Press On

Ladies in the Lane

2009-12-07T22:08:00.009-05:00

In 1973, Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs in what was dubbed “The Battle of the Sexes” in straight sets. Since then, several women have attempted to make the jump to compete with the men in their leagues.

Anne Meyers Drysdale, after 3 All-America seasons at UCLA, became the first, and only, woman to sign an NBA contract when she joined the Indiana Pacers in the summer of 1979; however, she did not make the roster and was released before the beginning of the season.

Annika Sorestam and young Michelle Wie both struggled on the men’s tour, failing to qualify for the weekend in each of their attempts.

And now comes the news that David Stern believes a woman will be employed in his league to compete with the boys before the 2020 calendars are printed.

In a recent interview with Sports Illustrated, Stern was quoted as saying he believed women would be competing in the NBA within the next ten years, arguing that the strides made from Title IX have increased the softer sex’s athleticism to the point they could physically compete with men. LeBron James, among others, would not go so far as to say women could not ever play with men, but doubted that he would play against a woman before his career is up.

Stern is a brilliant man and one of the finest commissioners to have ever served any of the four major sports. He took a dying league with a huge drug problem and made it a global power - more so than football, baseball or hockey. He recognized basketball’s individual star power, perhaps greater than any other sport, and has made the names Magic, Bird, Jordan, Yao and LeBron household fodder from the glaciers of Alaska to the streets of Nairobi.

Having said all that, his recent comments smack as politically correct at best, and horribly desperate at worst. As commissioner of the NBA he also runs the WNBA, and to publicly state that women could not succeed against the men would tarnish his flailing female product. But to suggest that a woman could compete in the NBA in the next ten years truly is preposterous and is purely a cash grab for Stern and his league.

This is not a chauvinistic attack on female athletes in any way; as an undergrad, the only championship I enjoyed from my alma mater was by the women’s basketball team (don’t throw soccer or ping pong or something else stupid at me that we probably won). There are a number of fine female basketball players, including Candace Parker, Sue Bird and Diana Taurasi that have undeniable skill and flair for the game. But can they compete against men, in one of the most demanding physical sports, when other women have failed at gentler ones?

The NBA is in trouble, and if there was ever any doubt, Stern proved it last week with his comments. Stern has failed to change the image of the NBA as a league filled with thugs, despite his best efforts (like instituting a mandatory dress code). Players like Jordan, Bird and Magic were revered, but they were taken as the exception to the rule. For example, a few days before this story broke, I was talking about the NBA with a few friends, and Greg Oden’s injury came up.

“Jesus, Greg Oden done for the year again. The Trail Blazers will be haunted by yet another draft backfiring,” I mentioned as news of Oden’s season-ending injury scrolled the bottom of the screen.

“The Jail Blazers - biggest thug team of all-time,” came the response to my right.

I turned and asked the commenter if he could name one player, aside from Oden, who was currently employed by the Trail Blazers. He could not. Then, I asked him to name such a “thug” that once played for them, something he should be certain of since he so confidently made the aforementioned statement. He failed in that regard as well.

But therein lies the NBA’s problem: a huge portion of its would be market, the white, suburban, 18-35 year-old market, has members who carry stereotypes, yet can’t name one player on a team that won 50+ games last year, or a player that helped forge said stereotype, which is dated by several years. The NFL’s Cincinnati Bengals struggled with off-the-field issues for years, yet they are no longer referred to as “thugs,” despite retaining the same head coach who over saw that era. The Dallas Cowboys were known as “America’s Team” during a decade that saw star players be busted for cocaine and guns numerous times. Donte’ Stallworth served time for manslaughter, Mike Vick for dog fighting, Rae Carruth for murder and Jamaal Lewis for drug trafficking, but nary a whisper of the “T” word in NFL circles.

Stern is pedaling a black league in a white world, and apparently, there are not enough fedoras or tailored suits to cover the tattoos that the white boys can’t get past. The NFL has Tom Brady’s chiseled jaw and Peyton Manning’s goofy yet entertaining advertisements to win the hearts of Honkeyville, but Joe The Plumber sees a Newport News boy and not the scrappy guard returning to his NBA home tonight. Stern has been reduced to pilfering Europe and now even gimmicks to get his league exposure, a league with an even bigger labor headache upcoming than the NFL, one that many believe will lead to yet another lockout, a la 1999.

The United States is still crippled with instituted racism, and it is easy to see its effects on the NBA. Without a bona-fide media superstar, the NBA has struggled. Jordan’s greatest asset wasn’t his tongue-wagging dunks or incredulous shrugs after a three-point onslaught, it was his ability to get the suburban kids pumping Green Day through their Walkmans to buy his shoes. LeBron can’t even get other NBA players to wear his shoes without controversy.

The NBA has as fine an athletic product as any major sports league the world over. Claims of players “not trying” or “only worried about the offensive end” are trite and indicative not merely of the cultural ignorance toward professional basketball, but a severe case of denial with regards to athletes in other leagues. College players don’t play better defense, they just suck something awful at shooting; that’s why they are amateurs and not professionals. College kids don’t care more than the NBA, they just don’t have to play 82 games in half-empty arenas possessing no energy. And the notion that the March Madness Tournament, which routinely sees more 40 point wins then barn-burners, is more entertaining than watching Kobe march to a fourth title, LeBron attempt to join the elite and Paul Pierce boldly try to defend a title is ludicrous.

Stern’s problems stretch beyond what an undersized, female three-point specialist can solve, but perhaps he merely has a crystal ball that foresees the end of his league before another decade passes, forcing his boys to run coed pick-up games down at the Y just like everyone else.

Life with Lassie

2009-09-29T12:38:00.003-04:00

If you want to watch football all day Sunday, she’s cool with it, and often will lay right by your side. She never scolds you at the dinner table, and actually encourages sloppy eating habits. And instead of turning her back when you are upset with her, she comes right over and nuzzles until you break into a smile.

Teddie hasn’t completely replaced Audrey since she moved down to Florida, but she has eased the lonely days between our visits. Audrey was always sad to see me go and excited when I returned to her, but Teddie’s eyes suggest her heart breaks every time I pull out of the driveway, and she risks stroke from excitement once I return. Sometimes I can’t figure out why she follows me everywhere I go, until she jumps up and grabs the straggling Cheeto clinging to my clothes.

A puppy dog is truly one of life’s pleasures, and she has made the often perilous transition back home with the parents nice and easy for me. She’s my buddy when I’m bored, a smile waiting to happen when I’m sad, and a constant source of entertainment as she does one funny thing after another. With fall whipping through the trees, there were downed limbs everywhere today, and of course, Teddie had to sniff each one. As we rounded the corner for home, there was a relatively delicate branch that she easily could hold in her mouth if not for its great length, which was nearly three times hers. Undeterred, she gripped it in her mouth and lugged it the block all the way home, before securing it in the front yard for her next walk. While it was frustrating to have to stop every six feet so she could readjust the behemoth in order to keep toting it, I could not help but laugh at the determination and utter joy that was clear on her scruffy face.

Ah, but her walks are fret with peril, for man’s best friend really becomes friend’s best man as she hops from tree to tree, sniffing each passing leaf and standing at attention with any passing sound. The world is her toilet, and she seems determined to mark every square inch. No spot is good enough for her excrement until she has thoroughly inspected the rest of the neighborhood, and even when she finds a stretch she likes, she paces back and forth for minutes on end before squatting, and giving me the dubious duty of cleaning up after her. And humans are the superior race.

She is a daily reminder of that age old economics lesson learned some six years ago; “No such thing as a free lunch.” That smiling face with the eyes that could stop a murdering rampage and a tongue to tickle the coldest of hearts makes you work for each of her bowel movements. And when she’s done, she gives you a look as if to say, “Don’t forget to get that, and make it snappy, I want to get home to eat.”

My girl has gone so that I may only see her once a month, the rejections roll in faster than I can often stand and I’m back under my parents’ roof and rules. Many have wondered why I wasn’t outraged when Audrey moved south for her job rather than taking one closer to me; the pity-filled glances and gentle reassurances of “you’ll find something” are frequent companions to my conversations, and my Cinderella act of washing the floors, painting the walls and preparing dinner each night will soon get old.

But through it all the puppy dog reminds me. Audrey is chasing her dream, and, if the roles were reversed, forcing me to make the difficult decision to move away, would I not have wanted her support? It makes life more difficult, but no relationship is complete without a sacrifice or two. I have taken on the role of a heavy-weight prize fighter, each rejection serving as a cross to my face and pride, but I must stand tall and wait for the ringing of the bell before I can raise my arms in victory. And thank God for my parents, who have the means to help me while I’m unemployed, after putting me through school. The least I can do is clean the cobwebs and make some chicken.

And here she comes, as if her ears were ringing, my puppy dog, life’s great metaphor: you still must walk around the block before you can reap your reward.

The Summer of George

2009-09-11T13:03:00.000-04:00

A new September has brought a new inactivity to my life. For the first time in nearly 20 years, I am not a student, a queer and uncomfortable position to be sure. The month that was always marked by new books, teachers and lessons is now just endless hours waiting for the newest installment of offensive futility from the World Champions.

I decided to take the summer off (read: wasn’t creative enough to keep writing) from the space in an effort to refocus and get away from the self-loathing that was all I could muster. I had graduated jobless, with no honors, and my final summer was all that separated me from returning home with my parents and bidding Audrey adieu as she embarked on her new career in Florida. Broke, and with little hope for a job, I couldn’t stand to be publicly miserable any longer.

While the time away wasn’t entirely voluntary, it did allow me to reflect on the year that has past, the year you all have gotten to know me. Ironically, the year I began publicly charting my growth is probably the one in which I made the least progress. My belief was that senior year would be the torch bearer, the year I would always remember fondly when thinking back on college; however, it will probably go down as one of the worst. But pain is fleeting and often skin deep, and the sands of time have a way of smoothing even the roughest of stones into a gorgeous marble.

My year long search for employment left me chasing a proverbial shadow. I had seen many of my friends go through their last hurrahs in similar fashion, chasing a job that never came, walking across the stage to uncertain waters, and laboring under part-time work before finally landing the elusive nine-to-five. Perhaps it was Audrey’s success, perhaps my self-deprecating nature, but the inability to find work destroyed my senior year. I was morose, miserable and mean to many, most notably myself. I didn’t land a job, and I didn’t enjoy my last year, and with neither goal fulfilled, I made myself miserable.

Compounding my own demons was Audrey, although by no fault of her own. To be satisfied in a relationship with another is truly trying, but nearly impossible when not in a happy relationship with oneself. Problems originated as we got accustomed to living in close proximity once again, after she had returned from a semester working two hours away from State College Town. But things came to a boiling point when she informed me she had taken a job that would cause her to move to Jacksonville, Fla., when I had been expecting her to accept an offer here in Metropolis. The one thing I had thought I had a grip on was slipping through my fingers, and my frustrations often boiled over into ugly confrontations.

Finally, when the job search had me down and Audrey and I were at each others throats, the Fraternity abandoned me, drifting idly by as more and more members abandoned ship. Many of my friends, the ones who had attracted me to it in the first place, had graduated and were gone, and so many of my peers were like me, in relationships and inconsistently available because of them. Our time spent together was no longer reminiscing about a drunken night or debating the latest football game, but instead hashing out the latest girl problems or the lame party recently thrown attended by only a handful of sorority girls. The chapter was a sinking ship, and we seniors were too wrapped up in our own lives to come to the rescue, as those before us did so routinely.

And now September has dawned anew, a fresh senior year has commenced, and a virgin crop will suffer through the torture chamber, worrying about their futures, analyzing their present and complaining about how they wished it was freshman year all over again. But it is true what they say: those who ignore their past are destined to repeat it, and those who long for the future will never realize it. Senior year is an opportunity I squandered, and in subsequent months, I know I will remember things fondly that elude me today, but the life I feared so much is laid out before me, and all that worrying I did the past 12 months did nothing to change it.

Still Kicking

2009-08-08T19:02:00.002-04:00

My long absence is inexcusable, but my days have been job apps and Phillies games since graduation. But thankfully for my writing and sanity, I have escaped the US and am on the road in Europe. Click here to follow along with my travels

That's Camping

2009-06-26T15:45:00.004-04:00

My resume is a perplexing piece of literature. It is filled with many a job, but almost all of which require some amount of explaining as to what I actually did for eight hours a day.

“During any given week, I’d say I do about 15 minutes of real, actual work. The rest of the time is spent trying to get people I’ve never met to laugh at me through an anonymous blog I keep.”

But in all seriousness, I’ve worked at obscure magazines, publishing houses and government organizations that often cause an inquirer to dig deeper to dissect my daily itinerary. This became abundantly clear to me the other day, when forced to explain my most recent role at a summer camp.

“Oh, that sounds like fun! So, what sports are you coaching?”

Damn! Even at a summer camp, the most self-explanatory job there is, short of “I pick apple trees or haul garbage,” do I have a complicated work title.

“Well, I don’t exactly coach anything,” I tried to explain. “See, I’m the site coordinator’s assistant, so I spend my days setting up the fields, coordinating the different camp schedules and filling in any necessary gaps.” And, oh yea, I get to dress up as this:
That would be the camp mascot, Gomer. Twice a week, I get in this sweat box that smells like it hasn’t seen a cleaner since it was purchased, dance around, and four-year olds giggle until their heads explode.

Fortunately for me, that is not the saddest thing about the camp. That would be the guy I report to (perhaps working below him is the saddest thing?), a self-nicknamed, mid-30s, slightly balding, unmarried, baseball burnout known as Devo. I have held many a shitty job, and have learned one unfailing truth: your boss will be an idiot and an asshole. Why? Because they too worked said shitty job, never graduated from it, are bitter about that fact, but have been finally promoted to the head position and feel a false sense of power and accomplishment.

Upon first meeting, Devo seemed like a nice enough guy with high energy for the camp. I was excited about working a summer camp, because it allowed me to be outdoors, figured to be pretty low stress, and would give me some experience working with kids, hopefully boosting a resume that one day will land me a teaching job. But as the week progressed, I realized this guy was not terribly bright or enjoyable to work under.

The camp is fairly well-known and respected throughout Metropolis (it was rated a few years ago by Sports Illustrated as the best sports camp in the city), and this marked the first time the camp had been held at this locale, and I quickly learned this was this guy’s first week at this particular job, so I gave him a break. But I began to sour on him when he debuted a giant, oversized, red fist that he wore during morning carpool.

See, the camp developed an asinine way to give a sign of acceptance to the campers, known as the first bump. Worst of all, camp protocol is to “bust the rock” upon making contact with the receiver of said fist bump. But Devo went a step further. He used a giant red fist (seen here at a Flyers game) to give each camper a fist bump, and then, as their parents were driving away, He fist bumped the parents! While I understand using the fist bump to avoid potential hugs that could lead to sexual assault trials, or high fives that miss and slap a kid in the face, where in God’s name is the professionalism? There is no reason to be fist bumping men in suits on their way to the office when you are in a red tee-shirt and gym shorts. Making the matter even more hilarious, I decided to inspect the red fist, because it had a circular hole on top of it that oddly seemed fit to hold a beverage, adult or otherwise. Sure enough, right there on the fist, in bold letters, said:

“This is not a toy. It is a beverage holder. If consuming alcoholic beverages from this, please drink responsibly.”

You can’t make this shit up. A mid-30s aged man was using a koozy to great five- and six-year olds each morning, and in order to reassure their parents they were in good hands, used it to send them off to work for good measure. The week went on like this; the guy scammed on the women who came in to set up the cooking camp for next week, would disappear for about an hour while I went about my work, rarely ate or sat still (leading me to believe and joke with the other counselors that he was bumping lines in a middle school bathroom stall) and was adamant that we follow the schedule, even when weather or other factors suggest we amend it. For example, one day a series of thunderstorms blew through the area, and more were in the forecast. But at the first sign of sunny skies, he had me head out to the field, lug the obnoxiously heavy pieces needed to assemble a dunk tank, and begin the long and tedious task of filling it to the brim with water. Needless to say, the storm blew through, and I got to take it down in a thunderstorm before enjoying a very damp drive home.

Yet, it pays pretty well ($400 tax free a week) and is all I have to get me through Europe in a few months. It is admittedly embarrassing as a college graduate, but I always liked camp as a kid, and it isn’t too bad of a way to make some spare change till I find something permanent.

Work for Hire

2009-06-25T18:03:00.003-04:00

While enjoying a rare victory by the Phillies and an even rarer quality start by Jamie Moyer on Tuesday night, my phone rang, and by answering it, I invited a giant headache that has consumed the past two days of my life.

On the other end was Skinny, who you may remember from my Spring Break trip to New Orleans a few years ago. He last earned mention in this space for his ability to hook up with a bartender in Chattanooga, Tenn., to save us over $100 on a bar tab. Recently, he earned a position working as a personal assistant for a lawyer in downtown Metropolis, a position I too interviewed for. He was hired, and has been working for him for close to a month.

However, due to the verbose nature of this lawyer, the long hours he has been forced to work, and the mandatory dinners he attends with the lonely bachelor have put him well behind in a summer class he is making up in order to graduate. The course, Introduction to Macroeconomics, is a requirement for graduation, and he is failing after scoring a 42 out of 100 on the first exam. He called to ask if I might be willing to complete a few homework assignments for him and help him catch up.

I made a living freshman year taking exams and doing homework assignments for two kids who spent their time playing poker on line. They each paid me $250 an exam and $100 per homework (mind you, they were in the same class, so all I had to do was take one exam and I got paid double) and I helped them lift their failing averages up to Bs. I had taken a strong interest in economics after taking the AP courses in Micro and Macro in high school, and I got them through it for two semesters.

Knowing this, Skinny called me up.

“Carter, I need a favor. The Lawyer is killing me at work, I’m failing Econ and if I don’t pass they’re going to fire me from this job.” Great I was thinking, will they then hire me?

“I’ll give you $80, I need three of them done. One by tomorrow [Wednesday] and the other two by Thursday.” The price was considerably lower than what I used to command, but in true confession, I ripped those two kids off. I would log online, hack into their Blackboard accounts, do the homework, and the other kid would sign into his and copy it in. I am not working this week, and I could use any spare cash for Europe, all while helping out a friend in need. I agreed.

Skinny drove to my apartment to drop off the book so I could complete the assignment. After traipsing up the stairs, he looked like he was working for George Steinbrenner. His hair was cropped close, his baby face gleaned from the work of a razor and his shoes would have made Andy Dufresne jealous. He then launched into a long speech about how awful the job was, how The Lawyer forced him and the rest of the team to go out to dinner and drink with him and often how he did not get home till past 10 o’clock each night, all of which made me feel better that he was the poor slob that got stuck with the job, even though unemployment still sucks.

While he rambled on about how hard the class is, how he never has time to go and often is not allowed to leave work to attend class, I flipped through the book and wondered how in God’s name he had not passed intro Econ yet, and why he chose to take Macro, the harder of the two options. It wasn’t until he uttered the words “problem set” that my attention snapped back.

“Wait, these homeworks aren’t online? On blackboard?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, I’ll give you my password, you can log in and print them out,” he said as he began flipping 20s onto the table.

