying that hers has died. He agrees, and she goes off to use it. He leaves and goes to catch his roommate up on the developing situation. After a few minutes, he decides to stop being so nice, and to take the elevator ride with her downstairs to her apartment to make sure she gets in safe.

But Wendy beats him to it. She says she wants to go home, so Saul offers to walk her home.

"OK, I'll walk you home. Do you have my cell phone?"

"Whaaa?" Wendy crows, her mind having trouble processing alcohol and speech simultaneously.

"My cell phone, I let you borrow it. What did you do with it?

"I don't know," is all she good muster.

"Are you kidding me? Is it in your purse?" Saul exclaimed, suddenly fearful his new phone met a painful and blacked out death.

So Saul begins riffling through her purse. He not only locates Wendy's cell phone, which he notices isn't dead, but also a mysterious package for a girl's purse: a packet of lunch meat ham.

"Where did you get this," he asks Wendy, holding up the ham for her to inspect. She merely stares at him dumbly.

"Did you take this out of my refrigerator?" he asks, choking back laughter at the absurdity of the situation. "This is mine."

"I'm sorry," she whines. "I don't have any food in my apartment." Saul pulls out an accompanying packet of turkey and cheese, thrusts the refrigerator door open, throws the pilfered parcels back in, and turns to take Wendy home. He then sets his attention to finding his lost cell phone.

He calls it from her phone, hearing it vibrating through fabric, but still unable to locate it.

"Did you steal my cell phone too?" believing it to be in her purse.

"No, I swear, I don't know what I did with it!"

After several frustrating minutes, he searches through his roommate's backpack, where she had stashed the phone. Frustrated and flummoxed, he takes Wendy home.

It turns out, Wendy was going through the phone to see if Saul was still talking to Jenna, which he was. Once she learned that, she seemed to lose interest in him and gain interest in a different type of meat. Aside from the great story, he got an earful from a none-too happy Jenna, who was pissed about him hanging out with her sorority sister alone in his apartment.

At least he was able to save himself a trip to Subway.

Friends Old and New

Fall Break is upon us, and while State University does not bless its students with a mid-semester reprieve from classes and exams, most schools do, and that brings my high school friends back home.

A few of them made the trip out to State College Town this past weekend, two of whom were playing in a Beer Pong Tournament in the hopes of earning a trip to Las Vegas to compete in the World Series of Beer Pong. I dutifully awoke at the at the hour of 1 p.m. to be on hand to see my old buddies, Charles and Ned, battle amongst the 60-odd teams that were competing at one of the local bars. I brought Audrey with me, and also in attendance were two other friends from high school, Mark and Clint, hoping to see Charles and Ned to victory.

To preface this post, I must do a bit of detail on my life before college. I attended an urban, single-sex school, made up of students from the surrounding suburbs. Only one other guy from my middle school went to high school with me, and we eventually parted ways, hanging out with different crowds. My crowd could be most generously described as "bookish," I being the least brainy of my friends. They went off to the Ivy Leagues and the prestigious private schools of the East Coast, and I remained behind, toiling a mere 15 miles from my parents.

My freshman year at State College was anything but a success. I missed the single-sex atmosphere and the tight bond that developed between my classmates, no matter your clique. I missed the relationships I had developed with teachers and faculty members who served as friends and mentors alike. Simply, I missed the camaraderie and gentle playfulness that attended each and every one of my classes.

I believe this is what led me to join a Greek organization; I longed to be part of something bigger than me, something I could be proud to be a part of and eager to achieve for the greater glory of its name. I did not find this in the dorms, and I did not find the relationships I had cultivated in my four years of high school.

Unfortunately, with every passing year, it becomes more and more evident that the bonds I had with my old friends has become strained, and, that in many ways, I have changed a great deal, and during no other encounter was it so painfully obvious than this weekend's.

