News and Notes - September 1, 2005

And away we go...

- Being the dutiful dirt-digger-upper that she is, Michelle has recently run across a "reliable" source that both Lindsay Lohan and Jessica Simpson like to ride the white pony. Yes - these two weight-losing vixens are allegedly partying like it's 1979. No word on whether Lindsay has grown out her pinky nail or if Jessica has done lines off of Johnny Knoxville's ass, but I promise to keep you posted. I for one pray that this turns out to be true - that way, when Michelle condemns my marijuana use, I can simply say "but you love Jessica Simpson, and she gets to bump rails to her heart's content!" I'll just keep that one in my back pocket, thank you.

- Fewer things are more disappointing than finally coming across Revenge of the Nerds on TV, only to have it airing on WGN (or other regular TV). Scenes recycled over dialogue that makes no sense. Nary a breast to be found. Not one utterance of the classic phrases "wonder joints", "hair pie", or "I thought I was looking at my mother's old douchebag, but that's in Ohio". Sad.

- Today at work, I was the victim of poor bathroom etiquette. In all of our men's rooms are three stalls. In addition, there are two urinals, which are spaced approximately 4 inches apart, with the left one sitting about 3 inches from the wall. Therefore, if you are going in the left urinal, you are forced to straddle the imaginary line that exists between the urinals. This means that proper etiquette would dictate that, if one of the urinals is in use when you enter the bathroom, you would politely excuse yourself to one of the stalls to do your business. There was no such courtesy extended to yours truly today as I was preparing to urinate into the left urinal. Another gentlemen entered the men's room and stepped right up to the urinal to my right, despite the fact that I was straddling the imaginary line. In order to allow for proper personal space, I was forced to pee with my left shoulder pressed up against the wall. Was this individual raised by wolves? Emily Post, where art thou?

- The one current celebrity phenomenon that continues to baffle me is Tara Reid. She has the eyes of a junkie, the voice of a 3-pack-a-day smoker, the sagging fake breasts of a aging stripper, and the demeanor of a desperately lost soul. Yet E! Entertainment Television, in their infinite wisdom, has devoted an entire season of their Wild On program to the exploits of Ms. Reid and renamed it Taradise in a delicious little pun. Think about it - there are people earning a decent wage by following around Tara Reid with cameras and microphones as she hangs with her best bud Paris Hilton and her fiancee', also named Paris, in Athens. Do both Paris and Paris respond when Tara says "Hey, Paris"? I don't know. My thought on this whole debacle is that while Reid thinks the E! crew is there to show the world what an intelligent, gentle soul she really is, the producers sit in a room with a lovely view of Hollywood and smirk, "Wow, Tara Reid acting like a clueless ass was the best thing we put on TV since the True Hollywood Story on Corey Feldman!". And the slow road to hell rolls on.

- More reasons the terrorists hate Americans: Lexus commericals, Jessica Simpson's $11,000 clothes shopping spree in which she bought 6 items (as reported by Us Weekly), competitive eating contests, negative amortization home loans, Ray Stevens' "Ahab the A-rab", Burger King's Chicken Fries, the Maroon 5, literal interpretations of the Bible, the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

- As many of you know, I am approximately 2 months away from becoming partially responsible for the overall well-being of an infant - a scary proposition given the content of this blog. However, I feel I am up to the task, and I have been approaching this new phase in my life with great enthusiasm, right down to the task of registering for baby goods. Given that I am anal, worrisome and cheap, I have tried to devour as much information I can about the best quality for the best price, especially when picking out cribs, car seats and strollers - those things that my kid will have to be in for any extended period of time. Thanks to my new favorite book "Baby Bargains", I have become privvy to what I have dubbed the Bugaboo Fraud.

Bugaboo Frog is a Danish company that basically manufactures and sells ludicrously high-priced strollers. Now, you don't want to be chinsy when buying a stroller. However, I maintain that the incremental benefit of upgrading from a $50 stroller to a $150 stroller is enormous, while the incremental benefit of jumping from that $150 stroller to a $800 stroller is miniscule at best. Why is the Bugaboo Frog $800 you ask? Beats me. It's manufactured in Taiwan, which means that overall production costs, including materials, labor and overhead, can't be more than $45 (and I'm being conservative here). It's not made of gold, so that's out. Hmm, let's see...oh yeah! I believe Gweneth Paltrow has a Bugaboo Frog! I think Julia Roberts has one too! And I'll bet Sarah Jessica Parker pushes her little urchin around in that very same stroller! So are they marking up the price so they can fleece these wealthy celebreties? Highly doubtful! Chances are, once the folks at Bugaboo heard that Gwen was knocked up, they likely shipped one right over to her free of charge! Then, just like on the red carpet when a celeb says "I'm wearing Gucci" and ravenously materialistic women everywhere run out and slap their credit card on the Gucci counter, a phenomenon is created and ravenously materialistic pregnant women run out to secure their Bugaboo Fraud..er...Frog stroller at $800 a pop, if only to emulate Debra Messing as much as they possibly can. So kudos to you, Bugaboo, for duping the American public out of their hard earned credit!