“Shit, these aren’t multiple choice questions, they’re like calculating GDP and unemployment and all that crap?” I moaned. “Skinny, I haven’t done this shit in years, my father has a PH.d in this shit, I don’t think even he could do this off memory.”

“They’re not that hard, I did the first one, and did pretty well,” he countered, explaining the fourth one was due as scheduled on Wednesday, and the other two were several weeks late, but he had talked his way into an extension. “I just don’t have time to do them, and if I don’t, I’m fucked.”

Guilt-ridden from his pathetic state but smiling inside from the money jangling around in my wallet, I relented. See, Skinny is a fun guy to go out with. I had a lot of fun with him in our younger days, going out and getting drunk, chasing after different groups of girls, listening to him retell his tales of conquest in the morning. But I began to realize as time went on that he was a bit of an ass, and not just to the girls he never bothered to call back. He has a horrible talent of “never having time” and often needing a favor. And after he lived in a satellite house with my former roommate BC, I learned of his spoiled inability to clean up after himself or be considerate to the needs of the others in the house.

Skinny asked me to complete the homework, but since he wouldn’t have time to come back to State College Town in time to collect it, copy it into his handwriting and turn it in to his teacher on time, he asked me to scan it and e-mail it to him. I recently purchased a new printer complete with scanning capability, so this would not prove to be a problem. I took his money, the book and he went on his way.

Wednesday morning dawned, I undertook my normal routine of dishwashing, breakfast, SportsCenter and news-gathering, wrote a weekly column I’ve been doing for a local state representative and then set in on the homework. The homework was as I feared, long, annoying and requiring a great deal of calculations, and I began to regret the assignment. Many of the things looked familiar, but I could not recall without a healthy reading of the text how to complete the questions. After spending three hours on the first one, I decided I would leave the next two till Thursday, since they were already late.

I booted up the printer, and placed the first page on it and prepared to scan. But, only an error message appeared, telling me to attempt to scan from the computer. Now, I’m not great with computers (it is the reason I spent all that money on a MacBook, which has proven incredibly idiot proof), so I attempted to find the instructional manual, but all the printer came with was a basics guide, requiring me to download the full manual from the printer’s Web site. It was there I learned that to take advantage of the printer’s scanning capabilities, I would have to download the software it came with. Unfortunately, the object’s resting place was a complete mystery to me. So, I called up Skinny and explained the dilemma to him. I tried the campus library, but being the summer, it’s copy shop had already closed. I was in no interest to trek to Kinko’s and pay the exorbitant price to fax everything to him, seeing as how it was unlikely I’d ever be reimbursed that sum, and I had spent enough time on the project and was frustrated over the amount of time it took me to complete it.

I had glanced at the syllabus and saw the class met on Wednesday nights, and offered to just hustle over and drop it off. But Skinny was terrified the teacher would recognize his handwriting (despite only taking one test and turning in one homework to that point, and that he has missed so much class it’s unlikely the teacher even recognizes his face) so that wasn’t an option. I told him he’d have to come out to State College Town to pick it up himself then, and to call me when he got here.

The night went on, and I soon forgot about it. At around 11, Skinny calls me.

“Carter, you got to do me another favor,” he demanded. “Jill [his ex] has a scanner, which she stupidly never told me.” - because that’s high on a dumped girl’s priority list, “I’ll give you her number, call her up and give her directions to come pick it up. Oh, by the way, she’s pissed.”

Well of course she is, asshole. After getting her on the phone, I learned she was studying for her own exam, and had been plagued by his badgering all night. She asked if I could make the trip to her, which I agreed, taking pity on her, and she huffed her way downstairs to pick up the homework and send it off. Mission accomplished.

But Lee Corso stuck his ugly catch phrase into my life about 45 minutes later.

“Carter, what is this? I can’t read any of it.” It was Skinny. He couldn’t manage to figure out what was what, likely because Jill was forced to remove the staples from the papers in order to scan it to him, and all the answers were out of order. I calmly explained to the best of my memory the labels I had used and the order it should go in, all while he whined about the horrible situation he was in and how no one had the flexibility or back strength necessary to save his ass.

With my frustration rising and Audrey trying to sleep, I again hung up the phone. But ten minutes later, my phone rang once again.

“I can’t figure this out, none of it makes sense. I’m driving over now to pick up the book so I can make some sense of it.”

In no mood at this point to deal with him, I told him I’d be in bed by then, left the book on my coffee table, told my roommate he was coming over, and bid him a good night.

But, like the Cowboys draft room, no one had cleaned the shit off the fan for day two. I was rudely awakened this morning by not one, not two but three phone calls. The reason? Skinny had inexplicably taken the book from my apartment, the one, you know, I needed to do his dastardly homework, and failed to return it to my apartment. Rather than inconvenience his self any further, he left it in the possession of Jill, instructed her to return it to me in the a.m., but could not sufficiently give her my address. So, I was awoken to learn I not only had to do more of his bidding, but I had to traipse all over campus to accomplish it. Worse, Jill had tried to drop it off, but couldn’t find where I lived, and had headed off to study, probably because he had interrupted her the night before.

Skinny continued to pester me throughout the day while I attempted to do the work as fast as I could to get on with all the things I needed to do, like, look for full-time work so I would never put myself in this position again. He would call to find out how much progress I had made, if I would be able to get it to him this time, since he was so greatly inconvenienced the night before and to ensure I was working on it

Because my scanner didn’t work, and because I had no interest in jumping through the hoops once again, I elected to do all the work on the computer, so I could easily e-mail the document to him and be done with it. Well, even that wasn’t good enough. Since the word document robbed me of the ability to draw graphs, I simply wrote out an explanation on how they should appear, giving him step-by-step directions on how to draw them, since he had to copy all my notes by hand any way.

“Carter, why didn’t you finish it?” was the rude greeting I received upon stupidly answering his phone call for the 15th time inside of three days.

“What are you talking about? I just fucking e-mailed it to you. It’s done. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“I don’t have time to draw these graphs out. I paid you $80...”

I lost it.

“Fuck you and your $80. You want to calculate that $80? Lets see. I began the assignment at 2:30 p.m. yesterday, finished it by 5:30, tried to fax it till six. So that’s three and a half hours. Then I dealt with your bullshit till midnight, so that’s another six hours on the clock. You then woke me up at nine to tell me I had to traverse the campus to track down the book I needed to finish your shit, worked on it till two. So that’s around 13 hours I’ve been on your clock. Migrant farm workers earned more than me in that time.”

“Well, I would hope as a friend...”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is your assignment, and I did it for you. You contracted me for work you can’t complete. That means you couldn’t do it. You then don’t get to tell me how the fuck to do it. It’s done. If it isn’t satisfactory, take it up with customer affairs.”

“Carter, I can’t have The Lawyer seeing me drawing graphs at my desk. I need this or I’ll fail and lose my job.”

“But I suppose he’s ok with you picking up your cell phone 12 times an hour to bug me?” I said as I hung up the phone.

The irony is that Skinny had me work on economics homework, all while failing to understand the simple theory of opportunity cost. Had I properly weighed out the costs of this job, I would easily have seen they would have exceeded the pittance $80 salary and laughed in his face. He should have thought of that before he hired me; hope my performance was better on the homework than in deciding if I should have done it in the first place.

So this is how Earnest Byner felt?

2009-06-11T16:15:00.001-04:00

I do not like myself right now.

I have been known to have quite a quick temper, sitting quietly one minute before flying out of my chair and letting loose with a tirade at a seemingly benign individual just seconds before. I’ve been restrained on basketball courts when the trash talk gets a little too ugly. I’ve been in a scrape or two in my life. And don’t get my started on a Jimmy Rollins GIDP, Donovan McNabb overthrow, a Todd Pinkston (RIP) drop or the famed and frustrating Jose Mesa blown save (Mesa!).

But never does frustration burn in my belly like when I am upset with myself. When opportunity floats over my head but bounces off my hands like they were concrete. So you might imagine how I’m feeling today after fumbling away another opportunity at a job.

The day started so well. I was awakened by a phone call offering me some part-time work beginning next week, something I’d spent the two weeks since commencement searching for. I made myself some breakfast, watched a little television, went out for a run, and came back to shower and ponder the rest of my day. As I was finishing shaving, the phone rang. No bother, I said, I’ll call them back. But as I finished drying my face, I heard that tantalizing sound that signals I’ve received a voice message. No one under 25 leaves voice messages, so that must mean its an important call, hopefully from an employer.

“Hi, [Carter] this is [name redacted] from ESPN. I have your resume in front of me, and I wanted to discuss with you our opening for Statistics Associate. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience.”

Oh happy day! A job offer in the morning and an interested employer in the afternoon. Perhaps my long days of filling out applications would finally come to an end! I have a friend at ESPN, he put in a good word for me, and only three days after sending in the app I was getting a call. Surely, my fortunes were changing, after securing two part-time positions last week and a bounty of booty from my graduation party this weekend.

But, I am an idiot, and destined to type this blog for the rest of my days from my parents' basement. The call started innocently enough, with her wondering why I wanted to work at ESPN.

“Well, ESPN is the gold standard in sports journalism. I know, having recently graduated from State College, that so many of my peers aspired to work at the World Wide Leader in Sports. Its the culmination of a career, and to have the opportunity to start one there would be great.”

She explained the position, what it would entail, and asked me if I was still interested. Of course, lady, do you know too many kids sending out apps that aren’t interested in talking about a job? Do you read the papers?

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied cordially to the women who probably isn’t more than five years my elder.

“Ok, great, I’m just going to ask you a couple questions to test your general sports knowledge, because this position requires quite a bit of it.”

“Sure,” I said, chuckling and smiling under my breath. This will be a walk in the park, I live on ESPN.com and watch Sportscenter on loop, since I have little better to do. Bring it on, lady.

The first few questions, no sweat. But she soon tripped me up.

“Name the last five Heisman Trophy winners, and the schools they attended.”

Damn, I hate college football, mostly because our team has sucked and I haven’t attended a game since joining the fraternity and drinking as much as possible at every tailgate.

“Bradford, Oklahoma,” I began. “Tebow, Florida.” I started thinking about flipping open the MacBook and cheating, but I was afraid of taking too much time and her hearing my fingers flying across the keys as I searched out the answer.

“Sorry, I’m trying to write it out,” I said through the receiver as I began to sweat. Who the hell won the Heisman the last couple of years?. “So, the last five years, that’s 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005 and 2004,” I said, trying to stall, but she stayed cool and silent on the other line, giving me no help. “I think Reggie Bush, from USC, was 2004…is it ok if I do them out of order?”

“Sure, I just need the last five and their schools,” she deadpanned, probably wondering why she wasted her time with me.

I thought some more about the the computer, but decided against it. She won’t kill me for missing one, so what, I can’t remember Heisman Trophy winners. I could give her the NFL and MLB MVPs.

“Sorry, I’m blanking on the other two years.”

“Ok,” she said, “Name two players on the Lakers,” she asked feeling sorry for me, “other than Kobe Bryant.”

Well, make it a little difficult. Ok, Lamar Odom and Pau Gasol. There.

“What are the four major Golf Championships?”

The Masters, The U.S. Open, the British Open and the PGA Championship, I responded, nailing them in order.

“Ok, how about the winningest coach in Men’s Basketball History?”

“Oh, it’s either Sutton or Knight,” I stalled. “I’ll go with Bob Knight.”

“Ok,” quickly becoming her annoying catch phrase. “How about the leader in NFL Touchdown throws?”

“Jeez, that’s either Marino or Favre. I’ll go with Marino.” Wrong, jackass. BSB is snickering somewhere, but fuck you Favre, I just thought you had the picks record.

“Ok, well thank you [Carter], but I’m afraid we’re looking for someone with some more knowledge. Please check out ESPN.com for more job opportunities, and best of luck in the future.” Click, before I could get another word out.

Wtf? I didn’t know the Heisman winners, but where else did I go wrong? Well, I pulled out the computer, which I should have done 10 minutes before, and found out it was Favre with the TD record, and Sutton wasn’t even close to the top in Men’s wins. But Bob Knight was, just not number one. That would be some ass hat from Northern State known as Don Meyer, who has been coaching since 1972 and has run up 910.

With a golden opportunity, I choked. Bush won in 2005, his teammate and Co-ed slayer Matt Leinart in 2004 and everyone’s favorite Buckeye, Troy Smith, in 2006. I hate myself. Why I didn’t just cheat, like every other candidate probably will, I’m not sure. Why I didn’t try to fight her, and beg for some more questions to redeem myself, I’ll never know. But I shanked the kick, sliced the drive and drove the car into the ground with the finish line in sight, and I’m not sure how I’ll ever forgive myself.

The lady certainly didn’t help. She never told me if I was right or wrong, which whittled my confidence as I second-guessed each answer. I knew I remembered Favre passing Marino a few years ago, but I yipped it, going for the safe answer. And I’m fairly certain she penalized me for hesitating on the answers, not merely coming back and firing responses at her right away. This rejection stings more than all the others, because it was a job I certainly could have done and excelled at. And at ESPN nonetheless. A day that began with so much promise crashed and burned like so many more before it.

Cooking with Carter - Mac and Cheese

2009-06-10T14:23:00.002-04:00

As I have let on before here at Press On, I am an avid cook, somewhat of a foodie and kill an unspeakable amount of hours watching the Food Network, Top Chef, etc. My friends often ask me, “Carter, how did you learn to cook?” Well, the simple answer is that I loved to eat long before I ever picked up a spatula, and my mother was not always willing to make for me whatever it was I desired. Since I didn’t always have a car or money at my disposal to order out, I was forced to try my hand at it.

Cooking can be a daunting task for some, as it requires some practice, patience and attention to craft meals that you enjoy at your favorite restaurants. But, I assure you, it is not impossible, and not even that difficult, to make a delicious meal at home for yourself and friends. But first, you have to have on hand a couple of simple ingredients that are the base for almost anything you’ll make.

Milk
Eggs
Bread (for sandwiches, whatever your favorite may be)
Olive Oil (can be expensive, so you can substitute canola, peanut or vegetable)
Salt
Pepper
Basil (one of my favorite spices, I use it in almost everything - oregano is the same way)
Thyme
Chives
Crushed Red pepper (if you like things spicy)
Fresh garlic (or garlic powder - don’t buy the garlic salt, because it’s, well, too salty)
Onions (or onion powder - same thing as the garlic)
Frozen vegetables (I love fresh, but if you aren’t going to be cooking that often, they will go bad and waste a bunch of money)
Butter
Soy Sauce (great for marinades and a good way to add some flavor to plain old salt)

These are all ingredients that have longevity in your cabinet or fridge and can be used universally and substituted for many other ingredients a recipe may call for. You will also need some hardware.

Cutting board
Chef’s knife (as seen at this link)
Spatula
Saute´pan
Wooden spoon
4 quart pot
Glass pyrex (as seen here - can be purchased for under $20 at any grocery store)

If you are going to be doing a lot of cooking, invest in a 6-piece set. I recommend stainless steel, because it lasts forever, is easy to wash and works well on all cooking services. Teflon pans are nice, because food doesn’t stick as much, but if you buy cheaply, they will flake off into the food, and that can be dangerous and not too tasty.

So, what do you like to eat? Today, I will debut my favorite recipe, my home made mac and cheese. This is the beginner’s version, the one I started with. I have progressed beyond this since I started with it about five years ago, and if you are ready to move on, shoot me an e-mail and I’ll walk you through it. But this is a great recipe, and a nice change of pace for ridding the blue box blues.

You will need
1 pound macaroni (elbow, shells, it doesn’t really matter)
Cheese (I like to use a variety - cheddar, Parmesan, mozzarella, jack - but I will leave it up to your discretion) For a pound of mac, you’ll need about two cups of shredded cheese
Butter
Onions
Garlic
Milk
1 8 oz can of a creamed soup (chicken, mushroom, celery, it doesn’t matter)
Bacon
Goldfish crackers

To begin, bring about 4-6 cups of water to a boil in your pot. Add salt to help it boil, and oil to avoid it bubbling over. Once it boils, drop in the macaroni and cook for about eight to ten minutes, stirring occasionally so the noodles don’t stick to each other or the bottom of the pan. Strain the macaroni.

When the macaroni is done and straining in the sink, drop some butter back into the pan . Add some chopped bacon, garlic and onions into the butter (An aside here - to chop garlic, place a clove, pictured here, on your cutting board, and take the flat edge of the knife’s blade and smash the garlic, so the wrapper peels and the garlic begins to fall apart. Throw away the wrapper, cut off the hard bottom end and toss it in the trash, and carefully chop the garlic as fine as you’d like. For onion, chop off the top and bottom, peel off the skin, cut the onion in half from top to bottom. Then, lay the onion flat on the cut side and slice it, then finish by chopping the slices.) Let the onions and garlic cook, stirring frequently, for about 2-3 minutes over medium heat. If you let it go longer, the garlic will begin to burn. The bacon won’t be done yet, but that’s ok, you’re going to bake it soon. If you like your bacon crispy, cook it alone for 2-3 minutes before adding the veggies, but be wary of burning the bacon as well.

Once the veggies have cooked, dump in your can of soup, add half a can of milk, and stir. Cook for about 3-5 minutes or until it begins to steam. You don’t want it to bubble. Once it is starting to steam, dump in your cheese and stir until the cheese melts.

Once the cheese melts, slowly add macaroni to the pot and stir; if it doesn’t all fit, that’s ok. Once you have added as much macaroni as possible, dump the remaining pasta into your pyrex dish and top it off with what’s in the pot. Turn on your oven to 350 degrees, at this point. Top the macaroni in the pyrex with pepper, basil and chives and add any left over cheese to the top. Then add some crushed up Goldfish crackers to the top (you can use bread crumbs if you don’t like Goldfish) and slide it into the oven. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until the cheese bubbles or it begins to brown. Remove, let cool for about 5 minutes, and enjoy! Makes about 5 to 10 servings.

Graduation Gifts

2009-06-04T18:18:00.001-04:00

“Carter, I really liked your entry on Moses and BSB,” Gervin said as he stuck his head in .

“Thanks, I really need to get some more writing done,” I lamented. “But, when all I have to write about is the crushing depression that stems from this job search, it doesn’t make for terrific entries.”

Gervin commiserated as he dropped his suit jacket on a nearby couch and settled in next to me to take in Sportscenter that blasted from the chapter room TV. He had spent his afternoon meeting with important people in an attempt to find his own job, but had not had much success, and heard many of the same things I had.

“Congrats on your recent graduation, you should be very proud. But, unfortunately, we don’t have any opportunities right now. Good luck!” It’s as if this generic response was stamped to the end of the stimulus packages that have flown through the Capitol building in D.C. and forwarded to every office building in the nation.

Gervin chuckled. “Yea man, I know it’s tough, but if you don’t have anything to do during the day, the least you can do is write. Just write what is on your mind. You’re a good, writer, it’ll come to you.”