I met my four friends at the bar and we shared a few beers and a few stories as we watched the college football contests play out on the screens that adorn the bar's walls. We chatted about the tournament, about how our semesters are going and plans for next year. I learned Charles had broken up with his girlfriend of a few years and that Ned was continuing a relationship he started with a girl from this summer, while lamenting about my inability to keep in touch with Clint, despite the fact he too goes to State University.

But, the dynamic shifted when Audrey entered the bar, dressed in her sorostitute best amongst shabbily dressed, and mostly overweight, guys throwing ping pong balls into cups of beer. She had only met two of them, albeit briefly, but it was a paradox I was excited to view: my current girlfriend vs. my old friends.

There were the predictable embarrassing stories, but what was most telling was their overall inability to relate to or talk to her. Audrey is not shy in the least, and she tries very hard (bless her heart) to hang out with my friends, even if she is outnumbered by Y chromosomes. But she was a little taken aback at their lack of interest in getting to know her; they were more concerned with talking amongst themselves or making fun of me.

It was truly telling that my old friends behaved in this manner. I often think about who I have become in college and who I was in high school, and how peers who have seen me through both periods view me. I am admittedly terrible at keeping up relationships, evidenced by this awkward exchange between Clint and Audrey.

Audrey (to Clint): "So, where do you go to school?"
Clint: "I go here, Carter is just too cool to call me anymore."

Ouch.

So, have I become "too cool?" Well, yes and no. Yes, because the nature of Greek Life, unfortunately, is to exclude those that aren't in it. It becomes a headache to be in the middle of two groups of people that do not know each other and have little interest in knowing one another. But, Audrey, as she always seems to do, had an interesting take on the situation. She said that, yes I bear some of the responsibility because I choose to hang with my fraternity brothers over my high school friends, but, she also sympathized with my situation.

The adjective "fratty" gets tossed around by my old friends quite often to describe my new social order, and with it all the negative stereotypes: I'm too concerned with what others think, I'm too cool to do stuff we used to do in high school and that I'm overly obsessed with talking about girls and our relationships with them. (Greek Arrogance alert!) I grow frustrated with old friends and their unwillingness or unsuccessful attempts to hang out with me and my fraternity brothers, because, on a whole, they lack some of the necessary social abilities to succeed in Greek Life. But it is a two way street. Perhaps I am "fratty," and I definitely have changed since high school, but the fact remains that they still display timidness around my friends, even my girlfriend who is eager to get to know them and by correlation, me as I was as a young adult.

For example, if you had the choice to go to the bar with fun guys that would intermingle amongst the crowd or a group that would huddle with itself, which would you choose? I hate that my involvement in Greek Life has left my old friends behind, because I had strong, meaningful relationships with them, and many of my Greek Friends are closer to party friends, but how can I involve myself in one group enough without leaving the others on the short end? I joined Greek Life in the hopes of building relationships similar to the ones I cherished so much in high school, but it appears increasingly more likely that I have irrevocably damaged those that I held so dearly.

My old friends shed their college identities when they return home from school; I do not have that luxury, because I go to college at home. They want me to be the guy from high school, the one with the chip on his shoulder because he was originally from Philly and because he didn't get any playing time on the basketball team. And when I fail to fill that role, it is because I have changed, because I have become "fratty," and lost my self identity. So, I pose the question, does the Fraternity inhibit my individualism, or is it my old friends who want me to behave in old patterns?

To be or not too be... Greek

The music is blasting, the beer is flowing and the lovely ladies are out in full force, all indicators of a great night and a successful party.

But soon the alcohol and the music become too much, the police arrive and the girls head for the bar, and a once promising night is in shambles.

But aside from the stereotypical Greek theme party, what does the community offer to prospective members and the community as a whole?

Many who reside outside of it see it as a drinking club, a friend service for all who have a checkbook, or purely as an egotistical group of attention seekers.

On the other end, there are those that tell you they build life long friends, meet their future spouses and build powerful networks that help them land future jobs and careers. But, as with all things, it seems to follow Aristotle's Golden Mean.