Until next time...

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 7

Stupor Bowl XXVII

There are many different degrees of the phrase “going away to college”. For some, it means packing up their meager possessions and driving halfway across the country, with their only return visits home planned for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Summer (if that). For others, it means driving from their parent’s house to community college, if only to log enough class time and good grades to get them out of that situation faster than you can say “this is still my house, so my rules still apply.” For me, I fell right into a happy medium – I was close enough to home where I could make the round-trip drive in a full state of highway hypnosis, yet far enough where any suggestions of coming home multiple times a month could be easily squashed without guilt. It was even more of an ideal situation when I didn’t have my car down at school with me – however, once the two-tone brown 1982 Ford Fairmont known as the Beast on Wheels hauled my ass down for Hell Week, somehow I knew I was setting myself up for more requests to come home for various family obligations. Not long after the Lost Semester began, this theory held true as I was called home to attend my Stepmother’s birthday dinner. Now, normally I wouldn’t so much as bitch at the prospect of heading up to Chicagoland for some much-needed quality food – given I was starting to realize that the MPB house was going to offer me a steady diet of cardboard-quality pizza, grade D lunchmeat, soggy French fries and lukewarm Hot Pockets, a chance to fatten up on the good stuff was tantalizing to say the least. However, this particular weekend happened to coincide with the first big bash to be held at the MPB house with yours truly as a resident – the Tri-Delt Initiation Party.

A little background is required here. I mentioned earlier that U of I’s Greek system was busting at the seams – over 50 fraternities if I’m not mistaken – and that there were only half as many sororities, which resulted in a rather precarious social situation for most fraternities when it came time to plan each semester’s social functions. Within those approximately 25 sororities was a pool of about 10-15 that shallow young men like myself and my brothers were willing to consider partying with. And of those 10-15, there were 3-4 that everyone would agree comprised the upper echelon of overall desirability. Simply put, Tri-Delts were on that short list. And now, our house, the place I lived, was going to be full of approximately 100 cute, drunken Tri-Delts, along with inordinate amounts of booze and dope…and I was going to miss it. Damn my luck! But, being the dutiful son I am, I swallowed my pride (and my desire), got in my Fairmont and headed home for a nice, quiet weekend that did not include 100 good-looking girls, booze, and/or dope. From what I understand, I missed a hell of a party. It got to the point where, as part of the entertainment, the revelers had taken it upon themselves to completely destroy a fellow member’s car – during Hell Week we had pushed this piece of shit from the back of the house to the front during a snowstorm, and at that point everyone thought it was just being abandoned. I guess nobody told the guys who threw cinder blocks through the front windshield that the owner had got it running and had agreed to sell it for upwards of $500, a king’s ransom to any college student. Good old alcohol – works every time.

But I am not here to bore you with the details of a party that I missed – where’s the fun in that? This tale begins around 2:00 on Sunday – Super Bowl Sunday, no less – when I arrived back on campus, sufficiently fattened up from the previous evening’s meal. As I parked my car, I wondered what we’d be doing for the game – Buffalo had made their third straight Super Bowl and we were all curious to see if they could solve the up-and-coming Cowboys. I imagined a few friends, a few beers, a few bowls – you know, basic Sunday stuff. Imagine my surprise when I walked into Room 23 to find CS, Phelps, Big O and Pops standing around a large cooking pot from the kitchen filled with water, a 2-liter bottle halved in the middle with the slider from our bong inserted into the cap, and a big bag of marijuana. My brilliant powers of deduction told me that it must be time for gravity bongs! It would be yet another new experience for me, but as we all know I was anything but shy.