So, what is on an unemployed grad’s mind these days? Is it lament from missed opportunities during my four years of school that may have ensured employment? Based on the state of many of my classmates, it doesn’t appear my level of achievement was insufficient considering they have a similar circumstance to me. I have wondered if the time I squandered early in my career and the resulting unimpressive GPA (2.8) I accumulated would be my undoing, but many classmates with sterling records are in the breadlines with me. I managed to stay employed with internships and jobs throughout my four years, but the grinding economy has left them without any funds left in the coffers to add me to their ranks. Perhaps I should have picked a different major.

Sports have certainly helped. The NBA Finals will finally tip off tonight (why the TV stations cannot adjust if series do not go 7 games I will never fully comprehend), and while it is not the scintillating battle that many had hoped for (Lebron v. Kobe), the Magic present match-up headaches galore and should prove a formidable opponent in the way of Kobe’s first Shaq-less ring. The Phillies continue to enthrall and baffle, as they have ripped off six in a row and run their record away from the cozy confines of Citizens Bank Park to a league best mark of 19-6 despite the underwhelming 12-14 they’ve played to at home. And all-world (and aging) Eagle Brian Westbrook will get sliced again, leading to a mass panic by the midnight green faithful and some fun reading.

But economic realities are beginning to set in and cripple my dreams of restful nights. I received my last paycheck a week back from my former job, which was forced to let me go because their policy is only to employ full-time students in intern capacities. My once crisp, clean Macbook is beginning to turn a shade of maroon from the constant pounding the keys have taken while I fill out applications and churn out cover letters, but little good news has come my way. Even my search for part-time work has proven fruitless, which has taken me from construction companies, to law firms, doctor’s offices and even City Hall, where I had the dubious honor to apply to be a meter maid the other day.

Making matters worse is a decision I made a few months back. I had long hoped to travel across the pond, and Audrey expressed an interest in returning, particularly to her native Poland, where she has yet to be since she left at age 7. With my lease running till the end of July and her move to Florida for full-time work not set to take place till September, we decided to book a three week trip in August as a going-away present to ourselves, if you will. I expected that I would be able to continue on my $9 an hour salary through July and that a sizable windfall would come my way from graduation gifts, and any gaps that remained would be filled by my parents. However, that job is gone, my graduation party is not till Sunday (leaving my unsure of how much I can expect from my gracious family) and my parents do not seem so willing to help me as I had believed.

Before booking the airfare, I had sent my mother an e-mail expressing an interest in going and asking if she would be willing to float me a loan for whatever shortcomings I might encounter. She replied, “I think that’s a great idea, and I would be more than willing to help you out!” With the finances in order and my interest piqued, I found tickets for $666.67 (the first dubious sign) on British Airways, and the decision was set.

The dam finally broke on Monday night. My parents invited me over to dinner (sans Audrey) to tell me what they planned on giving me for graduation. I had long known that they had invested a considerable amount of money for my education, and since I saved them a ton by going to a state school, I expected I was in line to see some of that back as a gift to me. I learned my expectations were right; however, the gift came with some strings attached.

“So, Bud, we decided on this about a year ago. As you know, we have money for you in Stock Company A and B, and since you went to State College, you will be able to see that money; your sister is unlikely to be so fortunate,” Pop started. “So, we are giving you a choice. The stocks have grown to about $20,000, and we are going to let you see half.”

Wow, this is great. My smart, thoughtful parents had the foresight to invest for me, and since I didn’t blow all of the money on college, now I’ll get it to get my finances in order, cover my unemployment, find an apartment, etc.

“What we had originally decided was to buy you a car, but we are going to let you decide which one you want,” he said as he started adding the strings to the marionette. “I am not prepared to give you this money, because I can’t have you going off and blowing it, especially in Europe, and I know that’s what will happen.” String number two.

“If you don’t want to use it on a car, as I know you have often stated how you don’t want one and you’ve always gotten by without one, you can save it for grad school, as a down payment on a house, etc. But, if you do want the car, you can’t have it until you get a job and can pay the insurance.” String number three. “I have to get you off the insurance, Bud. I can’t have something happen that might jeopardize the house,” he said, as he knocked on the floor holding up his four walls.

I sat there with what must have looked like the most spoiled, brat filled expression the world has ever seen. My parents had given me $10,000, and I was disappointed. But, to recap, I could only have the money to buy a car, and I could only get the car when I get a job to pay for it, which, while reasonable, doesn’t really help me today, and, doesn’t seem like a graduation gift, but as an eventual “you finally managed to get a job you worthless, lazy shit” gift. Further, I can’t be trusted with any sum of money, because I will immediately go out and blow all of it on something deemed worthless, although I don’t see the value of a vehicle when I live within walking distance of a subway. And finally, the gift is only being given because my driving is too big a risk to Pop, who is almost certain to lose his house after I kill somebody, but which wouldn’t happen if his son had his own insurance, killed someone, and got the pants sued off of him.

But he wasn’t done. “And I cannot condone you going off to Europe with your girlfriend. I am not willing to let you have the money and blow it over there, and I cannot give you money for something I do not agree with. You are almost 22-years old, and you make your own decisions, but I refuse to finance something I am against.”

My parents are uber conservative, having married at ages 22 and 19, raised my sister and I to be steadfastly Catholic and have expected us to uphold all that entails. I still hold on to my faith very dearly, and I understand the potential “inappropriateness” that could be construed from a three week trip between boyfriend and girlfriend. However, Audrey and I traveled to Jamaica already. Audrey has lived down the street from me for an entire year. And when she was away in Philly working in Spring ‘08, I often borrowed my parents’ car to go visit her for the weekends. While they expressed disdain to all of these things, they enabled me to do all of them, as well. I had to borrow their car to drive to Philly. I had to spend money I saved for Jamaica that could have gone to rent or tuition. So, now they are concerned we might share a bed in Germany?

I was forced to call my mother and ask her for the money which Pop refused me on Monday, because my job had dried up, my graduation is still a few days away and the credit card is fat from the plane tickets and the due date occurs during my party. I asked her why she had agreed to loan me the money a month ago, but now had backed off that stance. She countered that she assumed it was something I would undertake when I was employed (fair, but like I need to hear that again) and that she was still willing to loan me the money, but certainly not to fund the trip. She admitted there was a lack of communication between her and my Dad, and that she did not realize he would be so rigid in his stance on the trip.

I, under no circumstances, expected my parents to fund the trip; I even knew that they wouldn’t like that I was going with Audrey. That was why I checked with them to make sure they’d be willing to help me fundraise, because their interest rate is merely guilt, which, while annoying, is cheaper than money. Now, instead of a gift from them, it feels like a bill. I have to find a job to get the gift, which will in turn cost me money (what car will I find for $10,000?), and pay the insurance, upkeep and gas for the car.

I also had the dubious honor of playing ungrateful son. I have turned my nose up at a gift they have worked on for years but that I deem unworthy because it is not what I want at the present time. I’ve never owned a car, and I would prefer to go as long as possible without one, but that is sure to become more difficult as time goes by and my days aren’t spent between academic buildings 15 minutes apart.

I took a risk by planning a trip I could not afford at the time and relying on future circumstances which have not since panned out. The trip comes in the middle of my job search, which may prevent me from getting an offer, since I’ll have to take 3 weeks off after a month or two on the job.

But, Audrey is leaving in a few months. She could be gone for as many as two years, and we will once again be forced to play the long distance game. And, when I finally get a full-time job, when will I have an opportunity to go off to Europe again? I can take out a loan to buy a car (I have had credit cards for years and have been excellent in paying them off), but asking a company to finance my escapades in Europe is sure to result in laughter or, at best, a raised eyebrow.

The trip might not happen at all, now, and I may be forced to pay up to $250 in cancellation fees if I cannot raise enough to go. But yet, each cheery voice is at least sure to offer the necessary “Good luck!” after telling me even their toilets are too pristine for me to clean.

The Real World

2009-05-26T15:58:00.002-04:00

The blinding light disturbed my focus as I hastened across campus to my final undergraduate exam. A quick peek confirmed the glistening came from a reflection, but oddly enough, its origin was beyond the string of parked cars that adorned the opposite sidewalk and seemed to be emanating from the grassy knoll that gently sloped towards a dorm building. There, stooping its head to nibble at the pristinely manicured lawn was a mythical beast, dressed from horn to heel in white, more glamorous than a newly-minted bride in a sub-tropical climate.

As I stopped in my tracks and stared, the beast lifted its head, tilted it to the side and asked, “Well, what did you expect? Good luck in the real world.”

That is where we, the “newly-minted professionals,” are headed. Gone are the waterfalls of beer and the mermaids who gave us rides to class. Forever forgotten will be the rainbows and pots of gold as we go off to join the working class. Never again will a shiver run down my spine from the shadow of a giant, fire-breathing dragon as his overhead flight blocks the sun.

But, all kidding aside, you would think the Lost Boys battled Captain Hook on campus each day with the number of times I heard the phrase “real world” during two days of commencement ceremonies over the weekend. And, if that is the case, why in God’s name did we spend so much money on college if it prepared us so poorly for what lies ahead?

The phrase left the mouth of a fellow graduate most often, and rarely from a professor or presider over the ceremonies. But really, it begs the question, what is the real world, and if we haven’t been in it, why were we wasting all of our time filling out those endless sheets of paper with questions on them attached to circles we had to bubble in? And why is every college student so terrified of life after school?

Graduation is little more than a signal to employers that the holder of said degree has acquired some arbitrary amount of education and suggests they will be competent entering a business that requires similar skills to their field of study. It does not suggest that said holder of degree will be able to find suitable housing, get to work on time dressed in suitable clothes, not fall asleep around lunch time and not try to skip out at 4:30 to make the start of happy hour. And after a weekend of “life in the real world is gonna suck!” I am led to believe that said holders of degrees don’t feel they have obtained those skills, either.

Why do post-college grads fear the “real world” (copy write, annoying overachievers who made 4.0s but can’t think of alternate terms to save their lives) so much? And why is college perceived as such a comfy cocoon? The biggest problem I’ve heard from my yuppie friends is extreme boredom, but college is fraught with roommate troubles, asinine homework assignments and deranged neighbors who play guitar (poorly) till 4 a.m. each night. When compared to mind-numbing finger-mashing for thousands of dollars a year, I think I’d have to take the unfulfilling cubicle and the money over the poorhouse of college. Was college really that stimulating that its worth more than a full checking account?

And while we all have great stories about the nights we don’t remember, if we were honest with ourselves, aren’t we all a little tired of college? The friend who has too much each night and can’t stop telling you how much he thinks of you, or the fresh-faced girl whose bruised knees haven’t healed from last weekend after eating shit on the way back to her dorm were fun to laugh at the first few years, but hasn’t their act gotten a little tired?

I’ve enjoyed fratting as much as the next guy in the pink Vineyard Vines polo, but waking up and having to hear about the night from a friend no longer appeals to me. Frankly, I’m looking forward to glasses of Chardonnay and conversations about Hispanic Chief Justices who inject life experience into legal interpretation over catty gossip and who pees the bed when they drink too much.

College has been fun, but Peter Pan’s tights are a tad frayed. The real world (copy write college senior who attempts to have perspective on how many nights they’ve wasted during four years of school and communicate it it to doting parents) awaits.

A Slap on the Back

2009-05-11T11:09:00.001-04:00

Because they are loyal readers, and because I have not had time to devote to this space, here is the story of two graduates of the Fraternity who struggled with unemployment following graduation that I worked on for my feature writing class.

Unemployment often greets unprepared college seniors as they collect their diplomas during college commencement ceremonies. The excitement over the culmination of their education often distracts them from planning for life after college. For many, the focus is simply on finishing up their last round of classes and exams.

Moses and BSB graduated from the State University six months apart with identical degrees. They both dreamed of careers under the bright lights of television news, and both admitted they were undaunted when they clutched their degrees without post-graduate employment.

But they quickly found that when there were no fraternity parties to attend and only an endless string of empty hours to fill that jobs were necessary and effort was needed to obtain them. Both mistakenly believed a degree from the esteemed State College journalism school would have news stations burning up their cell phones, but as the months dragged on and their resumes went unanswered, they decided they had to change their strategies to find work.

Moses was the first of the two to graduate in December 2007. He had planned very little for a life after college, and spent his last semester “looking toward the finish line.” Because he graduated in December, he still had his apartment till July, and planned on working his two part-time jobs till something better came along.

BSB followed his fraternity brother down the Comcast Center aisle in May 2008. He had began searching for work by sending out resume tapes beginning in February, but had little hope of finding work due to the fast paced nature of the news industry. Unlike his business school peers, no news stations were in a position to offer him a job that he wouldn’t begin till months later, because openings typically need to be filled immediately. This stunted his job search, and put him under the gun once he returned to his native Wisconsin in June.

While Moses was more flexible in his job search, BSB was adamant about being on-air. It had been a dream of his since childhood to be a sports television personality, and he was unwilling to take a behind-the-scenes job because he did not think he would be able to graduate to front of the house.

“Working your way up is not how it works,” BSB said about his disdain for a behind-the-camera job. “You have to pay your dues [on-air] in the really small markets. I was willing to work anywhere and be paid peanuts to be on-air, but I wanted to do sports and be on-air.”

“I figured if I was going to be paid $20,000 in small town America, it was going to be advancing my career, rather than waiting for a shot.”

Moses did not have as specific guidelines for his career, and coupled with a job waiting tables at a local Olive Garden and parking cars at mall as a valet, he was admittedly lackadaisical in the first few months following commencement. But, he found life after college truly intolerable, and decided he needed to make a change.

“I didn’t give the job search my best effort at first, expecting something to come my way as rich, spoiled, white, northeastern kids tend to do,” he said. “But, I quickly learned, when you aren’t going to school, or going to fraternity events, when you are just working two shitty jobs, it sucks. It’s horribly boring and terrible.”

Moses said that frustration coupled with a tip from a former professor motivated him and led to him landing his current job. As he returned from a fresh bath in marinara sauce one night, he decided to call on a former professor. The conversation turned to his job search, and the professor led on that an alum would soon be on campus from ESPN. Moses knew he could not afford to pass the opportunity up.

He had learned a lesson from past failed attempts. Rather than merely sending his resume and hoping for the best, Moses worked to forge a relationship with the recruiter and impress upon him how much he wanted the job. Following their meeting, he sent the recruiter monthly e-mails to let him know he was still looking for a job, and his due diligence paid off. The recruiter recommended him to another in his department, Moses received a phone interview, and eventually his current job.

“It sounds cheesy, but it came down to persistence,” Moses said, a nod to the famous quotation from a former member of the fraternity. “My boss told me they interviewed 11 other people, and there isn’t a chance in hell I was the most qualified. I was a kid out of college, with almost no experience, and it was totally my persistence and my desire to do well that got me the job.”

BSB would not be so fortunate. He made it to a final interview for a position in Eau Claire, Wisc., but when the job was awarded to the son of the director of NBC’s Milwaukee affiliate in August, he was left without many options as the direction of the economy began to mimic the nosedive the journalism field had been in for months.

BSB was forced to admit the mistakes of his past had caught up with him and that his dream was dead.

“The thing I didn’t realize, journalism is completely driven on internships and connections,” he said. “I though the State University’s reputation and the fact that I graduated from there would really mean something. It was a major error thinking the degree would speak for itself.”

BSB now wishes he had been more proactive as an undergrad, working more internships than merely the one needed to graduate. His lack of experience and fervent refusal to take anything other than an on-air position had left him jobless as the cold snows began to blanket Wisconsin.

He decided he needed to change directions. He had heard of two-year long teaching fellowships from a friend and decided to apply. He earned interviews and eventually job offers from the programs in Washington, D.C., Prince George’s County, Md., and Baltimore. In September, he will begin his new career as an elementary school teacher somewhere in Washington.

He will be placed in a high need school after a six week “crash course” this summer, and take certification classes at American University to earn his certification and a Masters degree in education. His acceptance into the program guarantees him a position as a District of Columbia public school teacher, but he will have to apply to individual schools himself to find his home for the next two years.

He is excited about the new opportunity, but understandably disappointed that he did not fulfill his dream of sports broadcasting. After the two years in D.C., he plans on staying in the education field or moving on to business. For him, the child hood dream appears all but dead.

“I began to realize journalism, especially sports broadcasting, would force me to live a nomadic life style, in which I’d be in one place for two years and another two years somewhere else,” he said of his decision to switch fields.

“Even though it had been my life long dream, it became a little more unappealing, and once September and October hit, everything dried up. I was sick of living at home and wasn’t prepared to continue being here [Brookfield, Wisc.] and not working. I just thought the time was right to switch paths.”

Ironically, Moses, the one without ardent plans, ended up in a position with ESPN, seemingly something BSB would have loved, but he has no regrets and did not solicit help from his fraternity brother to secure a job there.

“I’m excited for this new challenge,” BSB said. “It [the job switch] won’t hit me until I’m six months in, maybe even longer. I’m only 22, I’m not signing my life away with this new career path. I can gain some invaluable experience for however long I do it.”

But he admitted he might feel some remorse in years to come.

“It will be interesting to see if in a few years I feel regret for abandoning journalism,” he pondered aloud. “I’m just very happy to have something.”

Moses will not be forced to wonder the great “What if?” He is entering his eighth month at ESPN as an assistant integration producer, which requires him to monitor all on-air entertainment over the news titan’s multitude of networks and “ensure we are always producing quality content for our viewers.” He also has taken a prominent role writing for the company’s intra-office newsletter, and had the privilege of writing a story on former NBA All-Star and current ESPN employee Jamal Mashburn.

But while their paths have diverged after sharing the same trail for four years, their words smack of lessons learned and the understanding that they still have more knowledge to acquire and that life after college has proven to be confusing and difficult.

“I feel like I’ve made a leap, from one piece of solid ground to another,” Moses said. “I got through the mucky-muck in the middle, and now I’m keeping an eye out for the next piece of solid ground, but I’m happy to be standing where I’m standing now.”

“It’s a cold world out there, you gotta look out for yourself,” BSB said, “because nobdy is going to feel sorry for you and it falls on you and the person looking back in the mirror at you. Eventually you have to get it done.”

But while they both sound as though they long to return to college and a life full of friends and parties, they both sense they’ve accomplished something, and stand a little bit taller because of it.

“It’s [working world] different, I think it’s great and I think it’s better,” Moses said, “but I think it’s natural to think, at each new stage of life, to think it’s better. No one wipes your butt in the real world, but it’s cool, because there is a certain sense of sel-satisfaction that comes with running your own life and knowing you can handle that.”

But BSB summed it up best, in the simplistic style of a former student of journalism.

“It sucks to leave college, but at least you’ve entered a new chapter of your life. I’m happy to be in the real world.”

Bill Lyon

2009-05-10T23:21:00.003-04:00

This was my final project for one of my classes. Since I haven't been working much on the blog because of a heavy finals course load, I thought it might be prudent to share some of my work with you readers. Enjoy

Like many young children, I was never true to one sports franchise or even a city. I bounced back and forth depending on what uniform colors I liked best, the players’ names that rolled off my tongue most refreshingly and who dominated the standings in a particular year. But I will not soon forget when my love affair began with the Philadelphia Philles, an undying one to this day.