I have been particularly introspective the past week, partly because this is my last year and partly because it helps me fill up this space, but mostly because the job search has left me reviewing my credentials and wondering if they will be enough. As I've updated my resume, written slews of cover letters and asked for letters of recommendation, I've considered my three years at State University and wondered what could of been if I had chosen a different path.

Ultimately, the biggest decision I made in college was to go Greek. I originally was adamantly against it, fearful of the party stereotype and the havoc it would wreak on my grades. But when three of my roommates took the plunge sophomore year, I was left in the uncomfortable position of being without a social life if I let them leave me behind.

I cautiously jumped in, leery of the "frat boys'" promises of grandeur, fun and friends. My logic was that I could always drop it if it became too much of a time commitment, which I deeply feared it would. That fear would be realized, but when it did, it was of little consequence to me.

Pledging was a blast. I quickly had a large social network of friends and was given the golden pass to parties and bars I couldn't sniff the year before. What I lacked my freshman year, close friends who I could count on, was forced upon me during the pledge process. I had an identity now along with a crusading cause to help my fraternity achieve greatness in the community.

However, my grades plummeted, my parents were not pleased, and the hammer dropped. I struggled juggling partying, working and school my first year, and adding pledging killed my will to put in the work necessary to achieve scholastically. I was three semesters in, having already achieved junior status because of Advanced Placement credit from high school, but I was decidedly behind my peers even when ahead in credits.

Today, that semester looms as the most bittersweet four months of my life. On the one hand, it marked the beginning of a decision I have never regretted. I owe my relationship with Audrey to it, 95 percent of my friends and a host of great stories about long nights. But at what cost? Would I have done better in school had I not joined? Might I have gotten involved in an organization that was focused outside of the social aspect? Would my unfortunate social situation have motivated me to achieve more tangible results that look great on a resume?

The advantages of Greek Life are not well-known by outsiders, and are typically scorned, and perhaps my bias places a higher value on them. But, now as a senior whose job in the fraternity is to lead our pledges toward initiation, pledges that are sophomores and freshman, I can not overlook the social building values that are learned by Greek members. On a weekly basis, we are forced to stand and speak to the fraternity as a whole, to speak our mind on the week that has past. Not all do, but those that take advantage build confidence in their public speaking that does great favors for them down the road. It is not difficult to see the strides taken as new initiates bumble through this their first few meetings but quickly grasp the eloquence necessary to make an impactful statement in front of the brotherhood. The pledges are quickly blossoming in this aspect too. At first, they were cautious and full of trepidation, but now, they are quick to call someone on their mistakes or pat them on the back for successes.

And then there is the nature of the organizational beast, the ins and outs of dealing with 70+ personalities. It is impossible to expect all 70 of us to love each other, and admittedly, we do not. There are a fair number who I would prefer not to have to deal with, and some I out right dislike, but, we are all united under the fraternity oath, and I am forced to hang out with, work with, and see people daily that I really do not care for.

Finally, there are the political considerations. I have put into practice leadership skills when heading up an event or challenging a position I disagree with at meeting. I have competed with other brothers for positions in the chapter and devised strategies for winning. I have voted and campaigned for candidates whose lines of thinking follow mine and whose leadership would directly benefit me. Are these skills tangible or even worthwhile, or merely a "frat boys" attempt to legitimize his alcoholism and drug abuse?

Is the fraternity a god send to the university? Far from it. We cause more headaches than we cure. We drink and party more than any other group on campus, and with that comes rowdiness, lewdness and, more often than I care to admit, violence and sexual assault. Often, we merely go through the motions or phone in the requirements campus has for us to keep our charter. If I have any great regret about Greek Life, it is our lack of impact on campus, and our utter disregard for change in that direction.

I made my bed with Greek Life. I elected to succeed socially, rather than push for a cause or pursue membership in an academic club. But I also know that I owe a great deal to my fraternity, with or without its shortcomings, and that I learned a great deal about life, people, and, ultimately, myself along the way.

Milwaukee vs Philadelphia, Game 1

Coming live to you from Citizens Bank Park in Downtown Philadelphia...

