At the Corner of Ego and Shame...

With Audrey on a trip home for the weekend to gather her Spring Break attire, I’ve been left to my own devices for the next few days. Aside from the empty hours I’ve tried to fill by filling this page, it has also given me an opportunity to participate in my favorite game, and her least, without incessant chiding: Corners.

Corners is the most self-absorbed, egotistical, pressure-packed and glory-filled drinking game known to man. It was brought to the Fraternity from outsiders, and was originally met with some skepticism. The game stuck because of its unique way to breed contempt among competitors who want nothing more than to beat one another. Girls hate it because there is no such thing as a “friendly” game of Corners; the object is to win, and sometimes it causes ugly words or epic collisions as two players go after a ball and get tangled up with the fans.

Any decent Fraternity is filled with ego, because, after water, ego is the second-highest occurring mineral in a man’s body. Corners’ unique rules make it a team sport with a one-on-one aspect that stimulates the ego, a contact game that makes close encounters, and their consequences, inevitable, and the heightened experiences that follow a free-flowing beer tap.

It has been stated before, but I will say it again: men must compete with one another, be it who can hold their breath the longest, who can shove the most pretzels into their face, or who can shoot the most little white balls into a Solo cup. Male relationships are determined by a hierarchy, and you can move up or fall down based on your ability to compete and win. This is why sports are so important to men; we judge our value to society and our successes by comparing them to other men and their resumes. In competition, it is easy to judge; there is a winner and a loser. Women have chafed at this notion for years, because men cannot gauge the success of a heterosexual relationship with such a simple ruler.

The allure of Corners lies in the competitiveness of the matches. There is a palpable pressure to eliminate your opponent before he eliminates you, knowing that if you fail to make him drink, he can calmly grab the ball and force you to bury beer in your gullet. Defense also changes the nature of the game. Even on a bad shooting night, you can have a tremendous impact on the game, both because you can score without making a cup, and you can deflate your opponents.

Corners also combines the team concept with a one-on-one game. You want to prove yourself worthy and eliminate your opponents, but you also must answer to a teammate, and play a strategy that is mutually beneficial. Ultimately, it is a team game, but your fate is in your own hands. If you miss too many shots, it is likely you will be knocked out and unable to shoot for the rest of the game. Many players become obsessed and distracted by this fact, doing all they can to prevent being knocked out, sometimes at the detriment to their teammate.

So, how do you play it, and what separates it from any other beer pong-typed contests? For starters, there is the elimination factor. The game starts with each player having his own cup, one placed on every corner of the table, hence the name of the game. It is filled to the brim with beer, and a player must drink half of his cup if a shot is sunk. Therefore, each shot carries more weight than a beer pong shot, because you are only two shots away from elimination (as opposed to six, or ten, etc). The game also deviates from pong because a player can score without making a cup. If a shot hits the rim of an opponent’s cup and drops to the floor, the player whose cup was hit must drink a quarter or the cup. However, he has the opportunity to catch the ball before it hits the ground, thus saving himself the chore of chugging. Finally, all shots are live; players must keep both feet behind “half court,” but any balls they can reach and are able to secure become theirs for another turn, even ones that hit an opponents cup and drop to the floor. This can prove devastating to a team, because they are forced to drink and still do not possess the ball.

Corners is an opportunity for failed athletes to relive their glory; at parties, when two highly-respected teams clash, legions of onlookers gather round to up the atmosphere. Critiques and praises are lobbied at the combatants as the next team eagerly anticipates their opportunity to shine. The pace is fast, the strategy changes on every shot and one mistake can doom a team, even if they are way out in front. It’s not just a game; we collect wins like girls collect shoes. Some call it childish, others call it simple, but I simply get a childish grin whenever I walk into a room with a game going down.

For the full rule book, e-mail me at press.on09@gmail.com.

Detroit is Dead

A casual stroll down a block of any U.S. city tells a tale that automakers will try to call “tall” this week as they ask President Obama for even more money to save the one-time flagship industry from moving into the Titantic’s neighborhood.

They will point to the millions of jobs they’ve shed and the crippling effect it has had on the economy, while they avoid the fact their employees do not drive Fords to work. With grease on their faces from shuttered factories and a tin cup in their hands, they will ask for “bailout” funds, but what they really need are start-up funds, because their companies have collapsed.

The proverbial tortoise has stuck out his thumb and gotten a ride with Hyundai, Kia and Honda while the Hare’s Hummer hits pit row to refuel. The U.S. auto industry cast its lot with soccer moms who cried for stylish chariots to bus their children around town, but rising fuel costs and a global demand for a more economical vehicle has left the four-wheel drives spinning in place as they burn cash.