Thinking back on it now, my sports polygamy was fueled by my parents refusal to purchase cable television, which enabled me to only watch nationally televised games, and therefore, the best teams during that given year. But around the age of 12, I discovered I could listen to my hometown Phillies on a radio all the way down in Washington, D.C. It seems as though the distance could not contain the loquacious voice that poured from those ancient speakers each evening into the dimly lit, chilly basement I would inhabit for three hours a night to hear about the latest Fighten’s loss.

The voice was of Hall of Famer Harry Kalas, whose signature call of “Watch this baby fly!” hooked me, because the mediocre play of the team he covered certainly didn’t. And when the Phillies finally broke through and ended the city’s 25 year championship drought with a World Series title, I couldn’t sleep until I had scoured the internet to hear Harry’s call of the final out and subsequent dog pile at home plate.

And while Harry pulled me in each night, it was the written word that captivated me all the next day. I devoured the Philadelphia Inquirer each morning (thankfully my parents did have internet), and my favorite read quickly became Bill Lyon. When the stereo was on the fritz or the signal would not come through, I could always rely on Lyon to capture the emotion and beauty of the game and hone it so succinctly that a 13-year old boy could read it, yet still capture the complexity so that a now 21-year old student of the writing craft can study and learn from it.

So, naturally, when the man that got me in love with the Phillies passed away last month, I turned to the man who got me in love with writing to chronicle the sad day. And Mr. Lyon did not disappoint.

“Every time you heard that distinctive baritone, deepened by a million smokes and marinated like fine bourbon aging in oak casks, you felt something soothing and reassuring. God's in His heaven, Harry the K's in the booth, and all's right with the world. He was, for generations of Phillies fans, The Voice. If Harry said it, it must be so.”

The great writers, particularly sports writers, have a way of adding something to their copy. Sports fans have already seen the game, heard the news and talked about the trade before they get the next day’s paper. Lyon never bludgeons his readers over the head; rather, he adds a distinctive flavor to every column he writes. His words place the reader on the stitching of the ball, helps them feel the impact of a collision and even to appreciate the smell that hangs in the air.

Mostly though, he has chronicled over his long career the infuriating, exciting and exhausting teams that play in the 215 area code. The South Philly four have the ability to enchant as easily as they do to anger, to captivate but still to bore, and to win even when it feels like they’ve lost. And, he writes for an audience that is never satisfied and is not shy about their “What have you done for us lately?” attitude.

The fans do not save their famous frustration for the players only. The town’s writers face the same scorn as the athletes they cover, and unlike in many sports cities, the readers do not merely want to read rah-rah fluff pieces. Rather, they expect the writers to criticize when the team stinks it up, and when they are not objective enough, the fans let them have it on the message boards.

Lyon’s scathing tongue is perfect for Philadelphia. He brings his language to the breakfast table, and no bread knife is needed to slice a morning bagel. But to captivate such a fickle audience, the words cannot be so simplistic. He must go the extra mile when the athlete didn’t. He must entertain and encourage the fans when the team made them shut the game off before the timer said it was over, because the score already had. And he must capture the unique Philly ‘tude, and place it expertly in each day’s story.

Since he retired from the Inquirer in Nov. 2005, he occasionally returns to the bankrupt paper’s pages to brighten up a sports section that often struggles from mediocre commentary. Many of the columnists that call Southeastern Pennsylvania home today suffer from a style best described as bland and ideas that rarely challenge the paying customers. But every so often, the Delaware valley’s day starts right when they are treated to a virtuoso performance by Lyon.

He never begins a column shyly, attempting to quietly lede before dropping a hammer in the nut graph to hook readers. Rather, he leads with his strongest prose, not afraid to waste his good metaphor because he knows he has a few to call off the bench. Take, for example, this one, written about Phillies’ slugger Ryan Howard.

“At the plate, he paws at the dirt, takes root like an oak and, holding the bat like Thor's hammer, points it, one-handed, out toward some distant dot on the horizon, where soon he will mash yet another home run,” he wrote Sept. 6, 2006. His allusions are so powerful, yet so obvious you almost feel bad you didn’t think of them yourself. He watches what we all watch, but we cannot see as he does. Lyon’s greatest strength is his similes, taking the larger-than-life athletes we watch and idolize each day and stripping them down to something we can all digest.

Describing Howard’s brute size and muscle, he called his might “stronger than garlic.” He called the deceased Kalas an “oasis of calm in a roiling sea of nastiness and raging negativity.”

But his most fitting piece to study when heaping praise on the man’s skill might be the last he penned as a staff member of the Inquirer. Departing pieces are hard, because there is a trap to heap them full of memories and emotion. But Lyon avoided those issues; he did what he always did, paying tribute to the language and bending the minds of all those that picked up the paper that morning. And, fittingly, he did it his own way, with a unique style not often duplicated successfully. He called his career to a close with a conversation that only took place in his head, until he graciously let us all in on the secret.

He summed up the Philly psyche, something he was forced to cope with each day when he turned in his column.

“One thing we do really well in this town is suffer. We have a threshold of pain that extends into the heavens. Our capacity for hurt is matched only by our capacity for loyalty. We keep standing there on the street corner certain that one day, some day, just you wait and see, there'll be another parade to happen along. Like the man said: "I bleed Eagles green... I just wish I didn't have to bleed so much." This town endures, you see, and its people keep coming back for more. How can you not fall in love with that?”

But his final gift to all was a walk down memory lane, something even I could appreciate, even though I had only heard of many of them through lore.

“Mike Schmidt's silken stroke... Doc walking among the clouds... Bernie Parent utterly impregnable in goal... Bill Bergey's slobberknocker hits... Randall Cunningham performing a 31/2 gainer on the goal line... Allen Iverson, with every important body part either strained, sprained, bruised or busted, continuing to drive fearlessly to the hoop.

“Villanova and the perfect game against Georgetown. St. Joe's and the perfect season, and that marvelous little passion pit of a gym on Hawk Hill. Smarty Jones and the run for the Triple Crown.”

“And the venues. The Palestra, that great gray cathedral of basketball. Franklin Field, where the wind still whispers about the glory days. Happy Valley and the drive there - go to Harrisburg, they said, turn right and swing through the trees for 90 miles. And yes, I confess, a perverse part of me even misses the Vet. A little.”

And while I might not have witnessed every story he reminisced about, I teared up nonetheless, because they were familiar to me from his words. I may have only known about them from second-hand sources, but the passion with which they were told made me the fan I am today, the fan of the Phillies, the Eagles, the Sixers, the Flyers, and, most importantly, of journalism. Lyon is the reason I know the history behind the franchises I love, and he is the reason I root with a fervor and a feeling of pain I’ve never experienced. Being a fan of a sports franchise transcends the current product on the field, it encompasses the history of every player who has ever worn the uniform, and without the words of Lyon, I would never know that history, and never have the appreciation I do for the teams I love.

I couldn’t know every game, or every athlete or every play, but with Bill Lyon, it sure felt like I did. His column drew on past and present, literary and non-fiction, whimsical and serious. His words spoke of his passion and love for the game, and because of it, his columns never seemed like work. They seemed like the culmination of a day spent soaking in the nuances of the game only a connoisseur could appreciate, and packaging it all so that a novice could marvel at it. Bill Lyon was a true savant of the written word and of sports, and the world was privileged to have his services full-time for more than 40 years.

I will forever be changed as a writer and fan because of his work. I will never merely sit down and watch the game; rather, I always search for the quiet beauty’s that make sports such a unique enterprise. An athlete in competition is like poetry in motion, and a writer that can capture that essence captures the hearts and minds of all that pick up his story.

Going Bad Down at the Derby

2009-05-05T20:14:00.001-04:00

The room was quiet, eyes were diverted and the tension was palpable as I took my turn with the gavel. I scanned the room and took a deep breath before launching into what might as well have been a soliloquy. Some still listened, but most had tuned me out. What I had long feared had come to fruition. I was the old, out of touch guy in the room, and those that once laughed at my jokes merely shuffled in their seats and waited impatiently for me to finish and sit down.

******

The RV had rumbled down the roads of Kentucky for the better part of six hours, and upon reaching Louisville, Ky., we all celebrated with a beer. Some 700 miles away, the rest of the Fraternity raged, but we had set our sights weeks ago on the Derby, despite the fact it meant missing the spectacle that is Away Weekend.

Naturally, our conversation turned toward our decision to skip Away Weekend for a road trip. Our reasons behind the decision varied; some had not paid dues and weren’t eligible to attend, a few had graduated from State University the prior year and still more were not members of the Fraternity. We all settled on the conclusion that we had seen Away Weekends before, and while they were always the best parties of the semester, a 30 foot RV, 600 miles of road and the never-duplicated Kentucky Derby were too hard to pass up.

As we settled in with our hosts for the weekend, I received a text from the Fraternity’s outgoing president that contained an accusation, and rather than immediately rectifying the confusion, I decided to have some fun.

“Did you all steal our 15 handles of KG and take it with you to the Derby?” he questioned.

“Yes, we’re drinking it right now,” I responded, and to add injury to insult, finished, “It’s delicious.”

“You are a fucking asshole, [Carter],” he exploded. “First you guys don’t pay dues, steal booze from us all semester by coming to our parties, and now this. Don’t bother coming around anymore, you aren’t wanted or welcomed.”

Minutes later, from our secretary: “You are no longer a brother. Don’t bother coming back.”

Apparently, nearly $200 worth of liquor was unaccounted for, and accusations had been running wild. I would find out later that one of the guys on our trip texted his roommate, who was at away weekend, “How’s the liquor in Virginia Beach,” and it was taken as a taunt and circumstantial evidence that we were the culprits behind the missing liquor. In reality, it was merely a nod to the mint juleps we had been facing all evening, but considering the circumstances, it is understandable how that could be misconstrued.

Texts began flying between Louisville and Virginia Beach as I relayed the messages to the rest of the members on the trip. The secretary would not cease and desist, labeling us as deserters and “Good bros gone bad.”

I eventually got our president on the phone and calmly explained we had not taken the liquor. He apologized and explained the frustration and intoxication that were rampant on his end, and I apologized for heightening the rumors with my antagonistic response. But their point had been made, and the divide I have felt for much of the semester was proven true.

It is not uncommon for seniors to out grow a fraternity in their last year. They have made their friends, seen many of them graduate and move on, and a lot get steady girlfriends that keep them away from parties where they used to skirt chase. They tend to hold their own pregames and go to the bars themselves, and their effort, attendance and participation tend to lag as graduation looms.

Unfortunately, our chapter has a larger problem at hand. Many seniors, myself included, elected not to meet our financial obligations this semester (dues are $600 for seniors, $650 for the rest of the chapter). Personally, I had planned to go on spring break, save my money for an uncertain future and use whatever was left over with my friends that had survived the passing years. I rarely attended fraternity parties, because a keg and 19-year olds in togas no longer appeals to me. In essence, I would have been paying $750 (dues plus the $150 kick in) to attend away weekend, and considering my precarious financial situation, this did not seem to make great sense for me.

On the other hand, the Fraternity has seen me through college and given me great friends, memories and moments. My selfish decision hung every other brother out to dry, and coupled with the other seniors who did not pony up, we crippled the budget and made it difficult for the chapter officers to fund our activities. By saving our money for ourselves, we deprived the younger brothers of many of the outings we still laugh and reminisce about today.

However, the Fraternity of 2009 is not the one I pledged back in 2006. Many of us graduating this year feel a deep divide within the chapter, and a noticeable degree of disrespect. Perhaps this is warranted, because we did not meet our financial obligations, but I felt it even last semester. The young guys are the majority, and they have little time to listen to our old stories about people they’ve never met or our advice on issues they don’t believe they’ll ever face. To us, they abuse our houses for parties, and merely want our money to financially back the next one. They care little for our companionship, and only lack a long enough stick to finally push us the last few feet out the door.

We certainly bear some responsibility; perhaps we did not do a good enough job of incorporating them into our circle and getting to know them. But when I was an underclassman, I reached out to our older brothers because I liked them and wanted to get to know them. These guys seem like they just can’t wait for us to get out so they can take over the reigns.

I remember our departing seniors giving their final salutes last year at meeting, and it was the first time it hit me that my friends would be gone, and we would be the oldest guys in the house. It was a scary thought, because last year’s class had a great deal of strong personalities and engaged brothers that stayed interested in the fraternity to their dying college career’s last breath. Few of my pledge brothers ever lived in the chapter house, and most of us never hung out with anyone but ourselves.

And yet, I can’t help feeling the stink of disrespect. Respect is earned, not given, and maybe the anger and frustration that was on display at meeting Monday night was tantamount to the fact we haven’t earned it. It is my humble opinion that they care little for us, and it seems to me they believe we have turned out backs on them. Those feelings were not helped along by what transpired this weekend, but when we got word away weekend had come to a premature conclusion Friday night because the owner paid a visit to the homes and saw the destruction, our decision making didn’t seem so bad. The Fraternity doesn’t work when some of its members don’t contribute, but it doesn’t seem sensible to pour my resources into something that no longer values my presence any more.

A Breath of Fresh Air

2009-04-21T19:19:00.001-04:00

Done.

The refreshing feeling of finality overwhelmed me as I packed up my bag, shuffled the papers on the desk together and strolled to the front of the classroom to hand in my completed exam.

“In the box, right?” I asked my professor slyly, a nod to his departing words to all my classmates who had completed their exams before me.

He looked up from his periodical, nodded yes, and his eyes fell back to his lap. But as I turned to leave the room, he stopped me.

“I’d like to have a word. Follow me,” he said as he led me out into the hall.

“Sure,” I responded, quickly scanning my brain to preempt what he might want to discuss and prepare a response.

“You had an interview a couple of weeks ago, right?” he asked, upon reaching the hallway. I scrunched my face up in confusion as to why he thought this fallacy was true, but before I could correct him, he interrupted me.

“At [company name redacted]. How did it go?” Oh! Caught in my own web of lies. I quickly recalled that I had e-mailed him a few weeks back and used an interview as an excuse to get out of class.

I had not been a regular attendee of his twice weekly lecture, and he informed me about a month ago that 20 percent of my grade would be determined by attendance, and I was failing. Since, I had been making a conscience effort to attend, but I skipped class a few weeks back and sent in an excuse.

I quickly scanned his face to determine if he was busting me for my lie or if he was truly inquiring about my job search. I had used the company I work at as a cover, figuring that if he was sadistic and called them up to see if I had been interviewed, at least the person who answered the phone would be familiar with my name.

“It was ok. I’m interning there now, and they called me in to interview for a full-time position, but they haven’t decided yet,” I said, covering my tracks. “I’m not sure how it’ll turn out, because they are struggling pretty badly, and I don’t know if they’ll be able to give me a job,” I continued to tie up the loose ends of my lie.

“Well, I hope it works out. I just wanted to thank you for your participation lately,” as I breathed a deep sigh of relief that this hadn’t turned into something much more embarrassing. “You’re a bright guy, and it’s been nice for you to contribute in class.”

I thanked him for the compliment, and took the opportunity to apologize for my horrendous attendance to begin the semester. A little aside here: this class is purely a filler, I could fail it and still graduate, so I didn’t even show up to class until the day before the first exam. When he e-mailed me, I explained my situation, how the class was not a high priority and that I often take class days off because I work three days a week. Since, I have been attending regularly and trying to kiss some ass to make up for lost time.

“Well, I know you have a great deal on your mind,” he finished, then stuck his hand out to shake mine before turning back to the classroom.

I smiled softly and turned on my heels to go. I was incredibly touched by his gesture, not simply because he had asked about my (phony) job interview, but because for the first time in four years, a professor at State College showed a little compassion and understanding.

In high school, the grade point average I graduated with was much higher than I had statistically earned. It was very common at my prep school to round close grades (i.e. 89.2) up to the next letter, and this practice vastly improved my average. I forged relationships with teachers, they liked me personally, appreciated my effort in class, and rewarded me at the end of quarters with As, when really I had only earned a B. I imagine they did it to improve my future marketability, my confidence, and as an incentive to work hard, which I did, knowing that while I might fall statistically short, my effort would at least be rewarded.

College, therefore, has been a rude awakening. While I cannot defend my effort (it has been poor many, many semesters, and the ability to skip class with little consequence has left me laying in bed to noon many a day), I have been on the wrong side of a cruel B plus seven times (my college does not weight GPAs). While my struggles in math have left my GPA at a pedestrian 2.77, and some Cs from a lackadaisical effort lowered it further, a few A minuses in the place of B plusses would have greatly eased my job search.

Unfortunately, at such a large university, if professors had granted me the A minus, where could they stop? It is likely a number of my classmates were just fractions of a point behind me, and perhaps they too deserved the grade bump. But it is frustrating to know my resume is repeatedly passed over because of such an ugly mark, and a little compassion could have improved my situation.

Grade inflation is a huge issue not merely in school but other walks of life. It is a sliding scale, and once you start down the slope, it is difficult to stop the descent; soon, an 85 might merit an A. But it is frustrating to work all semester, earn an average in the 80s, only to receive a grade level that awards me the same point value (in terms of GPA) as one in the low 80s. I could have missed quizzes, blown off assignments and been even lazier and earned the same grade; on the other hand, if I had known the answer to five multiple choice questions I got wrong, I would have earned the A.

High school was meant to prepare me for college and improve my confidence to compete at the collegiate level, and college has been a lesson in reality; you are judged purely on what you know and can do, and your effort means very little. But considering it is costing me thousands of dollars, that is of little consolation. I have had so many professors that seemed delusional to the fact that other classes are even taught at the university, and treat theirs like it is the most important thing ever studied.

Consequently, I have learned the importance of getting the job done, something I did not appreciate in high school, when I was comfortable knowing my personality would take care of my factual shortcomings. Today, however, was a nice break from that harsh reality, and a reminder that there are people who appreciate intangibles and not merely facts and skill. The safety net has been removed, but it is nice to know someone might still be there to dust you off when you come crashing down.

The New First Family of the Fraternity

2009-04-15T16:55:00.000-04:00

The Fraternity elected its new executive board this week, and, like the United States, our chapter’s president will be black for the first time in its 30 years of existence.

Our new president, who bears a striking resemblance to Lights Out, and therefore has been donned with the moniker Shawne Merriman, is finishing up his sophomore year and pledged under my tutelage last semester. I missed the elections, due to work, and heard of the outcome from my roommate, Wyles.

Wyles, who is also black, jokingly said he would play “My President is Black” by Young Jeezy at our next event to celebrate Merriman’s election. The Fraternity currently has five black members, and are a decided minority in our community. Last night, at a pre-drink before the bars, I was with Wyles and another member of the “Fraternity Black Caucus,” as they are affectionately known, discussing our chapter’s election and its parallels to President Obama’s. Richard, so nicknamed here because of his unfortunate surname, one-upped Wyles and boasted he was producing tee-shirts bearing Merriman’s face and the word “Change” in bold letters. We all had a laugh as the girls started to roll into the basement.