Just kidding, I just got back from class, and because I have an exam tomorrow but cannot tear myself away from the tv to study, I figured I'd blog about my thoughts throughout the Phillies second turn in as many years through the postseason.

2:50 p.m.: Confident and nervous at the same time. Being a fan of a Philadelphia sports franchise never leaves you room for confidence. My father's line that has stuck with me: "The Eagles could be winning the Super Bowl 35-0 with six seconds to go in the fourth quarter, and I still wouldn't be comfortable." We love our teams, but are always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Jimmy Rollins was quoted in the papers the other day saying the dread from the stands is felt on the field, so perhaps we as fans are our own worst enemies.

3:00 p.m.: Great promo by TBS: "Two tortured cities." Why don't they just say, "Hey, both these places suck, but we still have to cover them. Don't change the channel, ok?"

3:04: John Smoltz is in the booth. Nothing worse than current players giving play-by-play, but hey, I'll give him a chance. Put me down for 10+ whiny references to how small our ballpark is during the telecast.

3:08: John Smoltz on Cole Hamels: "He has a 2.99 earned run average at the Bank, which is unheard of." Only nine more, John.

3:09: Great start, Cole battles back to strike out Mike Cameron. BSB is a Brewers fan and tells me these guys kill left-handers, but the combination of Cole Hamels and the relative anonymity of Milwaukee's line-up makes me confident about Game 1.

3:12: Don't want to jinx it, but Hamels' worst inning has been the first all year. He looked great, 2 Ks and a flyout to put the Brew Crew down in order. Lets see what the offense has in store.

3:17: Bad Omen: Rickie Weeks makes the play of his life to retire J-Roll. I just can't stay positive when watching the Phils.

3:25: Good Omen: Chase Utley makes one of the best plays of his young career to throw out J.J. Hardy and get the Phils back in the dugout. Cole looks great through 2 innings. He's got the change up working. Ryan Howard, Pat the Bat's Balky Back and the Flyin' Hawaiian are due up for the Phils.

3:32: Another hard hit ball at an infielder gets the wild Gallardo out of the inning. Phils have to stay patient at the plate and get into the Brewers' suspect bullpen. The weather also could pose a problem. Overall, not a bad start by the Phils, but they need to get a hit. Cole faces the bottom of the Brewers lineup in the top of the 3rd.

3:39: Really Cole? You're going to leave a pitch in the middle of the plate for the opposing pitcher to hammer to Left Field? Thank God for that weather for keeping that ball in the yard.

3:43: First hit of the 2008 postseason: Carlos "Chooch" Ruiz

3:44: Thank you, Bill Hall/Rickie Weeks. Phils now have a shot at a big inning. J-Roll coming to bat.

3:45: J-Roll to the rescue, Brewer fans. Classic J-Roll, first pitch swinging resulting in a soft pop up to left field. Disgusting.

3:47: Might be another quick postseason in Philly. Two terrible at bats by Rollins and Werth. Chase needs a hit here.

3:50: A hard hit ball finally falls in, and the Phils cash in on the Brewers defensive miscues. John Kruk said defense would make the difference in this series, and so far it has given the Phils a 2-0 lead as Ryan Howard draws an official IBB in his second postseason at bat. He has yet to see a strike.

3:57: It's clear as TBS's cameras pan the crowd, the people of Philadelphia are unlikely to win any beauty contests.

3:59: Milwaukee is really making it difficult on themselves. Gallardo is really wild, and the defense was dreadful in the bottom of the third. Cole, having yet to give up a hit, now staked to a 3-0 lead. Gotta like the Phils chances today, assuming the rain holds off. What a huge hit by Chase.

4:02: Come on, TBS, if you want to be taken seriously as a sports broadcaster, clean the lenses off your cameras. That interview with Rich Dubee was completely undone by the huge water spot above his head.

4:04: Cole Hamels still cruising. Another thought on the aesthetics of the crowd. My dad had noted that the women got much better looking once the Phils moved from the Vet to the Bank. Today, it looks like those people are still at the office, and the uglies were bussed in to wave the rally towels. Oh well, makes for a better atmosphere.