As soon as I walked in, CS perked up and yelled out, “Rock Chiseler! Perfect timing – you’re up!” I think we’ve pretty much established at this point what happens next. After three quick passes through the group, our new piece of paraphernalia has gotten quite a workout. At one point, one of our other friends who had his girlfriend visiting from out of town stopped by our room to see what was going on. Upon seeing our set up, he darted out of the room and was back in less than two minutes. “I told her I was going to take a shit” he said, and proceeded to rip through a few GB’s of his own. This was the norm in Room 23 – it was where the “happy” people met, and the more who wished to be happy, the merrier.

Once we were sufficiently ripped, one of us amazingly remembered that, oh yeah, the Super Bowl was coming on soon! Our friends at the Nevada House had graciously offered to host a get-together (Seeds was a big Cowboys fan – I always find it odd when people born in one area of the country worship a team in another; very, very odd. Of course, I digress). Given that we were stoned and that Nevada House was light years away, we soon set out on the long trek in the late-January weather so we could get there in time for kickoff.

We finally got to Nevada House shortly before the game began. The party itself was a fun time – there were a lot of people there who were a lot shadier and a lot less interested in sports than I was, but everyone was having fun, getting along and enjoying the game, so my mates and I did the like. The boys at Nevada House were nice enough to get a few kegs for our enjoyment, so I threw down my three bucks, grabbed a cup and began to drink. And drink. And drink and drink and drink. Shit, I had been drinking from kegs since junior year in high school, and I was on the hockey team, so of course I could drink with the best of them. Coupled with the 4-5 gravity bong hits I had ingested earlier that day, I was starting to develop a lovely glaze that made an otherwise unbearable game somewhat entertaining.

By the time halftime rolled around, I was well on my way to a banner night of inebriation. The game was essentially over (Cowboys 28, Bills 10), so the fact that my vision was starting to become a little blurry didn’t seem to worry me too much. As the network moved to its coverage of whatever horrible halftime activities happened to be planned, Seeds suggested that a few of us head back to his room for a little extra partying. I wobbled back with the group (CS, Phelps, Pops) to Seeds bedroom, and as we made ourselves comfortable, he produced a 3 foot glass bong and a large sack of goodies. Without further hesitation we began to pull tubes. And pull. And pull and pull and pull…

I have never been exposed to the inner workings of filmmaking; sound mixing, storyboarding, screenwriting – these are all foreign concepts to me. However, as the second half kicked off, I believe that I received an excellent insight into the film editing process – one that involves having non-sequential, incoherent scenes and concepts flash in front of the editor’s eyes, leaving them to work their fingers to the bone in trying to assemble them into some rational order so that the story can be told and, more importantly, understood. The second half of Super Bowl XXVII was my sloppy, garbled, unfinished masterpiece. More beer at the keg…girl talking to me, but I don’t reply…CS passing a bowl…Touchdown Cowboys!...more beer, this time spilling down my shirt…Touchdown Cowboys!...close my eyes just for a second…Leon Lett!... hazy, blurry, fading…

Somehow, miraculously, I snap back into coherence, look up at the screen and see the graphic: “Final score – Dallas 52, Buffalo 17.” This was my cue. “I gotta go,” I say to no one in particular. I took the general lack of protest as confirmation that yes, J, it is time for you to go. I proceed to stumble outside and contemplate the long, cold journey home. The frigid air proves to be my savior, jolting me back to the point where the part of my brain that had shut itself down in sheer defense for the past two hours suddenly came to the realization just how drunk the rest of me was. My only major concern on this long journey was crossing Lincoln Avenue, the one busy street that provided no aid to pedestrians in the way of a traffic light. Seeing as Nevada House was only 5 houses from said street, I concentrate all of my resources on the Herculean effort of making it across, preferably alive and uninjured. I stumble the first two steps…

BAAAAAARF!

Holy shit, didn’t see that one coming – there went my second half drinking binge. One more house passed…

BAAAAAARF!

Crap, how much did I drink? It sure looks fucked up in the snow. What is that in there? Did I eat anything today?

BAAAAAARF!

Anyone who has been wasted to the point of vomiting has probably gotten to that glorious moment in the process – the moment you realize that yes, this is indeed all I have to offer. Final score – three vomits before Lincoln Avenue. At this point, that other part of my brain – the one that controls areas like blinking, breathing and digesting food – fired itself up and went into “homing device mode” and dutifully guided me back to the MPB house. I finally made it back to my lair – cold, drunk, stoned, hungry, yet safe. After playing a video game and sleeping my way through Monday classes, it was comforting to know that I was able to return from the comforts of home right back to business as usual during the Lost Semester.