Shortly there after, I was out on the porch having a cigarette when Merriman strolled up the steps. I congratulated him before running downstairs to cue up the music to welcome him to the party. As the music played, Merriman sheepishly grinned as Wyles and Richard comically strutted and danced around him. I joined in on the fun, shotgunned a beer with all and, shortly thereafter, left for a night at the bar.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the celebratory dance-off that would have made LeBron James proud as I lay in bed last night. They didn’t do it to show up the fair-skinned brothers who lost, or to make a statement about race. Rather, they were rejoicing with a member of their “club” who had achieved a tremendous honor and laughing at the timing that so perfectly coordinated with our country’s highest office. They wished not to make a spectacle of themselves, and few of the brothers in attendance even noticed the song playing and the three young men dancing in celebration.

For me though, it held some significance. While they did not set out to make a racial statement, they made one with me, one that reverberated all through the night. If one of my white brothers had been elected, we certainly would not have played Kenny Chesney and crowed about how all the girls think our tractors are sexy, but for Wyles and Richard, this was a relevant, and, in my view, appropriate celebration. They did not think the occasion dripped with importance, but one that marked a triumph nonetheless. And while I smiled and rejoiced with them at the time, I was saddened by the act later in the night.

Wyles and Richard’s actions spoke volumes. They subtlety noted to the room their differences, differences they furiously try to hide in the white-washed Greek world. But last night, they let loose and celebrated their race while nodding to the deep-rooted scars left from bigotry and racism. It is unlikely the two of them, who come from lily white suburbs of New Jersey, know first-hand much of the hardships some of their brethren are forced to live with, but they share a common bond of blackness, a bond strengthened by tales from grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends that probably left them tearful and frightened during the nights of their youth. And last night, that common bond poured out of them, and would later sweep me off my feet.

It later dawned on me how much I take for granted in my daily life, and how little my black roommate is afforded. It was a small victory, and one that they had fun poking fun at, but the fact that they did stuck with me. I’ve been moping and depressed for the better part of 2009 because of the feeble job prospects that await me, but taking part in that circle last night got me thinking about the uncertainty Wyles has probably faced every day of his life. My whole life has been privileged and in most competitions, I have had an advantage because of the hard work of my parents and its rewards. In the face of this great challenge and weak economy, I have moped and bitched, but last night, I began to wonder where I would be if I switched places with my roommate and wore his dark coat.

It scared me to think how fortunate I am, but how quick I am to despair when my fortunes run dry. My small victories have been reduced to bitterness as I cynically anticipate their inevitable turn to failure. But my roommate’s face last night got me thinking about that attitude and my pessimistic outlook on the future, and my attitude began to change. They put aside the years of torment their race has known, and even poked fun at it by celebrating another “first,” with their impromptu circle last night. They didn’t beat their chests and tout black power, but rather reveled in their shared experiences and maybe even wondered if things are finally getting better.

And I was left to ponder this: Why do I have trouble smiling after leading a life of privilege, when such a small thing can turn to joyous dancing for men who have been given so little?

A Legend Has Left Us

2009-04-13T14:09:00.003-04:00

Sad news out of the Nation's Capital today. Harry Kalas, the long-time Hall of Fame play-by-play man for the Philadelphia Phillies has passed away. According to an ESPN report, Kalas was found in the broadcast booth at Nationals Stadium passed out just passed noon today, and died later at a yet undisclosed hospital. He was 73.

Sunday at Augusta

2009-04-13T13:37:00.000-04:00

Masters Sunday is the culmination of the Deep Thaw. It starts in mid-March with Selection Sunday, begins to melt with the Final Four and is nearly room temperature by Opening Day. It is the end of winter and leads off the great day drinking months that lie ahead.

This Masters was more than that, though, because golf fans, especially the casual ones like myself, got the dream pairing, and for the first nine holes, it lived up to its billing. Phil Mickelson traded his golf bag for a bird cage on Sunday to produce an historic front nine in which he threw up an Augusta record 30 to get to 10-under par, leaving him just two shots off the lead.

Tiger Woods, he of the balky putter that had put him in a Sunday hole, came along for the ride. The fist pump debuted after a long eagle putt on 8 that put him at 7-under for the tournament and in striking distance of the leaders. He hadn’t played well all week, but Tiger was lurking on Sunday in Red, and there was a sense that he and Phil might play their way into the final ceremony as they headed for Amen Corner.

I am not a fan of golf, but I rarely miss a final round at Augusta. Aside from psychologically signaling the end of winter, the course carries a mystique through the TV. Maybe it is because my most lasting Masters memory is of Mickelson making man boobs cool as he leaped in joy at his first major victory. Maybe it is because it’s the only major tournament that is played at the same course each year, and history haunts each of the famous dogleg turns. But I think its more because each year it is compelling, even when it is not well-played.

And the final round was not well-played in 2009. The 2009 Green Jacket belonged to Mickelson, and he yukked it away long before Kenny Perry had a chance and Angel Cabrera told the world, “En español, por favor.” He was on 12, at the end of the famous Amen Corner, having played the two hardest holes on the course even and remaining at 10-under, with the scoring potential of 13-16 within reach. But the bag of his epic oh-so-closes was back on caddie Jim MacKay’s shoulder, the parakeet Mickelson had carried all afternoon deserted him, and he washed his ball at the par-three 12, leading to a devastating double bogey 5 that was the beginning of the end. He had chances late, but an eagle try at 15 went begging and he missed a bird at 17, only to follow that up with a bogey on 18 that left him out of contention.

I know very little about golf (having only ever played three rounds in my life), but its greatest theatre lies in two areas; heroic efforts for victory, or epic collapses that spell defeat. On Sunday, we saw both sides from one player. Mickelson rallied to get into contention, but when he needed the putts to put on the Green Jacket, he couldn’t find the cup. Sports love their heroes and always remember the goats, and because of the individualistic nature of golf, every major tournament has a great hero/goat story. Mickelson couldn’t get to the next hole fast enough on the front nine as he ripped off bird after bird, but he probably wanted a time warp to get through the last nine as he trudged through a one-over-par. A golfer must stand in the middle of a great green expanse and hole all 18 balls to get to the clubhouse. He has no time limit to save him from a horrendous effort, no reliever to bail him out, and no defense against his opponents as they play around him.

And that’s why I never miss a Sunday at Augusta, because it never fails to deliver drama. A basketball game that was marred with turnovers and missed shots would be unwatchable, but Masters Sunday was complete with blown drives, pushed putts and wasted chances, and instead of rendering it unwatchable, it only made it more dramatic. No shot doomed or crowned any player, but after it was all said and done, the second guessers could choose any number of 10-15 shots that could have theoretically won the tournament for a number of players. Golf is a cruel game, and I reveled in others’ misery, the quality that makes it so frustrating for those that play, but so enjoyable for us who watch.

Like Taking out the Trash

2009-04-10T13:20:00.002-04:00

I imagine the depths of depression to be like an exhausted swimmer struggling against inevitable death. They thrash on the surface in an attempt to stay alive, with brilliant, positive thoughts momentarily interrupting the knowledge of impending doom, and brief, passing moments of hope that dart away like the scared fish below the surface.

My days have begun to feel like an endless checklist, a checklist not filled with goals, but with mere chores that must be accomplished before a yet to be determined deadline. I check them off, with no real sense of accomplishment, only to see the list fill up again the next day to my exhausted and exasperated dismay. I feel like I’ve accomplished little each day, not because I lay around and do nothing, but because what I do is not what I wish to do, but what must be done. I finish an assignment in school only because it gets me closer to graduation. I prepare a meal, but no longer for the joy of it, only because I need sustenance to continue. I wrack my brain to fill this space, but all that comes to me are thoughts of dismay and woe.

Writing has so often been a beautiful release of frustration, because I have been gifted with a way with words, an ability to twist even the most grotesque and find something wonderful. But it has become such a chore for me this semester, and I know my work has suffered, both creatively and lyrically. In my final semester, I have been saddled with my worst class, an Editorial and Commentary writing class. I was excited to take on this challenge, believing myself to already be a commentary writer with experience, and that the class would only further my knowledge of writing and gathering information for columns.

Alas, as so many classes have been before it, this one is led by a brilliant man who treats class like a delirious lune wandering through the wilderness. He was absent from the first week of class, which was led by his TA (who has not shown her face since) and the assistant dean, who gave us a lecture on plagiarism, a lecture every good journalism student could give themselves for having heard it so many times. His syllabus was devoid of a schedule, and instead, he hands out deadlines and assignments on the fly, forcing me to amend a rigid schedule with no advance notice. Finally, he is utterly incompetent in teaching; he has yet to lecture on what a good column is, focusing more on word choice and grammar, things completely unnecessary in a senior skills class. Our weekly news quizzes take close to a half hour, as he questions us from the pulpit, and the grade-grubbing bastards that frequent the major bitch and complain while trying to coax him into giving them credit when they don’t have a response to his question.

Instead of giving us genres for assignments, such as persuasive, argumentative, pro- or con-issue, he instead gives us a topic and an absurd word count (i.e. the G20 Summit, 1500 words, which was due last night at 9 p.m. after being assigned Tuesday morning). I did not attend the G20 Summit (it was held in London) and I don’t exactly have any one’s number on speed dial who did (they are heads of state and finances for the 20 biggest economies in the world; they were a little too busy to return my calls). Instead of having an opinion and giving a crisp defense of it over a reasonable 500-750 words, I was forced to churn out triple that, with no ability to report or ask questions or form an opinion beyond what others wrote on the subject.

I cannot recall the last time I struggled to meet a word count, or added filler bullshit to meet one, particularly in a journalism course, but I have been forced to do both on nearly half of his assignments (1500 words on the life of John Hope Franklin; I wrote about 950 and called it a day, netting me a C+). These forced writing exercises have robbed me of my desire to create, and the fatigue has left me unwilling to even attempt to blog. I wanted to chronicle my senior year, and for the past few months, all I’ve known is misery.

It is so frustrating to try to ignore the demons in my head, and what is worse is that I do not know why they are there. I am healthy, have friends, a girl who loves me and parents who are well-off and able to support me; yet, what little I have to complain about plagues me day and night. No sooner do I feel the clouds dispersing does some other occurrence dump rain on my head.

What do I do? Do I hide my problems, put on a smiling face and hope for brighter days? Or do I open up and bitch about the trivial problems that bring me to my knees? Readers, near and far, I encourage your correspondence. E-mail me at press.on09@gmail.com with your tales of woe, accomplishment, or messages that will act as a swift kick in the ass.

Look to the Future while glancing in the rearview at the Past, but don't take your eyes off the road, or you'll surely crash

2009-04-06T15:41:00.001-04:00

The past will haunt, and the future strikes fear, but both are given meaning only by the present, the most important of the three time frames, but quite often, the most overlooked.

The past can be made irrelevant by a present accomplishment or success (see 2008 Phillies) and the future is set by due diligence and foresight (see American Colonies, circa 1776). I stand on a precipice, looking back on the bliss of freshman year, and longing to relive the glory years, while the uncertain and dreaded workforce will soon welcome my number to the queue.

Senior year of college is a great Present Day trap: you can’t help but long for the days of old and tremble in excitement at the thought of climbing into a DeLorean with Michael J. Fox, while you stare exasperated at mounting job loss statistics and refresh your inbox until your fingers bleed hoping for an invitation to interview.

This year has been a blur of lasts for me, every one of which was bittersweet. I have struggled all year with the pain of moving on and the fear that has accompanied it, and I would be lying if I said it has not affected my personality and perhaps, even my relationships. Senior year removes the veil of ignorance, because it is like a stadium counting down to its final game. Each time I go out, I know that it is one less experience I will have, and I fret about that fact throughout the night. Sophomore year, countless nights were on the horizon, and I never had to think or worry about a time when they’d be moving toward extinction.

But while I’ll miss college and the stories that accompany any night with a beer, what has troubled me most over the months is my uncertain future. I don’t know the city, the industry or the job capacity that I will be in with only a month and a half to go before graduation. My insecurity runs rampant as every casual conversation turns to my after-graduation plans, and I sheepishly turn my head and mutter in a frustrated tone, “I don’t know yet. I’m still working on that.” My 16 years of education were supposed to culminate in a job offer and a course for my life, but instead, I am left to my pessimistic thoughts and bitter outlook on a life I dreamed of but has yet to come to fruition.

This weekend’s events caused an introspective look at myself, and I found some things I didn’t like. I wasn’t happy to learn my insecurities, frustrations and stressors from that unknown future were making me an irritable and undesirable companion. I kept myself up by putting others down, and I expected everyone to cater to me, because I was suffering “alone” from such a poor job market. Selfishness was pervasive in most of my motives and thoughts, and it was harming my social schedule.

Of course, I am not the only person struggling to find employment, but that does not offer much solace. What is true, however, is that this market requires creativity, and might open options that I would not have considered if a high-paying position was on the table. In some ways, it can extend my adolescence, because I am unlikely to be wearing a shirt and tie to an office next year, but instead might earn my bread and milk from the couch in my parents’ basement through a medium such as this. My outlook on the situation was not positive, and it sapped my motivation to explore and consider all my options.

I have placed a great amount of pressure on obtaining the first job, because I have longed believed that I will forever stay in the first field, after getting comfortable and losing the will to explore other options, coupled with financial responsibilities that will make a risky job move unwise. But, as I have written here before, the future is a wild card, and is directly tied to the present, and my future will be as cloudy as I fear if I fret away the present. The unknown can’t be harnessed, and that’s why it grips our guts. Television stations don’t make their money with the same tired episode of a series, and a life wouldn’t make much sense if there weren’t some unexpected challenges faced and conquered along the way.

Back to Yak

2009-04-05T23:15:00.003-04:00

Judging from my inbox, many of you got the joke. It was an April Fools, and not my swan song. I owe you a couple stories, and I should have them up tomorrow. Been running around in job search and homework, but I'll be back on the blog tomorrow. Until then...

I've Seen the Lights Go Out on Broadway...

2009-04-01T22:38:00.007-04:00

The End has come.

The blogging career of Carter Wayne Jones will from here on out be nothing more than a footnote in the history of the medium. This will be my last post, because the powers that be have shut me down, thus explaining the long absence of a new post as I've been dealing with the fall-out over the past week.

I will not be returning to State University, because they have expelled me for writing about underage drinking, drug trafficking and hazing. I have been excused from the Fraternity by International Headquarters along similar lines. My painstaking efforts to keep my identity, the Fraternity’s and the university’s a mystery have been for naught, as my cover has been blown and the consequences are raining down upon me.

Just nine credits short of a degree, in the midst of a recession, I have been thrown out in the cold. My incisive pen has pissed off the wrong people, who saw to it that my identity became public and the fire brought to my feet.

I have greatly appreciated the support of you, my readers, over the last eight months. It has been an enlightening experience to try to entertain, educate and pontificate in this space for people I have never met. I have sharpened my style and gotten better acquainted with the English language, which I believe will be useful in future endeavors. I will miss posing as this alias, congratulating the great and questioning the inadequate.

I do not know what I will do from this point forward. I will be forced to find another university to finish my degree, but I fear it will be hard to line my credits up with a different institution’s requirements without repeating a great deal of courses. I shudder in fear, because my parents will not be willing or able to continue to give me the advantages I have enjoyed over my four years of study here.

I still have my First Amendment rights, so the site will stay active. Now that I have been outed, and with little else to do, I will probably continue my blogging career, but it will have to be under my given name and at a different address. When I know more, I will let you know. Thanks again, I shall Press On.

Rum Punch can Kill

2009-03-25T18:38:00.002-04:00

The island of Jamaica has an expected Caribbean flavor complete with world-class sunsets, white, sandy beaches and turquoise blue water that is offset by the soft, rolling mountains that stand on a distant shore.

This was all easily visible from the nearly two hour drive we took from the airport in Montego Bay southwest to Negril; however, what also was visible was the extreme poverty and desperation of this island nation’s people. I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty as we passed shack after tin-roofed shack on our way to the resort that would house us for the week. Undersized children chased stray dogs in the streets while dodging zooming buses and cars that seemed indifferent to the children’s proximity to the moving mounds of steel.

My pity quickly evaporated on arriving in Negril. Our group traveled with Student City, which put us in a place that’s labeling as a “resort” was charitable, at best. The rooms were small and the bathrooms grungy. Some in my group were crammed four into a room, with only a one double bed to share. And when we headed out for our first night of fun, we were greeted by the poor Jamaicans I had grieved for not three hours before, but would not shed a tear over the rest of the week.

Spring Break is their time to make money; unfortunately, they never seem to let you forget it. Before getting to the club, we had to get a cab, which proved an adventure each day. Not yet having changed any of our money into Jamaican, and somewhat unsure of the exchange rate, the cabby extorted our group of 12, which he crammed into a mini van, for $20 to travel one mile. Then, when we got to the bar, we were greeted by bartenders refusing to serve anyone without green in their hands, and when they finally produced a drink for you, it was in what could not have been more than a six ounce cup, requiring one to travel back and forth to the bar, all while waiting in a throng that never thinned.

But, don’t cry for me Argentina. It was still a great week, despite the bumps in the road, and this week, I’ll be rolling out my favorite stories. Today, I will attempt to lengthen the legend of BC, who when last visited in this space was making his way to the ER to have a bee bee removed from his ass.

BC is a three-term Spring Breaker, having gone to Acapulco, Mexico, his sophomore year and Cancun last year. I was warned by my big brother, BSB, who had traveled with him to both locales, that he would bring it.

“Like an athlete who rises to the challenge in the finals, BC will be staggering around drunk Wednesday morning while everyone else is popping Advil and chugging water,” he warned me. And true to his word, there was BC, Wednesday morning, greeting me at 10:15 a.m. as I headed out to breakfast, blacked the fuck out.

After finishing breakfast, I headed down the beach to our day drinking locale and ran into a couple guys in our group. They quickly filled me in on what BC had accomplished in the last hour. While standing at the bar awaiting a drink, he decided to relieve himself all over the floor. As he giggled and showed everyone what he had done, another guy stepped to the window, and a confused look came across his face as he tried to realize why he was standing in a pool of liquid that was probably decidedly too warm and large to have come as excess off a wet bathing suit.

Not wanting to miss an MVP performance from my former roommate, I grabbed Audrey by the hand and hustled her less-than-pleased self down the beach as fast as I could. When I arrive, BC is standing in the middle of a circle, screaming unintelligible insults to all who pass. I join the circle, and begin to get filled in, but no sooner than I finish my question does BC walk up behind a girl, getting as close as he can to her backside, and shoots a torrent of liquid out of his pants and onto her feet, while giggling the entire time.

After BC’s pee party, he entered the day’s drinking contest. On that day, it was a two-person chugging relay race. After facing a cup of rum punch (never again will I be able to stomach fruit punch), the contestants ran to the shore’s edge, grabbed a bat and spun ten times. BC was the anchor, and headed down towards the surf with a lead of a couple seconds that quickly evaporated. He seized the bat and began to spin. But after only three spins, he began to lose his footing and tumbled into the water and floundered on his back as waves crashed over him. He finally found his drunk footing, and believing he was done spinning, started running parallel to the water down the beach, away from where we were. He ran a good, drunk, 20 feet before someone retrieved him and sent him back.