The future is in hybrids, and the Americans don’t know how to make them. Ford and General Motors were too late to respond, and Honda and Toyota’s popular Civic Hybrid and Prius, respectively, have cornered the market. While Honda and Toyota seized the green movement, domestic companies stubbornly tried to convert behemoth Escalades and Tahoes into hybrids, with little success. Chevy will release its first electric car, the Volt, next year, but with a hefty price tag for a sedan - $40,000 – experts aren’t predicting it as the savior the Yanks need.

The people, and their Civics, have spoken. The U.S. auto industry was once a titan, coupled with the steel industry, that turned our country into a superpower. But foreign companies have grabbed the global market, and Ford, Chrystler and GM have been relegated to second class. The job loss from the automakers is catastrophic, but with it, the United States will have the man power to build and develop the next great industry to ensure its place atop the world’s economy.

The ingenuity and scientific breakthroughs within the borders of this great land once astounded people all over the world, and it is imperative that we use our resources to develop a product that will not only reverse the recession, but improve the world. Obama promised change, and change is necessary to save the economy. To make good on his promise, he must focus our economic efforts on a renewable energy source. Millions are out of work, the great plains provide ample acreage to produce the agriculture needed and our country has a tremendous track record in innovation and scientific advances.

Renewable energy will reverse the adverse effects of greenhouse gas, lower the impact the cartel OPEC has on the world’s economy and put millions of people back to work. Obama promised change, so he should not be giving his quarters and dimes to an industry that frittered away its prestige and success, but instead, to an industry that is badly needed around the globe, both financially and ecologically.

Valentine's Day

Cupid’s arrow does not only strike in February; rather, it most often lightens lovers’ hearts during the sun-drenched days of June, July and August, the months when “summer love” takes hold. Often, it proves to be little more than a fleeting fling, but fortunately, sometimes, it grabs hold of the soul and rides its way through to mid-February.

Summer love fortuitously finds some people not at a beach resort or exotic locale, but in their home towns, at their summer jobs or by a local lake. The sweet, sticky days melt away as the calming, cool nights engulf couples as they lie in one another’s arms to gaze at the stars. Human mouths move and ears receive while the arms of a machine work furiously to record the approach of fall, but summer lovers have no idea until a new day’s dawn makes the fatigue of a night passed before sleep clear.

Summer love hides as a long, dark shadow in the dying light of a late afternoon, always vigilant, always quiet, until the moment of a passing glance, a slight touch or a kind word is shared between a pair. It often reveals itself to one before the other, causing the originally inflicted to fall asleep with the other’s face playing across their eyelids. The star-seer looks for opportunities to catch the ignorant’s attention, while music plays and the dance begins.

But soon, Potion No. 9 catches up to the second player. The pieces begin to fall into place after a rare conversation, when a new friend surprises you and tells you a tale that leaves you impressed. Where before there was a partier, there now stands a sensitive, deep soul with whom to enjoy a traded tale. The weekend rolls around, and a friendly bar-b-q brings the two together. Player One spent the afternoon in the kitchen, furiously preparing a dish to highlight a love of the culinary arts and a divine skill that brings people from far and wide to one table. The night plays out, tentative flirting is the conversation, and rest escapes both as they recall the night’s events and eagerly anticipate the next rendezvous.

Soon, the meetings are not coincidental and the time shared is never brief. Secrets are shared, dreams become known and butterflies make a home in the abdomen. A held hand is upstaged by a kissed cheek, and a friendly hug stretches into something more.

But before long, the moon illuminates her face, and you swear you see her soul as she looks beyond your eyes while your mouths meet. Fireworks are in the distance, and so is the Fourth day of July. Summer love throws its party when the guests of honor finally arrive, a party relived six months later, in the throws of winter, when all that reminds you of the sweet summer sun is the warmth you feel from the love of summer who can no longer be called merely that.

Bid Day

The “Running of the Whores” is a State College tradition that takes place each spring on Sorority Bid Day. The “babies” assemble in the stately chapel on campus, where they learn who their new sisters will be. When the ceremony comes to a close, they run from the chapel to their new houses, while all the Fraternities gather around to watch.

Spring recruitment is formal for sororities, meaning that every girl that is interested in joining Greek Life signs up before the semester, and they then visit each sorority on campus. There are different stages, where the girls that are rushing rank the houses they like and the sororities rank the girls they like. Each girl that goes through the process is guaranteed a bid to a sorority, and at the end of the process, they all gather in the chapel and receive their bid day shirts from their new sisters.