J is Lazy: Best Of J

The Sanctity of it All - Late-September, 2004

Well, if you’ve ever read anything I’ve written, spoken to me, or heard me speaking with someone else in any four minute window in my life, you wouldn’t be at all surprised if I said I was something of a sports fan. Baseball – fuck you, go away. Hockey – despite Bettman and Wirtz, I still love you. Basketball - #1 Illini? Football – Damn you! Damn you all to hell! I’d say that I feel sorry for Rex Grossman, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who wants people feeling sorry for him, so I’ll say (in Chicago-speak, of course): “Godspeed, my friend – we’ll be here next year for you’se.” Since Rex and almost every other reason for optimism surrounding the great Chicago Bears Professional Football Organization is now sidelined, I thought I’d shift my attention away from the action, and right to this commercial break – a commercial break filled with misery, deceit, infidelity, subdued rage, and sexual promiscuity. I mean, of course, beer commercials.

I was first seduced by the sordid world of the purveyors of brewed lager and ale beverages at the ripe young age of 13. A dog wearing a Hawaiian shirt – pure genius, I thought. Of course, at that time I was also making my dog wear Ozzy Osbourne concert t-shirts (RIP, Baby, wherever you are), so it definitely was right up my alley. This canine-themed ad campaign must explain that momentous evening at the park on Larch Street when myself and two other fellows with mind-expansion curiosity saw fit to put down a 12-pack of Budweiser (I only had 2 ½ or 3, I swear). For you see, had I not witnessed that loveable pooch, decked out in islander garb and surrounded by girls who I could have sworn I had just seen in Hardbodies (or was it H.O.T.S.?) wearing the least I had ever seen a girl actually wear at that tender time of my life, I may never have been corrupted by drink. What’s my point? I haven’t a clue. But what I will tell you is this: while witnessing the NFL’s version of Flair-Hogan this evening, I came across two of the recent beer commercials that make me believe that certain people aren’t born with souls – rather, they are filled with the dusts of despair and the broken shards of unfulfilled dreams.

OK, hold the damn phone. I just went back to enjoy my supper, and when I realized that Dallas-Washington just wasn’t doing it for me, I flipped on reliable old Fox, and found that another wonderful installment of Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy was airing. (Sidenote: ABC is up in arms because they maintain that Fox stole their idea for that show’s formula, as further evidenced by the title of their upcoming fall sure-to-be-a-hit Wife Swap: The Original. Apparently, ABC feels the need to tell us that Fox ripped off their sleazy idea before they had a chance to air it. Sounds like the antics of a #4 network to me. I digress.) Well, in this particular episode of spouse and family whoring there was a black woman, possibly from the rural part of the South (who’d’ve thunk it?), who was paired with a family of New Englanders, and she was smack dab of a middle of a deep sea fishing expedition in the chilly, wet and rough North Atlantic. And she didn’t like it. WHAT?!?!? The New England family could not believe their eyes and/or ears. What do you mean this black woman from the rural South doesn’t like taking a small fishing boat out in the middle of the rain-drenched North Atlantic in early spring? Is she from MARS????? No, the rural South, you ignoramus. I’m from the Midwest and I couldn’t see myself enjoying this for 10 minutes – especially with someone else’s spouse and children. Christ.

Now, flash to the rural South. Mom of New England Family sits with Black Rural South Dad and two Black Rural South Children, and she’s so bored with the game of cards they’re playing that she decides to challenge them to a spirited Super Soaker war – good, wholesome fun. Soon, I slowly realize that I am witnessing a major event in reality TV – every single person I have seen, from New England dad and his four chowder-eating chilluns, to Moms Black and New England and the rest of the Rural South clan, is…obese. This is unprecedented, unbelievable, unbridled reality TV history! Scholars of the future will no doubt point to this very moment in human civilization, where an obese family of New Englanders and an obese African-American family fro the rural South swap mothers/wives and invite millions of others watch this well thought-out scheme play out. And they will weep. Oh, just as unprecedented was the scene where the portly New England children are roasting marshmallows, and Black Mom looks on as they start taking charcoal from their roasting sticks and rubbing it on each other’s faces ala Minstrel Show. In a word, sublime.