Still smiling, and still believing he was going to seal the victory, he traipsed up the beach toward the finish line, but his progress was impeded by a meat head that he almost certainly insulted earlier in the day. The meat head jumped into his path, raised his arms, and decked BC, lifting him off his feet and sending him to the sand with a thud. He then spent a good ten seconds merely trying to stand up before confronting said meat head and his douchy friends, before we rushed over for back up. Unfortunately, the competition was being run by a Student City rep, Victoria, who was almost certainly 50-years old and had been in Jamaica shooting black tar heroin for a good portion of her miserable fuck existence. Even more unfortunate, BC had drunken run-ins with her the day before, when she kicked him out of a competition and he responded by calling her the C-word (the one that refers to a female’s reproductive organ) at unprecedented decibels. So, as BC toppled to the earth from the meat head’s body check, Victoria encouraged the behavior, calling BC a “tool” and egging on the idiots.

(A brief aside to explain the annoying nature of this Victoria. All week, she ran these drinking competitions, and all week, she made horrifying, grotesque references to “dirty bananas” and how many she had seen on the beach. She also openly encouraged guys who spilled drinks to jump up on stage and moon everyone, which was certainly more painful for the spectators than for the drunk idiots who had no recollection of the event later. Finally, after everyone started ignoring her and stopped participating in her asinine games, she drew a boom box in the sand, plugged real head phones into the drawing, and proceeded to wildly and suggestively dance on the beach for our spectating pleasure. Remember, this woman is pushing AARP age and in a bikini.)

We finally pull BC away from the idiots, and he promptly flops into a chair, exhausted and drunk. He soon passes out, and while all of Audrey’s sisters were worried about him (“I heard he never gets like this!”) we all chuckled and headed back to drinking. Not even a half hour later, one of Audrey’s dumb slut sisters comes running up to me, terrified.

“Carter, BC is bleeding and we can’t wake him up! You’ve got to take him home, he might need to go to the hospital.” Somewhat concerned, but mostly confused, seeing as how he had been passed out for 30 minutes and had been relatively undisturbed, I hustle over to where his lifeless body lay slumped in the beach chair. As I came upon the chair, I noticed a red liquid dripping through the chair and pooling on the sand underneath him, but it didn’t exactly look like blood. As I arrived by his side and inspected further, I laughed aloud at the stupidity that surrounded me.

“Jesus, Brooke, its fucking strawberry syrup, they were taking body shots earlier and they probably dumped it on the drunk, passed-out kid. He’s fine,” I exclaimed, ignoring the fact that his liver was screaming for mercy.

Every 20 minutes, BC would wake up, saunter around for a few minutes, trip over something and make us all laugh, and then pass out face first in the sand, requiring us to pick him up and place him back in his chair. Finally, after about two and half hours, he woke up for good, and I took him back with another brother to the hotel. But BC never goes quietly.

The first group he came upon was playing a friendly game of pepper with a volleyball. BC barged into the middle of it and screamed at them to pass it to him. The horrified players tried to ignore him, bumping the ball high in the air as BC stood in between them and futilely flailed his arms in an attempt to hit the ball. After we had laughed hard enough at the two strangers’ expense, we pulled BC away and headed down the beach. But because he had spent the last two hours between comas and rolling around in the sand, he was covered, so I tossed him into the ocean to clean off. While he was doing his best not to drown in the surf, he looked up at us with that goofy smirk. I was sure he was peeing again.

“Hey guys, look at me, I’m a CRAAAAABBBB!” he screamed as he crawled through the water. The angelic look upon his face and the pure joy he had reminded me of a middle-schooler, not a drunken 22-year old. He frolicked in the water for a few more minutes, tried to tell everyone that passed that he was now a crustacean, and splashed us with water. But, as with everything, all good things must come to an end, and I wanted to get back to drinking, so I grabbed him, pulled him out of the water, dragged him back to the hotel, and threw him in bed to sleep it off around 4 p.m. Amazingly, and to his credit, he was back at it at 10 p.m., in the club, fist bumping away, with nary a recollection of his day.

Come back Friday for the story of PSP, who smoked a joint with a Jamaican that he believes was laced with meth and the aftermath that ensued.

Everytings Irie, Mon

2009-03-23T18:00:00.001-04:00

I returned home yesterday from a week spent in the Caribbean sun-burnt, tired and a little hung over, but the remnants of my last Spring Break could not rival the pit in my stomach that had accompanied me to Jamaica.

The source of anxiety was the future, of course, and how barren mine appears. Before losing my shirt and donning flip-flops and board shorts for the week, I had a job interview that I presumed had gone well. After dropping my bag to the floor and proving to my mother I had returned with all my limbs, I fired up my bored laptop hoping to find a job offer, but instead, merely disappointment.

I love Ryan Howard, but I never hoped to mimic his pension for swinging and missing. The sting from another rejection letter lingered well into the night, a companion with a whiny, unceasing and pessimistic voice that brought me crashing back to earth off my high from Negril.

“See how much trouble you’re in?” the voice would whisper in my ear. “Graduation is only two months away, your friends will be off to contribute to society, and all your frivolous time in college will finally bite you in the ass.”

“What will you do? Where will you go? How will you survive?” All questions that swirled through my head and tormented my night until dawn brought the distraction of a day at my internship. As I stepped out of the shower, loaded up my toothbrush and looked into the mirror, a smile crawled across my face. I smiled because I had spent the last week in a third world country, a country filled with desperate men and women who depended on my peers for their yearly sustenance and to plug the holes in their tin roofs. I smiled because while it stings to be told no, I only heard you can’t from that dastardly devil in my head.

Many will be forced to scrap and scrape harder than I, and many more have been told no while their fridges lay barren and the lights flicker at night. I still have two more months in the cushy cocoon of college, and fretting them away will not get me employed. But I shall Press On, with persistence and determination, while enjoying the setting sun of my college career.

A Dangerous Drive

2009-03-13T16:47:00.003-04:00

Three years in the Greek community at State College has allowed me to build a vast web of contacts and friends, and consequently, it is difficult to traverse campus without crossing paths with someone I recognize. It is a nice ego boost, having so many familiar faces at a university with more than 20,000 students, but yesterday, my arrogance-filled need to wave to all I passed nearly cost me.

After dropping off Audrey at her house, I headed down the main strip in State College Town on my way to my parents’ house. As I approached one of the many stop signs on the street, I noticed a fellow Fraternity member to my left on foot, and turned to wave as I began to slow the car to respect the approaching stop sign. When I turned back to the road, I realized my mistake and slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid several years in prison. I had nearly mauled two girls crossing the street in Audrey’s car, and the looks on their faces could not accurately be described as pleased.

“You do realize you have to stop, right?” the nearly-flattened girl muttered in disgust as my mouth hung agape in shock at the atrocity I nearly committed.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” was all I could mutter as she turned her back on me before I could even check to see if she was ok.

The fraternity member, Tankass, so dubbed because of his well-endowed rear-end, bounded in the passenger side door as I rolled up the window, checked my limbs and thanked God I had not killed the poor girl.

“I think you ran over her foot,” Tankass said as he shot me a glance and strapped on his seat belt.

“Are you kidding?” She’s not limping. If I did, why did she run off?”

“Probably because she’s afraid you’ll take off the other one,” he helpfully offered.

I paused to watch the girl cross the street and head down a side street before accelerating and dropping Tankass off at home. She had no noticeable limp or injury, but thoughts of a legion of cop cars chasing me entered my head and charges of a hit-and-run flying from a black-robed judge’s mouth caused me to shudder.

I was fortunate not to have hit her, and I was in the wrong for taking my eyes off the road and failing to stop at the stop sign, but allow me take this opportunity to pass the buck and some blame on to the pedestrian. Pedestrians have no idea how to cross the street on our campus; they often get to a street corner and merely cross, assuming the motorist will see them and stop. The motorist is certainly in the wrong if he strikes a pedestrian, but you learn to look both ways before you cross the street when you are three-years old, and far too often in State College Town, a pedestrian dashes out in front of a car locked into the Dave Matthews on their iPods.

I feel privileged to call into question how my peers cross our town’s streets because I spent my formative high school years in Metropolis, and quickly learned how to cross the street. And you know how I learned?

Because I was struck by a motorist due to my stupidity. Freshman year, I was a member of the school’s cross country team, and because we were downtown, we practiced in the city. One day, I experienced the fabled “runner’s high,” which transformed the chore of running into an exhilarating experience that has never again been duplicated. On this particular day, we were practicing in one of the city’s parks, and as I came to the edge of the park, I was forced to make a right and run half a block down the street in order to cross safely at the light.

However, I elected not to do this. I quickly glanced to my right and noticed the light at the end of the block was red. I leaped the fence separating the street from the park, crossed the first lane, which was parked cars, through the second lane, which was stopped and backed up from the light, and into the third lane, where I was promptly struck. I rolled onto the hood, slamming my elbow into the windshield, which cracked from the impact. I rolled off the windshield, taking out the passenger side mirror and radio antenna before landing on my backside on the street.

Fortunately for me, I did more damage to the car then it did to me. The motorist stopped, I choked back tears from the embarrassment of being an idiot and running into the middle of a busy, downtown street, and my coach faked concern while stifling laughter. I jogged back to school, had our athletic trainer check me out, and headed home on the train. The incident, however, stuck with me. I would be called Pontiac the rest of my days by members of the team, including my aforementioned coach, who was my teacher junior year and never referred to me by name, only as “Pontiac.”

I dodged a bullet yesterday, but pedestrians should not assume motorists know what they are doing or are paying attention. Before you jump out in front of a car, make eye contact with the driver to confirm he is going to stop, even if he has a stop sign. I learned how to drive on a manual, therefore, I will probably never learn how to make a complete stop in my life, unless of course my luck runs out and I do kill somebody. Or maim a girl’s foot.

Winning Won't Cure All Ills

2009-03-12T15:07:00.005-04:00

Championships are celebrated by confetti from the rafters, immortalized by photographs of grinning victors, and congratulated by fans, friends and family. But Wednesday night at The Colosseum on Campus, the spectators fled the stands before the final buzzer sounded, the champagne was flat, and fittingly, the Campus Intramural Services staff did not have a camera on hand to photograph the frustrated victors.

The Fraternity League Championship was contested between my Fraternity and one of the smaller chapters on campus last night, but it was hardly played, more survived. As one of my fellow seniors said as we exited the gym, the game was “a waste of time.” Our victory was marred and ruined by the antics, whining and horrendous show of sportsmanship and class by our opponents, who had stunned the Greek world by defeating a perennial powerhouse and our chief rival in basketball, robbing us of a chance to defend our title in a rematch of last season’s championship.

I have played basketball since before I could tie my shoes, and have outlined my love for the game before. Basketball is beautiful, and has long been a constant in my life while other things shifted into equilibrium. All games have rules, but basketball has a culture. You enter the gym, lace up your sneakers, pick sides, and officiate your own game, calling fouls, travels and baskets. The games get heated, and you always want to win, but there exists a mutual respect between you and the guy in the other color, because you both are in the club, you both are ballers.
Unfortunately, not everyone who heads to the playground is in the club. Some people forget that winning isn’t worth it if the game drags on as an offending player whines and calls phantom fouls and travels to give his side a leg up. But justice on the court is swift; his teammates quickly freeze him out, and he will have trouble getting back on the court, because few will be willing to put up with his tired act.

Last night was the equivalent. Thankfully, campus does provide student officials for the games; however, they do not have a future career in the discipline. While they often botch calls, mangle the rules and slow down the game, they are at least consistently poor. It isn’t expected that they will get every call correct, or even most calls, and their crime is typically calling far too many fouls, not too few.

These facts escaped the vanquished last evening. The game was over from the tip, as we rushed out to a quick 22-5 advantage as our opponent sat back in a zone and were picked apart by three-point field goals. I had a tough half, finishing with no points and four fouls, not all of which were well called, but I merely shook my head and headed to the bench as my teammates started the second half with a large advantage.

They had no interest in going quietly, but instead of mounting a comeback, they merely took what was going to be an embarrassing defeat and made it an unenjoyable mess of a game. They repeatedly flopped in an attempt to draw charges, and were outraged when they were called for blocks. They cursed, talked trash, and chased down fleeing officials headed for the scorers table to document their latest infraction. By the end of the game, they had two players thrown out after receiving two technicals, one of whom was forced to leave the premises or risk his team forfeiting the game, three spectators removed for verbally abusing the officials and only four players left to finish the last pathetic minute of the championship contest. What should have been a crisply played game turned into a free-throw exhibition for our team, as they slapped, hacked and pushed their unjustified frustrations on our team.

While I was peeved that my career had closed on such a low point, and that our opponent’s thuggish and immature response to the poor officiating had ruined any possibility of satisfaction from winning our second consecutive title, I was most disappointed by another example of Greek-on-Greek hate. While it is no secret that rivalries exist between the Greek chapters on campus, it is so discouraging to see them become petty bickering matches, often followed by destructive vandalism. I dislike a great number of fraternities on this campus, because I have great pride for my own and want it to be the best, but have forged mutual friendships built on respect towards other chapter’s basketball teams and players, because they are in the club. My brothers have disappointed me with their brutish behavior to rival chapters in the past, and unkind words have passed my lips towards other fraternities, but this offense struck home, robbing me of my joy, passion and ultimately, my last win.

Instead of my last memory being as I dreamed it, surrounded by my brothers as we hoisted our second trophy in as many years, it will instead by the surly faces of our opponent, chasing down the referees and taunting our fans as they scurried for the exits, just happy to have not witnessed a fight or serious injury.

At the Corner of Ego and Shame...

2009-02-28T18:38:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-18T17:33:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-14T02:12:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-11T18:34:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-06T15:58:00.004-05:00

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

2009-02-03T13:41:00.001-05:00

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?

Big Earl

2009-01-26T14:34:00.004-05:00

It is unbearably difficult to grasp Jan. 2009 coming to a close. Its end signals the oncoming close of this chapter of my life. Soon, I will be a college graduate. I have just three and a half months between me and the terrible alias of alumnus. The “real world” awaits; I hope its like MTV.

The origins of the college chapter of my life began at the same time that the north shore of the Gulf of Mexico was ravaged by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, and I have had the fortunate opportunity to be a part of the recovery process in one of the towns affected by those devastating storms. I recently returned from my yearly sojourn to the Crescent City, which sat under water for weeks after Katrina breached the city’s storm walls and flooded 85 percent of it. It marked the fifth time I had packed my work boots and jeans, dusted off an old ball cap and donned a respirator to help people who lost everything put their lives back in order.

The most remarkable man I’ve met in a town full of them is named Earl. He is a retired postal employee, in his late 60s or early 70s, whose home lies on the southern edge of the Gentilly neighborhood of New Orleans. Gentilly lies in the famous Ninth Ward, northeast of the Industrial Canal and due south of Lake Pontchartrain, the two sources of the nearly 20 feet of water that engulfed the neighborhood. Earl and his daughter fled New Orleans prior to Katrina striking on Aug. 29, 2005, but his wife stubbornly refused. She had weathered storms before, and believed she could brave another. But she did not anticipate the tidal wave that caused water to pour into her neighborhood from the lake, and as she tried to escape her rapidly flooding house, she was overcome by the current, drowned and died. Her body was found in a neighbor’s yard weeks later, after the flood waters subsided.

I first met Earl in January 2007, a year and a half after Katrina hit. It was my second tour of duty with Catholic Charities, and we had been assigned to gut his home. We entered a once-proud estate that was now best described as chaotically destroyed: mold acted like an earthen wallpaper, the refrigerator lay diagonally across a doorway, blocking passage, and closets had regurgitated their contents. We entered, and as Earl watched, we took his life to the curb for trash collection.

It took our group of 12 two days to remove everything from the house: appliances, clothes, furniture, dry wall and every nail that held it up. When we finished, all that was left was the shell of the place he had called home for most of his adult life, where he had raised his children, where he had loved his deceased wife. We got on a plane to go home; Earl got in his truck and drove off 30 miles to the west, where the FEMA trailer that served as his home rested.

Earl was there every second that we worked; he would saunter out of his daughter’s trailer that rested on his front lawn to tend to his dog or smoke a cigarette, and chat us up as we took breaks from destroying what was left of his home. He shares many of the qualities of any New Orleans resident; strong accent, friendly demeanor and the ability to talk for days. But, the most stunning quality, and one that is not unique to Earl, was his optimism and resolve. He never blamed a soul for his misfortune, never trolled for pity, never talked about how nice his life was before Aug. 2005. Sure, he choked up when telling us about how his wife had passed, how he regretted not forcing her to come with him and how much he missed her, but he was determined to rebuild. Determined to stay, determined to start over when many had given up. New Orleans was all he had ever known, and he was proud of his home, no matter its state of ruin, and let us know our efforts would not go in vain.

I never forgot Earl, and he often came to mind whenever the city or Katrina was mentioned. When we arrived in New Orleans this past trip, we decided to call on him, unannounced, and see what progress had been made on his home. There he sat, on his front stoop, puffing away. The trailer that blocked a view of his home from the street was gone, but the impressions it left were visible. He squinted at us from afar at first, but his face lit up when he realized who we were. We reintroduced ourselves, and he invited the eight of us into his home. This time, the kitchen was intact, the couches in place and the walls were adorned with smiling faces and devoid of mold. The sun bounced off the hardwood floors and the comfy den beckoned to weary bodies.

Earl led us through the home, through the rooms we had emptied just two years before, showed us the washer and dryer Catholic Charities forced him to take. Turns out, despite all his hardship, Earl decided there were needier folks in the city who could use volunteers’ help. He refused future crews, and instead, interviewed and hired contractors to finish the rest of his house. He helped his neighbors move back in and recommended to them contractors that could and would do the work, helping them avoid the crooks who asked for money up front, and then never showed up to even drive a nail into a wall.

Before we left, Earl showed us his family: pictures of his two grandchildren, who he was able to visit during the holidays, and photos of his son and daughters. And then, he grabbed a photo of his beloved wife, and we all held our collective breath, waiting for Earl to break down and cry. He never did.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked no one in particular. We all nodded yes, as he put her picture back up on the wall, and I took one last look around the home. She sure is, I thought, saluting his gorgeous old domicile.

The Philly Fan's Stigma

2009-01-12T15:17:00.003-05:00

The sun shines a little brighter when it is tinted with a shade of midnight green, even as the dawn reveals another dreary January day. The alarm goes off at the same dreadfully early hour, but it is ok, because the newspaper bears good news today: The Eagles are on to the fifth NFC Championship Game in 10 years, and they will be decided favorites to win and represent the aforementioned conference in the Super Bowl.

Audrey was heartbroken to learn a football game would interrupt our Sunday tradition of strolling through a dewy meadow, but to ensure the game would not be punctuated by her frequent protests, I offered to take her to the bar to watch it on my dime. She drank, I cheered, the Eagles won and we both went home happy.

Audrey is like most girls, in that she has no interest and even less understanding of the complicated game that is football, so I interjected my cheers and jeers with explanations of strategy, rules and my overall angst. She failed to grasp the last part.