4:15: Phils go down quietly in the fourth. I'm terrified of not adding on and Milwaukee coming back. Lets see what Cole does in the 5th.

4:17: Cole gets Prince Fielder to chase, 13 in a row. Smoltz is letting me down, but his booth mates are picking up the "Small Park" slack. And why is David Aldridge doing baseball now?

4:20: Cory Hart breaks up the no-no. Blame me, I should have known better mentioning it.

4:22: I bitched about Smoltz earlier, but he is doing a great job analyzing the game. He has a lot of incite about a Phillies team he plays against 19 times a year.

4:30: This game has quickly gotten boring, and making it worse is now the Brewers are into their bullpen. It's the 5th inning, and they are already bringing in lefty specialists to get Ryan Howard. Good news, though. If your wife gets hot by you wearing your prom tux but you can't carry her upstairs, you can still get laid because Viagara is in its 10th year. Who writes these commercials?

4:33: TBS is a shameless self promoter. I am going to be so sick of Frank Caliendo by the end of this postseason. And has there ever been a show with such funny promos and miserable programming?

4:38: Unbelievable Craig Counsell is still playing. Even more unbelievable that he has half the Brewers' hits thus far.

4:40: Mike Cameron draws the Brewers' first walk on the day, and they have a legitimate threat here. Important for Cole to get out of this inning and keep his team ahead. CBP has gone into its middle inning swoon. There is little energy right now. Time to bear down.

4:44: Again, I don't want to jinx it, but I can't say enough about this start by Cole Hamels. He was good down the stretch, but not great. He has dominated the Brewers thus far today, and the offense is getting by. I'd like to see them push some runs across the board and put this game away.

4:50: I can't really complain, because the Phils are up, but all of their runs are unearned and they only have 3 hits. That does not bode well for the rest of this postseason. On a completely unrelated note, Captain Morgan is now #1 in my Alcohol Ads Power Rankings.

4:52: Great pick by Ryan Howard to retire the opponents first basemen. Can anyone think of a guy who makes so many spectacular plays but blows so many routine ones? J-Roll talked today about Howard's offensive push late in the year and how his defense contributed.

5:00: Cole hit for himself in the bottom of the 7th, no suprise. Will Chollie let him go 9 if he keeps up htis performance, or go to the bullpen? A good point by the TBS crew about the Phils clinching Saturday night, allowing them to rest Cole on Sunday. Funny how playoff series are so drastically affected by when your team clinches, especially because the LDS are best-of-five.

5:03: More painful to watch: Another Jason Werth strikeout, or a Frank TV commercial?

5:05: Phils bats have been quiet, but a great day defensively. Another nice play by Chase on a bunt by Tony Gwynn, Jr.

5:09: It's a shame the rain has subdued the crowd on hand to see the Phils' first postseason win in 15 years. Ooops, did I jinx them? How about a little Philly faith. I'm going to try it out.

10:30 a.m., Friday morning: What happened? I blacked out after that last entry.

5:12: All joking aside, this game has been fun. I cautiously like this team, and if they keep getting pitching efforts like this, they will be a tough out.

5:25: John Smoltz with reference #2 on the size of the park. A disappointing day for him in that category.

5:27: Counsell was a nice mid-game substitution. It'll be up to Lidge to deliver the Phils the win.

5:32: The Comeback Player of the Year gets Mike Cameron looking for out number 25.

5:41: Waiting with baited breath as Lidge gets a huge second out. One to go.

5:45: Do they not have recording technology in Wisconsin? Did they not see Lidge in any of the 5 loses to the Phils this year? Why do they keep bringing up how seeing Lidge today will help the Brewers? He's been the best Phillies pitcher all year, they haven't been paying attention?

5:47: Wasn't pretty, but Brad got it done. I'm a little worried that the law of averages is going to catch up to him, but he gets the job done and the Phils get off the schnide. Great Game 1.