The sororities are all located down one road, so several members of the Fraternity gathered along it and watched the “Running of the Whores.” Nearby was a member of another chapter on campus, a house whose members stereotypically conform to the guido lifestyle. Guidos often have over-inflated egos and bring an intensity and competitiveness to normal, every day conversation and events. Needless to say, while they have carved out their own niche on campus, they are not well-liked beyond it.

As the “babies” came running down the hill toward Sorority row, the guide removed his shirt, presumed by attending members of the Fraternity as a way to show off for the new girls. Instead, as they got closer, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a Hebrew National. He reached back, wound up and fired the frank into a girl’s face while he serenaded her with “You’ll be seeing a lot more of those, sweetie!” making a simpleton reference to his reproductive organ.

When this story was told at meeting a few hours later, we all burst into laughter, whether it be at the guido for acting his stereotypical part, or merely at the absurdity of the action. The attending Fraternity members were a little too astonished and amused to take note of the girl’s reaction, but I’m sure she kept moving to avoid further embarrassment. I feel bad for the girl, but I can’t help but appreciate the humor in this tale.

I’ll close with a Donovan McNabb joke, since bashing him is so in vogue. My parents heard this during a homily this weekend.

Enter Donovan and Momma McNabb; Momma McNabb serves son some of his Chunky Soup.

“Mom, why is it that I always have to eat my soup out of a can?” Donovan asks his mother as she plops down his lunch.

“Because son, anytime you get around a Bowl, you choke.”

Musings on my mornings

College affords its students the unparalleled opportunity to set your class schedule to fit around your drinking schedule. Each semester, it becomes easier and easier to get primo class times to ensure you don't have class before noon, which allows you to stay out till five the night before. As your credits increase, your registration time comes sooner, and you get a wider selection of classes to select from.

This being my last semester, one would use their deductive reasoning skills to assume I have class once a week for one hour beginning at 2 p.m. However, you would be wrong. I do only have class twice a week, but that is so I can work the other three days. And, my class schedule sucks. For the first time in eight semesters, I have an 8 a.m. class. Not even freshman year was I burdened with studies at such an early hour.

But, despite my horrid schedule, I am undettered. In semesters passed, I have passed on a night on the town because of an early wake-up call, but sleep be damned, I plan on getting my fill this semester. The economy sucks, I can't find work and the newspaper is more and more depressing each day, so I pledge to live up my last few months soaking it in with my friends, and I hope you do too.

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I have complained in the past in this space about journalism students, but I actually heard a pretty good story from one during class the other day. In my feature writing class, our professor asked us to interview people until we heard an "amazing story." One girl told a story about herself, which didn't exactly follow the assignment (a rare occurrence in the j-school) but it was a good story nonetheless.

Sarah, the narrator, received a call from her friend, Beth, one night. Beth asked if she could spend the night at Sarah's, because she had been having trouble sleeping at her apartment, where she lived alone. Sarah said sure, and Beth came over. When she got there, she admitted to being in terrible pain, the source of which were horrible cramps in her abdomen. Sarah had been suspicious that Beth was pregnant for some time, and the cramps she described sounded similar to labor pains. However, Beth had no idea she was, because she had begun a new birth control (it is apparently injected, I was not familiar with it) that had similar side effects to pregnancy, and had not gained much weight, so it never occurred to her that she was with child. But when it became obvious she was in labor, Sarah called for an ambulance, which did not arrive before Beth's baby did. Instead, while Beth struggled in the bathroom, Sarah knelt before her friend and told her to push.

"What? Why the hell do you want me to push?" Beth asked.

"Because you are having a baby, and I can see its head. You should probably try and sit down," she said.

Beth was in too much pain to lift or bend her legs, so she delivered her baby standing up into Sarah's arms. The paramedics arrived, took the baby and mother to the hospital, and Sarah warned her father not to go down into the basement bathroom to avoid the horrid sight of the aftermath.

Beth delivered a health baby who is doing well from what Sarah told our class, despite Beth celebrating a 21st birthday, continuing her cigarette habit and never going to the doctor once during her entire pregnancy. Maybe delivering babies will help Sarah land a job in our rapidly dying field.

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Not sure how I would have graduated with a degree in journalism without the Fraternity. A group of 70 guys is not merely good fodder for a blog, but also as sources for stories for class. I would say I have used Fraternity members in more than half of the stories I have done for class, including the one I am working on for Tuesday. It has proven to be more than just a drinking society, although it has filled that niche nicely.