“I just don’t understand why you are so upset,” she said as David Akers split the uprights to make it a 10-8 game in favor of the Philly faithful as the first half came to a close. “Your team is winning. You Philly people are so pessimistic.”

I tried to explain to her all the painful playoff losses of the past. I tried to explain the general feeling that somehow, the Eagles will find a way to screw it up. I tried to explain how the Eagles have been maddeningly inconsistent throughout the year, struggling in such seemingly benign situations, like 3^rd and 1.

“But they are your team, shouldn’t you be positive to help them win?” she queried. Ah, the ol’ Jimmy Rollins complaint, that the feeling of impending doom that every scarred Eastern Pennsylvania-native wears as a badge of honor and carries over to the playing field by affecting our “beloved” athletes. I then tried to explain the stress I feel during the games, how it actually isn’t that much fun to watch, because I spend the whole game worrying about how they might fail, and thinking about how painful it will be if they do.

“I don’t understand why you guys get so wrapped up in this stuff. IT’S JUST A GAME.” How dare you, Audrey. How dare you. Barkeep, another beer in this mug to silence hers.

WHEN Brad Lidge collapsed to his knees in late October, I had no idea how to react, because, I had never seen one of my preferred teams ever do this (it had been 25 years, I’m only 21). It was like a sensory overload, with Harry Kalas screaming, the players hugging and my phone ringing. But the reaction from all my friends was, “Well, now you can’t always assume your team is going to lose, because they finally won.” That was to be my reaction: you finally won, so shut up and stop complaining every time they lose.

I will cop to the pessimism, because as Philly fans, it really is bad, and a strong argument can be made that it affects our players (see 2008 Eagles roll through playoffs on road). We wait with bated breath for the roof to collapse. Our quotes of misery are infamous.

“I bleed Eagles green, I just wish I didn’t have to bleed so much.”

Or my father’s timeless classic, “It could be the Super Bowl, with 30 seconds left, up by 20, against the Bengals, who have no timeouts and are without the ball, and I still wouldn’t be comfortable.”

But why is this? Why are we so pessimistic? Other cities are just as tormented, Buffalo and Cleveland come to mind. But Eagles fans get the bad rap; it was us who called for Andy Reid’s head two months ago and some who applauded the elevation of Kevin Kolb to quarterback and believed McNabb looked good in a winter coat and skull cap. We aren’t “true fans” because we bashed the same team we now cheer. We’re “fair-weathered.”

Sorry, but that’s bullshit, and it makes my blood boil every time I hear it. Firstly, let me explain to the outsiders why Andy Reid and Donovan were “run out of town” earlier this year. BECAUSE THIS TEAM IS ONE WIN AWAY FROM THE SUPER BOWL, BUT 2 MONTHS AGO THEY COULDN’T EVEN BEAT THE STINKING BENGALS! It was obvious from wins over Pittsburgh and Atlanta that this team was talented, but they kept getting stuck in the mud. Were we supposed to simply applaud them for their effort, and ignore the fact they were underachieving? Is it not a fan’s right to demand that changes be made if we do not receive a return on our investment, or we see a team struggle that has great potential?

Again, I will admit we are over the top; five NFC championships in a decade is something a lot of NFL cities would kill for, but that stat alone highlights our frustration. Our teams have been good, but not good enough. Allow me to use a quote from the losing locker room in East Rutherford yesterday to illustrate my point:

"After this," center Shaun O'Hara said, "you almost wonder if it isn't better to not make the playoffs than to play the way we did out there today," highlighting the fact that there is one winner and 31 losers.

Don’t get me wrong, NFC Championship games are a hell of a lot better than meaningless week 17 games to determine whether your record will be 9-7 or 8-8, but all that is remembered is the last game, and only one team ever wins their last game, and the Eagles haven’t been that team since 1960, despite how many times they’ve been painfully close. Philadelphia fans want the best from our teams, and when we don’t get it, we voice our displeasure, loudly. It is admittedly annoying, obnoxious and vulgar, but we believe our teams to be the best during every game, and if they don’t win, that means someone messed up and deserves the blame.

We are not fair-weather, we are fair-optimism. Being pessimistic helps take the sting out of big time losses, because we can always say, “I knew they stunk. I didn’t like them that much, anyway. Stupid Eagles.” But we always come back for more, hoping this is the year they reward our questionable patience. Philadelphia feels like they own the teams, that the teams owe them effort and wins, and if those assumptions aren’t meant, the team receives scorn. Some fans are satisfied with the glow from a past win, but we don’t feel that way in Philadelphia. A past win is just that, and if that is enough, then why bother to keep playing? The Phillies win scratched the itch, but it didn’t get the Eagles off the hook. Philly always wants its teams to win, we just don’t always think they will, and our utter lack of eloquence makes us the ugly, fat, drunk girl of the party.

Bid Selection

2009-01-09T16:13:00.002-05:00

Winter break is entirely too long, something I’m sure I won’t be saying a year from now when I have a 9-5, but, still as a student, it forces me to work at the 9-5 until classes mercifully return. So, in order to pass the time, I began engaging in some good ol’ fashioned Facebook stalking this afternoon, and turned my attention to the Fraternity’s rush group to check out the freshmen and sophomores who will be frequenting our parties in the weeks to come.

This is a great method to pass time during boring, slow days at work because I get my homework done for rush week, which is fast approaching. It’s also very effective because freshman guys are stupid; guys spend all their time on Facebook looking up the hottest girls in their classes, and they leave their profiles unblocked so girls can do the same to them. Except girls don’t do that, they spend all their time on Facebook looking at their friends’ pictures to figure out who their new friends are in college and if they have gotten fat. Plus, savvy male Facebook users know this time and tested rule; if a girl’s profile is unblocked, she isn’t hot, because she wants/needs people to look at her profile, and doesn’t have enough confidence in herself that people will friend her to be afforded that opportunity. Hot girls want to know who is stalking them, and block their profiles to force people to friend them (btw, these generalizations only apply to freshman. After you’ve spent time in college, you learn the new social norms and how to use Facebook properly, and to quote Lil Wayne, that ain’t got shit to do with this, but I just thought that I should mention it.)

Every semester I scroll through our group’s member list and click through on all the rushes that have joined, and every semester you can easily eliminate the kids that clearly suck, because they proclaim it for all the world to see on their Facebook profiles. What follows is my list of Rushes who kill their chances before the parties even start.

The Only Guy I Know is the One You All Don’t Like

...and you probably won’t like me either. I display all of the same issues he does, and they are all in my profile for you to see. He thinks he’s the greatest guy in the world, and so do I, and I tell you why in my About Me section. I’m “handsome, sexy, single and ready to mingle,” so I have to join a Fraternity to meet all the awesome Sororistutes that will immediately strip when I walk into the room. Oh, I’m also a terrible drunk, which is clear to see from the horrible girls I’m making out with in my pictures. That’s me pissing on a cop car, and that’s me bloodied from picking a fight with a bouncer at the bar. But don’t worry, my boy will stick up for me at bid selection while all the brothers shift awkwardly in their seats, because no one wants to tell him I suck as much as he does, and that they’ll never make the same mistake twice.

Pick a Fraternity, any Fraternity

I came to college with one goal in mind, to join a Frat. I don’t know anything about any individual chapter, but I’m in every single one’s rush group, except for those with ugly girls. I’ll join the first chapter that gives me a bid, even if I’ve only met three guys. As long as there are girls at the party and a keg, what else do you need? I’m not worried that brothers might see my conflicting interests, they are all going to be so desperate to sign me on that there will probably be a brawl between them. I also like every band that has a song played over and over again on the radio, and Will Ferrell. But just Will Ferrell. Well, I used to like Adam Sandler, but not any more.

I wish life was a movie

...that way, I’d be funny, deep and sensitive. My favorite quotes are coincidentally the same as IMDB’s Top 10 from 2008, and I am sure to use them non-stop in conversation. I also try to draw on these movies in daily life, referencing them whenever a situation arises like it did in the movie. If you for some reason you don’t know what the quotes are from, I’ve created a note in my profile where I’ve listed them randomly and my two friends squared off to guess what movies they come from. What’s that you ask? My favorite books? Oh, I don’t read...

My life is so hard and everyone should know

Yeah, my status tells the world I’m confused and have no where to turn, but I don’t actually want to discuss why or how I feel, I just want everyone to feel bad for me. The girl I met last week hasn’t responded to my Facebook message, probably because she looked at my profile first and saw how emo I am and figured she wouldn’t want to deal with my mopey ass. Sure, my issues are private matters that only a few people know or understand, but the whole world needs to know I’m not in the best of moods right now. After you post your clichéd “Feel better” and “OMG, what’s wrong?” I’ll feel better that people care and then will declare my new mood. But it won’t last, and soon “Andrew is :(” will make you question why you bothered with me in the first place. SIGH

I’m from Massachusetts, and Nobody Beats Me!

Interests: Sawx, Patz and KG

Activities: Derek Jeter Sucks, A-Rod Swallows and the Steinbrenners can Blow Me for free since they are soon to be out of money!

About Me: I’m from (insert town in Mass. you’d never heard of until this kid wouldn’t shut up about it) and I’m a die hard Boston fan! If you are a girl, don’t bother getting to know me, because when a Boston sports team is on, I’m in front of the TV and not listening to you blabbing on about how much you want to get down with me. Tommy Touchdown can have my kids, and he might have to, because no self-respecting woman ever will. The Truth isn’t Paul Pierce, it’s that Boston is the capital of the sport’s world, and if you have a logical explanation as to why it isn’t, all I have for you is Fuck Off!

Muscle Milk!

“Giovanni is FUCK YOU! I’M AT THE GYM BECAUSE YOUR (sic) TO (sic) SMALL! GET YOUR WAIT (sic) UP BITCH!” His picture is taken by him, in a mirror, with his Sidekick. His wall is littered with taunts that mimic his status or girls that got $100 Sephora gift cards and had to use it all at once. His personality is akin to Sack Lodge and emphasizes this fact by punctuating each statement on his profile with a profanity and exclamation point.

Romeo and Juliet

This guy has it all. He’s making out with his 15-year old girlfriend in the picture, he has “I Love Sarah” in every appropriate box in his profile, every photo album has her on the cover and they are practically married, except she hasn’t graduated from high school and he can’t afford the ring. His wall post is a constant back and forth with her about who loves the other more. Aww, aren’t we cute?

No, stupid. I’m not one to squash love, I’m quite smitten by a vixen myself, but don’t proclaim to the world that you are pussy-whipped. Firstly, every guy that sees your profile won’t be friends with you, because it's assumed you are pussy-whipped. Secondly, why would we want to give you a bid if all you care about is your girl? What will you add to the Fraternity? And thirdly, you are going to split with her before September is over, but in the process you have alienated every guy on campus, and every girl thinks you are either clingy or an idiot for devoting your profile to someone you just dumped, so in short, you have no friends, and your dick is lonely.

"Ball" was my first word...

2009-01-07T14:14:00.004-05:00

It is a sad fact that the first week of the year is the worst, but after spending two weeks in blissful celebration of Christmas and New Year’s with family and friends, returning to work and the troubles of life on a full-time basis proves challenging each and every January.

The rain that has pelted the region since the calendar turned only further dampened my mood that has been tortured by the holiday hangover. I attempted to escape my melancholy feelings of woe yesterday by plunging into the solitude afforded by my iTouch and the docile, folksy tones of one Mr. Billy Joel as I traveled home via subway. The iPod is yet another device that plays a role in a culture widely devoid of friendliness and kindness to strangers, two qualities whose rapid deaths I often bemoan, as it allows its user to enter their own personnel world, even when surrounded by hundreds of others. I was in no mood to be kind or friendly yesterday, however, and I slipped away from the loud subway car and into a Long Island bar where Billy crooned, before getting tanked and crashing his car into the side of the building.

Like many other college students, I enter periods of “the world hates me” and struggle through my self-loathing to get out of them. They happen for different reasons, whether they be internal image battles, failure to succeed in school or personal goal, or sometimes just overall stress and frustration, but they are always followed with a cynical, pessimistic viewpoint and lack of patience towards those that are forced to deal with me. The more frustrated I become, the worse I behave, causing anger and frustration from others back at me, only worsening by poor disposition.

With my toes wet and cold and still five blocks from my apartment, I began to curse the weather, but stopped. I might not be happy, I might not feel well, but a little rain must fall so that the trees can rise. Upon returning home, I decided to save the self-medication till later, grabbed my gym bag, and walked back out the door. Life is a journey of change, and all but a few of my preferences differ from a mere ten years ago. Then, I didn’t like girls; now, I’m overcome with sadness when we’re apart for just a few days. Then, I prayed for snow and a day of fun; now, I curse it like the seasonal residents of Florida. Then, I loved the logic and problem solving inherent in the study of math; now, I’m lucky if I can count to ten.

But I still have three unwavering loves that will never change: food, television and sports. I wasn’t hungry and laying around and watching TV would have only depressed me further, so that left physical activity. Sports have always been my diversion, whether competing or spectating. They got me into writing after my playing career came to a close. They form a common bond between all men, because competition is in our blood and sports are on our televisions; all men have both blood and TVs, and sometimes little else.

I remember the first time I hoisted a ball bigger than my head, something those that have met me wouldn’t think possible, considering the size of my cranium. I threw the ball over and over again at the cylinder, each time closer to hitting it, then finally getting it over and through. I never saw the ball hit the pavement; I was already in full stride to boast of my accomplishment to my beaming mother. From there, a love of basketball was born, one that has survived till this day. And yesterday, it proved my saving grace.

The gym greats me with a scent that stirs the deepest of my emotions, that pristine smell of wood and lacquer that come together in such a beautiful equilibrium. An immediate calm washes over me, because I know I have entered a safe place; no matter the location or state of the gym, they all have that same glorious odor. The squeaking shoes accompanied by the reverberating pounding of the basketball flood my ears next, all before using my eyes to survey the quality of the product. But it matters little, because the court affords you the freedom to run, to jump, and with a good imagination, to fly through the air towards the goal. The rhythm of the game quickly takes over your brain before feelings of fatigue battle it for superiority, and the frustrations and stressors are soon forgotten. How such a frenetic activity can have such a calming influence on my brain is a true mystery to me, but as I exited into the cold, damp January air last night, all that I could think about was the jab step and jumper that had won the game.

The Philly Psyche

2008-12-29T12:01:00.004-05:00

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

2008-12-24T16:38:00.002-05:00

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?

2008-12-23T13:30:00.002-05:00

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

2008-12-16T23:38:00.002-05:00

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

2008-12-09T00:14:00.001-05:00

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

2008-12-01T15:16:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-29T21:57:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-28T18:27:00.005-05:00

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

2008-11-25T22:22:00.006-05:00

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

2008-11-23T18:21:00.001-05:00

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...

2008-11-20T11:02:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-14T15:31:00.002-05:00

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?

2008-11-12T22:22:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-09T00:07:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-06T01:13:00.001-05:00

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...

2008-11-05T02:34:00.003-05:00

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...

2008-10-29T03:02:00.004-04:00

"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

2008-10-27T10:20:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-20T21:46:00.005-04:00

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

2008-10-15T15:09:00.005-04:00

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

2008-10-14T11:22:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-13T14:38:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-05T23:21:00.007-04:00

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

2008-10-01T14:43:00.044-04:00

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.

'Juicy Campus' comes my way

2008-09-24T14:45:00.003-04:00

News of a college gossip site adding State College's campus to its online database rippled through the Fraternity Monday night, and continued to be discussed and read well into Tuesday afternoon.

The site, Juicy Campus, allows users to anonymously post about "the juice" on their campus. Most of the posts have to do with Greek Life, discussing everything from what the cool houses on campus are, the easiest sororities to hook up with and where the most drugs are done.

It also has a nasty side. Several girls have threads all to themselves, and some of the comments are down right nasty. Reports were surfacing that a thread about one girl was so ruthless, she was seen fleeing her sorority house in tears after reading it.

The site quickly traveled through my Fraternity, and we all had a good laugh as the users discussed what fraternity is most guido and who throws the best parties. E-mails were issued from our president warning us not to get involved, his argument being that it simply makes us appear childish, stupid and a little nerdy to have to defend ourselves over the internet. Further e-mails were sent warning that the site was not anonymous, because every computer has a unique number that can be tracked and used in civil law cases. I myself have enjoyed it, even as Eleanor Roosevelt's timeless words ran through my head, if for no other reason than to chuckle over the pissing matches the fraternity guys get into debating who is the coolest on campus.

But, the site also epitomizes a tragic truth about Greek Life on our campus. The Greek community is supposed to be just that; however, more often than not, chapters become bitter rivals and spend more of their energy competing against one another, and in the process, alienating themselves from the rest of the community and campus. On a great number of campuses, mine included, non-Greeks have little regard for the Greek community, because they view it as a superficial drinking club, and this stereotype is only furthered by our boorish behavior.

Now, I will not deny I myself have gotten caught up in the rivalries, but I truly regret I haven't worked at trying to bridge the gaps my chapter has with others. The Greek community is easily the largest on campus, and our potential to impact the university as a whole is unparralled becasue of our sheer size. But, we are bogged down by our petty differences and need to establish supremacy.

We follow the classic -ism mold in Greek Life. We look down at the "GDIs" because they fail to affiliate with a Greek organization and therefore are not worthy to hang out with us. We look down at other houses and stereotype them as "nerds, meatheads, guids, sluts, coke heads," etc, all to boost ourselves up and feel better about our chapter's place amongst the community.

Greek life takes such a beating in media and public opinion, and it is sad to see that we feed the beast over a public domain no less. Fraternity life has benefited me and my college career, but it is certainly sad to see how much potential the community and myself have wasted.

...Passing on by

2008-09-23T13:47:00.006-04:00

Another day has passed in State College Town, something that seems to happen with increasing frequency.

Today was Big Brother day at our chapter, the cliched fraternity ritual of revealing to the pledges who their big brother's will be for the semester and getting them absolutely loaded. Our chapter has calmed this habit the past few semesters, switching from the big brother providing a "Family Liquor" to his little to beer. This was done to prevent any more tragic drinking deaths, which tend to occur more often from the consumption of liquor, and less frequently from beer.

Now, as Pledge Educator, I am unable to take a little. I don't frequently get one because I am not a great man flirt, or rusher, so I usually stand in the back during this event and try not to nod off. But because I have gotten to know the new guys, last night's event struck a cord with me. I recalled my big brother night, and how scared we were locked in a room and made to listen to some awful music on repeat for hours on end. I remembered nervously fumbling through the information I had been forced to remember and recite with my pledge brothers. And I remembered the awesome elation as I stood before the chapter, said my name, announced my intention to pledge, and was greeted by my grinning big brother welcoming me to the chapter.

But last night, I felt the tight grip of time on my innards as the process was renewed. I recalled that awesome excitement I felt even as I was unsure of what lay ahead of me as I joined the Greek world. Today, I find myself in a similar predicament with college winding down, unsure of what is to come. But I do not feel the same elation, the same excitement. Instead it is dread and fear. I will be forced to leave the comfy confines of college and trudge out into the world, once again forced to make my mark and find my niche.