Where was I? Ah yes – the “marriage” of beer salesmanship and social depravity. Allow me to explain. While watching the epic ‘Skins-‘Boys tilt, I was fortunate enough to witness two separate commercial offerings from the good folks at Anheuser Busch. The first, involving their beloved King of Beers Budweiser, features a deliciously stereotypical wiener football referee. There’s this hapless geek, standing on the sidelines as one of the coaches chews him out, probably for making as blatantly poor of a no-call as the Vikings’ offside penalty on the Bears two-point conversion try, and the ref is showing absolutely no emotion. Well, the announcers wonder aloud how this poor, emasculated bastard ever learned to take such abuse. Flash to his living room where he sits in his easy chair as his vicious nagging wife screams various indignities in his ear such as, “Why don’t you clean the litter box, it’s been three weeks!” and, “that porch needs painting” and my favorite, “would it kill you to tell me you love me once and a while?” Ha, pure hilarity! The miserable nag of a wife is pushing this poor, weak fellow to the brink of insanity and possibly suicide! His life is so much like everyman’s – that Budweiser ad is dead on! How very sad. The first time Michelle and I saw this, we turned to each other and said, simultaneously, “That’s not funny.” No, friends, that is not funny. But damn it, if it don’t push the brew out the door…

My other favorite spot comes from the beer aimed at the 16, er, 18, I mean, 21-35 year-old male set – Bud Light, Home of the aforementioned Mr. Spuds McKenzie. This fine attempt to sell alcoholic beverages gives us some boob and his boob friends sitting at the “game” enjoying a few frosty-cold Bud Lights. Token Black Boob says, “Hey, Dorky Red-haired Boob, how did you get Hot Leggy Brunette Girlfriend Who In Real Life Wouldn’t Touch You With a Ten-foot Pole to let you go to the game?” “Well, Token Black Boob, it’s really ingenious, don’t you see? I hired a body double to serve in my place.” Flash to Beefcake Male with dork red-hair wig, all greased up and panting, saying something wonderfully ribald to said Leggy Brunette, who returns the frenzied sexual energy with orgasmic gusto. “For the great taste that won’t get you up and always keeps you down (or whatever), make it a Bud Light!” Close with Leggy Brunette telling Dorky Boob “You were an animal last night” or something just as clever to imply that she enjoyed the intense lovemaking session “they” had together, only to see Dorky Boob realize, “Oh no! That wasn’t me who had sex with my own partner!” Kill me now.

Am I the only one who thinks that there’s something that’s not right about this latest advertising “campaign”? Where are all of those politicians who have babbled incessantly about the sanctity of marriage, “that of which by o’er and between that of a woman and that of which man is” (Romans 9:21 – or “Bobby Hull, Stan Makita” as I call it)? I’ll tell you where those crusty old fucks are – in the back pocket of the booze merchants, who know just as well as the tobacco industry who their customer is, and will let nothing stand in their way of precious market share! I must take up my hatchet and stop the liquor merchants, before they send us into a downward spiral of dependence upon the demon rum! I quote the great Rev. J. D. Peterson from his stirring document “A Temperance Talk” from January of 1890: “This I say because drunkenness, I believe, we shall ever have, while sin, strong drink and sinners are found on earth.” Damn skippy, Rev: A Temperance Talk.

You know, if doob were legal, none of this would be necessary…

Something To Think About

You know, when you were a baby, your dad looked in your crib and said to himself, "someday, my son will grow up to be a man." Well look at you now.

You just got your asses whipped by a bunch of goddamn nerds. NEEEEERDS!!!

Well if I was you, I'd do somethin' about it. I would get up and redeem myself in the eyes of my father, my maker, and MY COACH!

That is all.

All Hope is Lost

It's official - there is no hope for the future of this country. I just looked up this weekend's box office totals for the weekend and saw that The Dukes of Hazzard pulled in $30 million. THIRTY MILLION DOLLARS!!! I believe I am safe in assuming that the majority of people who went ot see this movie are either a) under 25 years old or b) mentally retarded. Hence, this is why I believe that there is no hope for our future.

Now, I have never seen this "film", nor do I plan on doing so. But being a pretty well-educated person with an wry sense of humor and my frontal lobe intact, this should not come as a surprise to anyone. Seeing as I am going to be a father (yes, a father) within the next few months, it saddens me that one day I will have to sit my child down and say "Junior/Sissy, sometimes it is OK to judge a book by its cover." I am terrified of the dark, desolate future that awaits us, not because of the alarming rate at which our armed forces are dying in Iraq, not because there are millions of Islamic fundamentalists who want each and every one of us dead, not even because our civil liberties are under all-out assault by our Executive, Judicial and Legislative branches, but rather because of the constant dumbing down process that Hollywood and the celebrity-glorifying media is shoving straight up the ass of America's youth.