You'll shoot your eye out Kid

The anti-drug campaign has always been strong in this country, starting with the “War on Drugs” in the late ‘70s, and currently, there are several nonprofits who have put together ad campaigns to discourage smoking marijuana. This is the current one running from Live Above the Influence, and my favorite thus far.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmjzaObJ79w

As a more than casual consumer of cannabis, I was taken aback the first time I saw the ad, because I assumed it was anti-drinking and was surprised when it poses the question, “What has weed done for you?” at its close. Leaving an absurd number of messages is commonly referred to as “drunk dialing” and falling into such a comatose sleep as to allow drawing to be completed on your skin is a reaction to alcohol overloading your brain, not from smoking too much weed. And to prove my point, I shall detail to you the absurdity that ensues when you begin your Saturday at 3 p.m. with a Natty Light and don’t stop until you end up in the hospital dipping with nurses.

This weekend, State College Town played host to some esteemed past members of the Fraternity, and as such, a great celebration of day drinking broke out on Saturday. BSB, my big brother, is in town for two weeks for a series of interviews in the hope he might end the unemployment that has been his companion since he graduated last May. Squantanamo Bay, named for his destructive, terrorist-esque behavior when intoxicated, came into town to visit BSB, who is from Wisconsin and doesn’t often get to see our coast. After BSB finished his interview Saturday morning, he headed out to a friend’s house to get the afternoon started.

Some harmless drinking ensued, but soon, an air rifle was produced, and those in attendance took it outside to shoot beebees at trees, lamp posts, signs, etc. When this got dull, the owners of the house let it be known that they are the proud owners of handguns and two sets of televisions they had been meaning to throw out for some time. Naturally, it was decided they should take the televisions into the back yard and riddle them with .45 caliber bullets. They did. To this point, no one was hurt.

I arrived some four hours later to see my former roommate, BC, with the aforementioned air rifle shooting out street lights.

“BC, what the hell are you doing,” I screamed from a distance, hoping not to lose an eye as lines from A Christmas Story run through my head.

“[Carter], I’m gonna shoot out all these lights,” he slurs, as the 25th beer he had makes its presence known. “Go inside, we used real guns earlier.”

“What?!” I exclaim, now fearing what I might find on the inside of the domicile.

“We blew up Charlie’s TV with his .45, it’s all on video,” he explained.

I head into the house with Audrey, and we settle in with a beer as the day’s events are rehashed around us. Twenty minutes later, BC comes back into the house with the air rifle and heads into the other room to play beer pong. Only he doesn’t play beer pong. Instead, he gets into a dick measuring contest with the other owner of the house, Daryl, and they decide they are going to shoot each other with the air rifle in the ass.

Daryl goes first, clothed, and BC pumps the rifle once and fires. Daryl winces in pain, but the peanut gallery insists he takes one bare ass, to which he agrees. BC lines up again, pumps once, and fires straight into Daryl’s left ass cheek. This time, a noticeable welt appears, but the beebee bounces away across the linoleum floor harmlessly.

Seeking revenge, Daryl seizes the air rifle, and Brian reticently lowers his jeans, exposing his hind quarters.

“Don’t be a pussy BC, take two pumps like a man,” is shouted from the other room by an undetermined source as Daryl takes aim.

“Fuck you,” is his predictable, drunken response. “Make it two Daryl.”

Daryl pumps again, aims and fires. The beebee sped toward BC’s ass, landed, but did not return. Instead, it was lodged in his cheek, and all that came out was a steady stream of crimson blood.

“HOLY SHITTTT!” BC screamed as he danced around in pain and blood began to stain his pants. I’m sure it was painful, but it was also damn funny, and after our laughter subsided, we realized he might actually need medical attention. But not until we took matters into our own hands first.

BC is then led into the bathroom, accompanied by Squantanamo Bay and his very concerned girlfriend. Squanton finds a pair of tweezers and a lighter, disinfects the tweezers in such a way that would make even a Civil War medic shutter, and attempts to dislodge the beebee from BC’s ass, all while he is berated by his very angry girlfriend who finds us all childish and stupid and clamors for a trip to the ER immediately. When it becomes apparent that Squanton’s accounting degree has left him miserably under-qualified for the task at hand, Daryl offers to take BC to the ER since he was the one who pulled the trigger.

They stayed there till 5:30 a.m., but not before entertaining the nurses on duty with the story and many more like it. So, I pose this question to you, Above the Influence: If all weed has ever done for me is make a dozen donuts seem like a reasonable bedtime snack, but booze has sent me and countless others to the emergency room, why do you berate us potheads and let the developing alcoholics off the hook?