As I lay in bed last night, I reminisced about my college career. I thought about how my life would be different if I didn't join the fraternity. I thought about the friends I've made and the people I've met, and I thought about the people I fell out of touch with after joining.

Eventually, I just smiled and rolled over. The beauty about life is that it is unscripted, it is unknown. People get upset with you when you tell them the end of the movie because it devalues the enjoyment, and that is synonymous with life. I am scarred shitless, there is no question, but when I lie awake at night in 5 years staring at the ceiling, I am sure I will come to a similar conclusion as the one I did last night.

"And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back."

-From The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

Numbers Crunch

2008-09-19T15:46:00.003-04:00

My life is in total and utter disarray, or at least it feels that way. College is such an unbelievable whirlwind that it becomes difficult to remember what you ate for lunch, and so far, senior year has by far been much worse. There is always something on the horizon, and as soon as you catch up, you get a phone call about a bar trip and you wake up at 3 p.m. the next day with clothes and Chinese food strewn across your room. Fortunately, I have inspiration on my side, in the form of my Big Brother in the Fraternity.

He graduated last semester, and has spent the past week and a half in State College Town visiting, the unfortunate victim of a ruthless job market. He graduated with a degree in Broadcast Journalism, and after a summer flipping Brewers tickets, selling beer at Miller Park, and driving all over the great state of Wisconsin (where he hails from) he failed to find any sort of employment. So he returned "home" to drink away his despair for a few weeks.

He is not alone. His pledge brother is returning to State College Town this weekend as well, he also jobless following graduation. Another brother struggled for 8 months parking cars and serving Italian food before he landed an entry-level job with ESPN. Now, we don't exactly export the most marketable people in the world, but this has not been a common trait just of my fraternity. I continue to hear tales of people struggling to find employment once they leave the college arena, something my father is wont to warn me on.

I recently (like, 5 minutes ago) completed an application to one of the most competitive after graduation programs in the United States (it shall remain nameless). I have high hopes for my acceptance, but fear the fall out. With stories about the market crash on top of all the budget cuts and staff slashes at newspapers and media outlets around the country, what is a writer to do?

My goal is to score a job before Christmas, and if I am able to do it, I will consider myself unbelievably fortunate. So many of my fraternity brothers waited and waited to begin searching for jobs, instead ignoring it in an attempt to soak up their senior years. Inflation is rampant everywhere, but nothing has been deflated quite like a college diploma. Work sucks, but probably not as much as my big brother's days.

Me: So, BSB, how are you liking your triumphant return?
BSB: Well, the days are just brutal to get through. I am not a TV watcher, but I have nothing to do all day while everyone is at class. I watched every episode of Intervention on demand today.
Me: Well, you're enjoying the partying right?
BSB: Yea, but sleeping on a couch for two weeks is starting to take its toll on my mental health.

Now, we all dream of having the college life forever, of having little to no responsibility and partying at every possible moment, but if one of the great slackers I've ever known is having trouble enjoying two weeks of nothing but partying, maybe we all should put our attention on becoming gainfully employed.

Speaking of partying, tailgate tomorrow, fuckin' excited. I have a video from one of last semester's graduates who actually is gainfully employed that is quite humorous, but it is on my phone and I'm trying to figure out how to save it to my computer without shelling out $30 for Quicktime Pro. So, hopefully I can get that posted for everyone's viewing pleasure. Have a great weekend readers.

Yankee Stadium

2008-09-17T13:49:00.004-04:00

I submitted this for publication in the school newspaper, but they don't seem too interested. Oh well.

The Bronx Bombers will bid farewell to their venerable stadium this weekend, and how fitting the House that Ruth Built will host the Sultan of Swat’s hometown team for its final festivities.

There will be no playoffs for the Yankees this season, snapping a 13-year streak of October baseball in the Bronx. They will have to settle for three September dates against the only team behind them in the American League East standings, the Baltimore Orioles.

I made my first visit to the Stadium on its next to last weekend, and while the product on the field has consistently driven New Yorkers nuts this summer, I basked in the glory of one of the truly beautiful moments of my young life.

It was a father-son trip to the Ol’ Stadium, but on this day, the son was taking his father on his 50th birthday. We decided we needed to see the relic of a park before the Pinstripers moved across the street, and I cringed back in March when I purchased tickets against the Rays. But the Yanks are going home, and the upstarts from the Confederacy are on to the playoffs.

And while playoff optimism floated out to be replaced by oppressive humidity, I will not soon forget the day I went to Yankee Stadium with my dad. See, I’ve been a sports nut since I broke the womb like a running back breaking the line. My dad’s interest in mainstream sports has blossomed as I’ve aged, but he keeps his true love no secret when recalling how he simulated bike pedaling with my legs when I was a toddler. Many children got bedtime stories about baseball and football heroes, but instead, I heard of Eddie Merckx and Greg LeMond.

But as the blistering sun greeted us as we took our seats in the right field bleachers, our interests seemed to merge. We were both in awe of the history and tradition that is steeped in every corner and crevice of the great park. No sooner had we finished surveying the scene we had seen depicted so many times on television, than did the Bleacher Creachers begin to serenade the Yanks as Carl Pavano went into the wind-up to deliver the day’s first pitch.

“John-ny! John-ny! John-ny,” they all chanted.

“What are they doing?” I quizzically remarked to my father.

But Left Fielder Damon answered the query before it left my lips, squatting, grinning and pointing toward the right field stands. They continued, chanting each player’s name, and he in turn, turned, and saluted the fans. My father and I could not help but grin at this quirky but admirable habit that probably dates my years. These rough and tumble New Yorkers, who we so often snicker at during our trips to the Big Apple, still show respect and appreciate the game before them, something I could not help but attribute to the Ol’ Ball Field.

My father and I were treated first to a history lesson, second to a ball game this past Sunday, and how fitting that on this day, the Captain, Derek Jeter, tied Lou Gehrig’s all-time hits record at Yankee Stadium with a solo home run, the fourth of the day to land in those same right field bleachers we sat in. We filed out shortly there after, with the heat and a long commute home wearing down our will. But despite that, my Pops still managed to lean over to me, with a twinkle in his eye, and offer the wonderful words of a father.

“Thanks, Bud, that was fun.” Only the father of a journalist could be so succinct.

A Frenetic First Week

2008-09-09T10:18:00.003-04:00

My apologies to my loyal readers (hahaha, I have very few thus far), the first week is always a whirlwind blend between hangovers, rush events and syllabi. Just a few thoughts from my last first week of school:

(1) Journalism students reside in one of the deepest pits of hell
Do you remember that cute girl in high school that sat at the front of the class and had to be admitted to the hospital after hyper extending her shoulder because she raised her hand with such enthusiasm each day (neither do I, because I went to a single-sex school)? Well, in addition to this over eager attitude, journalism students take part in the equivalent of a nerd dick-measuring contest. I have a steadfast rule not to participate in the first day discussion of any of my major classes for fear of sliding into this ungodly conversation. Not one of them can begin a conversation without saying, "Well, when I worked for 'X awesome newspaper everyone in the class has heard of' this summer..." Great. You had a job. Why must you spout your resume before you offer your opinion? Will you be deemed unfit to contribute if your byline hasn't appeared on the New York Times' front page? I suppose in a profession where we comment on others' lives instead of living our own, we are incapable of letting our actions speak for themselves, because, well, lets face it, we do very little acting at all.

(2) Freshman can't drink
I chuckled when reading the stories coming out of university board rooms over the past month, reporting that college chancellors and presidents want to push lawmakers to lower the drinking age to 18, with the idea it will cut down on binge drinking in the dorms, since they have failed to do it themselves. All laughing aside, binge drinking has potentially fatal consequences, and as someone who came into college with little to no drinking experience, I was at a very high risk in getting myself in trouble. Fortunately, I merely made our housekeeper's life much more miserable by throwing up all over the community bathroom. (Note: if you live in the dorms, I encourage you to get a little something for the housekeepers around Christmas time. They really have a miserable job.)
Audrey and I were leaving a rush party to head home for the night when I noticed a young kid attempting to stumble home. I wanted to follow him back to the dorms and document it for your amusement. Audrey had no such thoughts of grandeur. This guy was in particularly poor shape, however. He was not so much stumbling as he was walking nearly sideways, leaning his right shoulder forward, hunched at the waste, staggering with each step. It was as if he was leaving battle with a severed head in his right hand and he wanted all to see it as he romped on home.
My roommate had a less humorous encounter with one of these neophytes. As he was standing around the keg this past weekend, he felt a warm sensation wash over the lower region of his leg. Assuming it was coming from the effects of Tropical Storm Hanna, and being that it was night time, he could not figure out where the warmth that enveloped his leg originated from. A quick glance at at the kid standing next to him, with the "Dude, I just puked all over your leg" look in his eye told him all he needed to know. Important to keep your head on a swivel and leave yourself room for an escape. Also, a great way to exit a crowded room at these parties is to act as though you will vomit. People will tackle each other to get out of your way.

(3) Marijuana is a far superior drug to alcohol.
I understand the potential legal issues I may face in my future for penning this next graph, but I'm keeping myself anonymous for a reason, mostly due to my affinity for the herb. But, in all honesty, from a purely drug perspective, alcohol is a miserable experience.
I really do not enjoy the sensation of drunkenness. You have little control over your body, you act in ways you would not otherwise, and you almost always do something stupid, quite often to your own body, be it injuring yourself (punching windows), injuring someone you like/love (offensive language/behavior) or injuring your reputation (hooking up with slam pigs). Also, if it was a "successful night," i.e. you got blitzed out of your mind and remember little, you likely ordered $25 worth of heinous Chinese food, threw it up all over your bathroom floor and failed to get out of bed until 3 p.m. when rotting General Tso's finally overpowered your drunken sleep. How is this considered successful?
Now, I am not one that advocates marijuana's artistic enhancers or perceived enlightening qualities, because it has very few. Often, when I get really high, I have all of these ideas I perceive as great, maybe jot down a few, and then read them the next morning and burst out laughing at their absurdity. But as far as mind alterers go, weed blows booze out of the water. It lowers your inhibitions but keeps you in control of your mind and body, allowing for good conversation and reflection. I can hardly shut up when I smoke, and I simply love to get high with a good friend and shoot the shit. It also improves your appreciation for music, and can make a dull book much more interesting. There are few repercussions in the morning, other than apathy, but few college students are overly exited about waking up before 2 p.m., stoned or otherwise.
Booze is clearly my drug of choice for partying, but recreationally, it just does not get it done on a consistent basis. Other than draining my bank account, I rarely regret smoking pot, assuming I would have otherwise lounged around doing nothing anyway. Pot can no doubt waste your time, but, again, college students do this with tremendous proficiency anyway; pot is merely an enhancer to this hobby. As crazy as it may sound, I have a great deal of friends because I smoke pot with them, but still friends I value even when not using with them. People I meet during drinking are usually a hazy memory, and those relationships tend to be awkward outside of booze-fueled conversations.

My apologies for not updating more regularly. If you do happen to come across the blog and enjoy it, or have any thoughts at all, I encourage you to leave your feedback. Nothing helps a writer write like comments, positive or negative. Until next time.

New Orleans, La.

2008-08-31T02:37:00.006-04:00

I sat down to write about the start of the college football season, or, as its known in Frat-land, as tailgate season. I felt like Owen Wilson from Wedding Crashers when Vince Vaughn reminds him of the upcoming wedding season. Unparalleled joy and excitement as I anticipated the debauchery that is common before noon. However, I was struck by the stories coming out of the Crescent City, so my recollection of the day's happenings will have to wait a day or two.

I have made four trips to this beautiful city on the banks of the Mississippi River and in the shadow of Lake Pontchartrain. Unfortunately, none of them took place before August 2005. I was too late to take in the beauty and culture captured in this southern gem, shaped by a blend of French, Spanish, and African flavors to complete the Cajun that envelops the region. The city is rich in beautiful architecture, the best food in North America and its own musical sound that is rarely reproduced elsewhere.

However, the scars still remain from the most devastating disaster in American history. Entire neighborhoods remain disaster, complete with empty warehouses where stores use to supply bustling neighborhoods, but now serve as a stark reminder of the lengths still needed to go before the city can return to its pre-storm levels.

Unfortunately, Hurricane Gustav threatens the impressive progress that has been made since Katrina, which left 80 percent of the city under water. It is being predicted that Gstav will land about 75 miles southwest of New Orleans as a Category 4 hurricane. Now, it is not fair to compare to Katrina, which landed directly over the city as a Category 3, but at that level, Gustav will supply "hurricane force" winds that could overtop the levies of the Mississippi River, flooding parts of suburban New Orleans south of Downtown.

This could be devastating for a city still struggling to repopulate and rebuild. What repeatedly struck me during my trips to New Orleans was the resiliency of its inhabitants, whom I expected to complain of corrupt and ineffective government in responding to Katrina. Instead, I found people prepared to rebuilt and expectant for life to return to normal. No where was blame placed; just a determination to restart.

Gustav threatens that spirit and hope. Asking people to recover just three years after another storm that wipes out their lives may prove too much, and this beautiful city may be lost forever. Too many think of New Orleans as Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. But what lives there is a proud people, a strong and determined people with a spirit that belies their situation, and it would be a terrible loss to the world if it is undone by a hurricane. Please pray for the city, that they may be spared another horrible disaster. And pray too, for whoever is stricken by its winds and rain, that they may survive and recover.

Walk to Work

2008-08-25T13:46:00.001-04:00

I was struck this morning by the number of people the city of Metropolis employs to sweep the streets and keep the city clean as I walked to my office. At one point, I was waiting for the light to change to cross on to the other side, and I took a few moments to watch an aforementioned employee go about his trade.

He was equipped with a broom and a dust pan, and I came upon him as he swept up the brick-lined gutter filled with cigarette butts, candy wrappers and dirt. I watched as he worked the broom with skill honed from years of toiling, expertly extricating even the most stubborn of cigarette butts from the cracks. He failed to recognize me, but I couldn't look away.

I wanted to thank him, to reach out and shake his hand, but I restrained, for I feared making mention of his job and thanking him for it would be taken as degrading and insulting coming from a well-dressed college-aged student on his way to the office. But the encounter touched me, left me thinking of the complex cause and effect nature of our world, and how little we understand it.

This man has probably spent the better part of his adult life with a broom in his hand, cleaning up after people who were unwilling to hold on to trash to place it in a receptacle, or after a receptacle overloaded by refuse, or by smokers who finished their vice before reaching an ashtray. I wondered how he would have spent his life if his profession was unnecessary, if individuals took it upon themselves to ensure the cleanliness we take for granted. I thought about all the times I littered, of how someone was forced to come behind me and pick up my trash. And then I began to think more, about what other common actions of mine force someone to complete a remedial task for their wealth.

That long ago physics lesson seemed so clear to me, the one that taught me that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Everything I choose to do, everything I choose to say, bears consequences for someone else, and often, someone I have never met. It gave me an awesome feeling of power and importance, but also a pang of guilt that my selfishness caused someone else hardship. Yes, I can make an impact with relative ease, but how often is it a negative one?

The world is full of men like the one I witnessed today, some who are probably grateful and happy for the world's hubris, because it pays their bills. But, it is a sad reality that his resources are used for something so trivial, necessitated by momentary but recurring laziness. I wondered about his story as the light turned green and I passed by. I wondered how he had gotten the job, how he feels when people simply pass him by, how he feels when the shift is over and he heads home. Mostly, I wondered why I was scared to reach out and thank him, and why I failed to overcome that fear.

Living with the Law

2008-08-23T12:09:00.001-04:00

Thursday night, I went over to a satellite house to watch the Olympics and have a few beers after work. Originally, there were rumors of an attempted party, but as 8 p.m. became 10:30 and it became apparent the party wasn't coming together, I decided to head home.

Beer has become an incredibly expensive commodity in State College Town. The newly minted 21-year old I am, I offered to go on the beer run. I collect the money, stop at the first liquor store, pick up two 30 racks of Natty Light and I talked my accomplice (who was fronting most of the money) into a diverging from his Blue Moon to try a six-pack of my favorite wheat beer. Total cost: $43. Pretty steep.

So, as I was leaving, I grabbed a beer for my walk home and headed out. I cross onto one of the main drags in State College Town, pausing to cross the street until a blue Jeep Cherokee waves me across the cross walk. I cross in front of the Jeep, which then makes a left hand turn, slows, and begins to roll its window down.

"Hey, where'd you get that beer?" the college-aged driver asks.

Assuming it was two guys rolling around looking for a party, but wary they were sizing me up, I kept my distance, and politely explained I was simply coming from my friends house and was on my way home to culminate my evening.

"You know, you aren't supposed to be drinking that outside," the driver says as he rolls down his tinted window, exposing the inside of the vehicle. I then discover this is no college student; it's two cops in an unmarked car. Shit.

"Could you stand over to the side, please?" the officer driving sternly asks.

Driver follows me over to the opposite side of the road and asks for ID. I hand it to him.

"Are you a student here?" I produce my student ID. He retreats back to the truck, leaving me with his even younger looking partner.

Now, I have an exemplary legal record, having never been so much as cited for a speeding ticket. So, with that backing me and my driver's education classes screaming through my brain, I play it cool and polite.

"So, where are you headed?" Passenger asks.

"I'm headed home for the evening, Officer," I reply.

"Where is home?" I tell him.

Where were you coming from?" I explain my after-work location.

"Oh, where do you work?" I tell him, only to be asked the minutiae of my day. I explain all with brilliant eloquence and startling clarity. I had only had a couple beers to this point.

"How old are you?" he finally asks, as his partner stumbles in the dark trying to read the impossibly small figures on my license. I tell him I recently celebrated my 21st birthday.

"Oh, you haven't had your ID changed over yet?" It still warns I am under-21, and my home state has horizontal licenses for over-21, whereas mine is still vertical.

He continues to make chitchat while his partner pores over my state issued ID. Driver finally comes back, pulls Passenger aside, and they talk for a few minutes. Driver then comes back.

"You understand, alcohol can only be consumed inside or, if you have to go outside with it, in a paper bag." Whoa, TIME.

"You are actually allowed to drink outside if the container is in a paper bag?" Nice, asshole. The cop is going to let you go and you get smart with him.

"Well, yes, but I wouldn't recommend it." He launches into a lengthy speech about underage drinking and the partying that is sure to commence along with school within the week.

He finishes, hands me back my IDs, and warns me to keep it inside. I thank him, and stretch out my hand to shake his.

"OH, I don't shake hands. I hope you don't take any offense." Hey, you didn't give me a very costly and annoying ticket, we're old friends. Whatever, pal.

"None at all, officer, have a pleasant night," as I turned and fled.

A new year brings new fortune. If this had happened a month before, I could have had a very costly ticket, both in price and reputation, on my hands. But, instead, I got off with a slap on the wrist. I like to think I had something to do with it, remaining calm, making polite chitchat with Passenger, and having a record boasting of years of model behavior. Cops are in authority, and they want to be treated like it. Next time you get pulled over, treat them politely and with respect, or if you can't do that, have your sultry girlfriend take care of it for you. Until next time.