Let's take a quick look at this fine film, shall we? It centers around two male redneck cousins driving around in a car named after the leader of the military force of a pro-slavery society. Hey, I'm all for state's rights and small government, but come on! Just to drive the point home, there's a big ol' Confederate Flag slapped on top of said vehicle, which I'm sure makes the states of Georgia and South Carolina quite happy, but might tend to piss off a few other folks because of what it represents. "Oh, stop being so PC, you ass" you might say - yeah, I guess I should tone down my contempt for a symbol of owning human beings as property - I'll get right on that. They drive around the rural South running moonshine made by their uncle while oggling their sexed-up female cousin and avoiding the law. Now I'm all about avoiding the law - the less laws the better, but the message might come off better if you didn't throw in scenes where the two Duke boys mistakenly don blackface and drive into a black neighborhood - that may have played well in the '40s but I think this brand of comdedy is a bit past its time.

And what of the actors in this fine movie? Sean William Scott graced the big screen in the American Pie/Wedding triumverant, where in two more memorable scenes he drinks semen and is urinated upon. Johnny Knoxville hangs out with guys who eat piss-laced snow cones, shoot bottle rockets out of their asses and kick each other in the balls (by the way, I love Jackass and Jackass: The Movie, but these antics do not a movie star make). Burt Reynolds has gone from being a great actor to somewhat of a whore who will star in just about anything - I'm still waiting for him to jump on the remake of Deliverance where this time he'll play one of the hillbilly rapists. Willie Nelson, while a great musical artist, failed to pay his taxes (apparently a big no-no in this country). And then there's Jessica Simpson, a dimwit who needs to go the hell away if only for the fact that her father may be the creepiest man on the face of the earth. If I have to hear her version of "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" one more time, I may try and puncture my own eardrums with my compass from 10th grade geometry class.

Why does it bother me so much that Dukes raked in so much dough? Aren't I the same person who lists Porky's, Hot Dog: The Movie, and Spring Break among my all time favorite cheesy movies? Yes. Have I become so old and crotchety that I hate all things young and hip? Maybe. Do I just wish I was as cool as Johnny Knoxville and Sean William Scott? Highly doubtful. Perhaps I was rooting for this movie to fail so hard simply because of how overexposed the whole concept was before it even hit theaters (while perusing our Tivo last week, Michelle and I noticed that the M-T-W guests on ABC's Good Morning America were Scott, Knoxville and Simpson, respectively - needless to say, these episodes were not recorded). Maybe I still have such a deep-rooted hatred for the TV show that I want anything featuring the Duke boys to fail. It could be that, seeing as the South did indeed lose the Civil War, I feel it's time for them to just give up and assimilate (apologies to Mark). Whatever the cause, I urge the parents of America to withhold their children's allowances if this is the kind of schlock it's going to support. Either that, or start saving for their lobotomies.

Bonus News and Note

- Seacrest...clothed! American Idol host, metrosexual and douchebag Ryan Seacrest is releasing his own line of clothing called "The R Line" (TM). This line will feature "men's and women's shirts featuring a relaxed weekend vibe with undeniable Hollywood style." Well, now I recant everything I just said - the future is indeed a bright one now that we can all dress like soulless troglodytes! Thanks Ryno!

J...OUT!

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 6

Are You Nervous?

It’s time to come clean on a few things (not like I haven’t already, but, well, you know). I have always been a worrywart. I seem to have the type of personality whereby creating some sort of crisis or problem in my head motivates me to devise and implement a solution. This mentality serves me well in my current job role – I get paid to think of shit that could go wrong and make sure that there’s other shit going on that stops that bad shit from going down. But being in a state of constant worry is not what I would call ideal in any kind of social setting. And while we’re talking character flaws, the other one that stands out in my mind is my irrational desire to have everyone like me. I don’t like confrontation, I don’t like arguing, I don’t like disagreeing, and I don’t want anyone to think I’m a bad guy – I’d rather bend over backwards to come to some common solution than be right or stand my ground. I realize that these traits cause me much more stress than I probably need in my life. And when you’re a freshman in the burgeoning social scene that is College, having these traits can be somewhat of a hindrance on your social life; imagine going into every social and classroom situation worried about how you speak or how you look, concerned that something you say or do might either piss someone off or, God forbid, make them not like you! What does this have to do with the Lost Semester? Frankly, more than I care to admit but will anyway. Like all other human beings, I am far from perfect. I have my flaws like anyone, and these unfortunate character traits are no exception. However, the coupling of these two traits of mine led to words and actions that caused many to find pleasure in uttering what soon became my three most hated words at every possible turn: “Are you nervous?”

As has already been well-established, I spent a great deal of my freshman year developing the textbook model for parents across the country on how not to have your son or daughter lead a successful, healthy, well-adjusted lifestyle when away at college. My first semester report card read as follows: B-C-D-dropped class, giving me a solid C average and thus killing any shot I had at actually securing a job within my field at an early stage in my career that would guarantee me the most success (i.e. a Big Six Accounting Firm – in hindsight, I am happier than a pig in shit that I didn’t go that route, but that’s beside the point). Career suicide at 19 – great way to boost those confidence levels! I spent more time during that first semester cleaning the MPB house and attending line-ups than I did in any of our school’s fine libraries – good, character-building, humiliating times. By the time the Lost Semester rolled around, I had already drank enough beer and eaten enough burritos to speed me along the way to packing on the Freshman Fifteen (or Twenty, but who’s counting?); I had smoked enough pot to kill a horse (or at least render him extremely dim-witted), had dedicated no fewer than 25 hours to psychedelic endeavors, and as a result, had begun to watch my once-extraordinary gift of gab slowly deteriorate to the point where I couldn’t hold a five-minute conversation without looking away, touching my hair or stammering like a mental patient. Simply put, I was becoming somewhat of a mess.

Of course, as is often the case with me, I have let my flair for the dramatic take over my storytelling – in reality I probably wasn’t as goofy and foolish as I make myself out to be. Sure I had done lots of drugs, which definitely had some effect on me. But I was still able to function in social situations just fine – it’s just that, well, I didn’t like them very much. I initially blamed it solely on the everyday marijuana use, but it had gotten to the point where most people just annoyed me to the point where I had no desire to interact with them, so perhaps it’s just that most people I went to school with sucked (a logical conclusion, given some of the prize pupils down in Champaign). Either that or I was an anti-social freak. But I’ve mentioned my core group of friends in previous installments – I was actually pretty comfortable with those guys most if not all of the time. And there were other guys in the house and in my pledge class who I got along with just fine. And seeing as I had a close relative down at school with me (let’s call her Emma, although those in the know who read this know exactly of whom I speak) who knew lots of girls, so I became friendly with many of her friends, giving me quite the network of folks I could readily socialize with. Still…

Maybe it was the process of adjusting to life on campus (no small feat). Maybe it was something that snapped in my head during Hell Week while riding a bicycle through the basement wearing nothing more than my tighty-whiteys. Maybe it was the dumbing-down process I had subjected my powerful-yet-emotionally-sensitive brain to. Maybe it was my silly desire to be liked by anyone and everyone at all times, no exceptions. One thing is for certain, though – my confidence (a trademark of mine since I got contact lenses in 1986) was slipping. I can’t pinpoint when or where it started, nor can I identify the one or two things that fueled its deterioration, but I knew it wasn’t at the levels I was used to. The bonus for those around me is that I became a cavalcade of comic consternation, and simply stating the question “are you nervous?” usually set me about the task of fixing my zipper-headed long hair as I glanced about in fits of paranoia and replied, “uh, unh, um, uh, well, uh, um…no”. More often than not, this was a lie – I made my way through the Lost Semester in almost a constant state of nervousness. However, that didn’t mean I enjoyed having people call me on it. If you were fat and everyone knew it, you’d probably feel better if someone asked you if you had lost weight or, better yet, not said anything at all, rather than having them ask “are you a fat ass?” whenever they crossed your path – just a hunch.

There may be two additional factors that played into my increased state of nervousness (outside of the constant pot smoking, that is). The first – my roommate and good friend CS is one of the funnier, more creative people I know. As a testament to this fact, he was the kind of guy who would invent a nickname for someone out of the blue and it would just stick. He was the one who named our roommate Miser (short for Money Hungry Miser, from “Car Thief” on the Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique). There was no rhyme or reason why our roommate became Money Hungry Miser – CS said it was so, so it was so. It was with that spirit, given that I had a solid body frame for a man of my short stature, that CS initially began to call me “Rock”. He may have gotten it from Tim Raines, who was a popular player with the White Sox at the time. He may have been alluding to the fact that I had a solid build. He may have pulled it out of thin air. Whatever the source, he liked the name, and so I was Rock. Well, being funny and creative, CS couldn’t stop there – over the course of the semester I earned the following nicknames (plus others I can’t remember):

• Rocko
• Rocky Bilboa (I imagine for The Hobbit’s Bilbo Baggins)
• Rock Chiseler
• The Chiseler from Sizzler
• Mountain Rock Ranger, Two-Time Champ
• Rolf Bernershka (former San Diego Chargers kicker and host of daytime Wheel of Fortune)
• Hades (since my bed was in the underworld of Room 23)

And so it went. Now I must point something out here – I actually liked all of these nicknames when called them by CS or Miser. I saw it as a Room 23 inside joke, and knowing CS these were meant to be terms of endearment. However, being the psychologically unstable soul that I was in those days, I naturally became quite tense/paranoid when others in our circle of friends would mockingly call me by these nicknames. “Heeeeey, Rocko!” “Oh no! The Rock Chiseler!” It was excruciating. These being saner days for me, I can look back and realize that my friends were only partially teasing me (because they liked me, no doubt) while also picking on CS for his tendency to invent goofy nicknames. But if you tried convincing me of this back then, well let’s just say there may have been some stammering and hair-touching involved.

The other situation that did wonders for the death of my self confidence was the fact that my friend Pops began dating Emma (my aforementioned “relative”) early on during the Lost Semester. It warrants mentioning that during high school, Emma and I had somewhat of a contentious relationship – she ran with the upper echelon of the popular crowd while my stoner friends and I partook in our unpopular stoner ways. But when we went away to U of I together, it’s like all of the strife that existed between us just melted away. The fact that we were both thrust into this new experience together and had each other to lean on had a lot to do with this, and I was very happy to have her there and thrilled that we ended up becoming friends through the whole process. We shared a common background, a desire to fit in and have fun, and a feeling of sheer contempt for my roommate Big Tim (when she showed up at my dorm room dressed as a hippie on Halloween to drop of some candy for me, Big Tim noted, “Wow, that’s a new look for you!” to which she replied, “It’s a Halloween costume, you fool.”). It also must be noted that Pops was (and remains) a great guy, and early on in their relationship I thought it was great that my friend and my relative were now dating. Did I mention I was rather clueless at that point in my life?

So to summarize – take a soft-in-the-head 19-year-old, have him smoke pot almost every day (to dull his facilities a bit), give him some bad grades, take away his ability to talk up the ladies, throw in an intimate relationship between his close relative and one of his best friends, assign him several crazy nicknames, and ask him if he’s nervous every 15 minutes and chances are you’ll end up with the makings of a mess of a young man. The plus side to all of this is that this lays a great foundation for tales that will surely keep my nine preferred readers entertained to no end – we all have our demons, our embarrassing stories, our regrets, and we all like to take comfort in knowing we’re not alone. Given some of the future installments that will roll out on this blog, let me just say that, well…I’m a little nervous.

Until next time…

News and Notes - August 1, 2005

• Good news, everyone! The War on Terror is over! That’s right, we are no longer fighting a war on terror, or even a war on global terrorism! The folks at the Pentagon thought that using the term “war” conjured up too many images of people in uniforms marching in rank and not firing until we see the whites of their eyes and all that happy stuff. So thanks to the power of the Euphemism, the war has ended, and the Struggle against Global Extremism has begun! Given that a struggle is probably easier to win than a war, this is a good thing! Now that our brave leaders have properly shifted their focus on violent zealots who hijack a religion in order to achieve some maddening end that they claim is God’s will, it should only be a matter of time until abortion clinic bombers are eradicated! Oh, and those Muslim extremists as well.

• Like the torrent of locusts that plagued the Pharaoh’s Egypt, a whole slew of new reality shows will soon be coming our way faster than you can say “Trista Rehn-Sutter”. Not that it’s gotten out of hand or anything, but the website realitytvworld.com offers links to information on no fewer than 35 reality shows; or as I like to say, 35 good reasons to take a sledgehammer to your TV. One of the biggest offenders is NBC, who will be rolling out the following line-up of trash in favor of something say, scripted and original:

o Want to tug at those pesky heartstrings but don’t have the time or the stomach? Three Wishes, hosted by Christian Soldier Amy Grant, will fulfill your desire to become emotionally attached to people you’d likely ignore if you saw them on the street. Apparently, NBC will go to various towns across the country and cure all of their problems by giving them three wishes – as long as they “come from the heart”, there is “no limit to what this show can do and how many lives it can change.” Really? So if from the bottom of my heart I want to raise someone from the dead, NBC can make that happen? And this has the potential to save, say 250 million lives? Fucking awesome!

o Are you or someone you love obese? Of course, silly, this is America, where you’re more likely to be or know an obese person than you are to have the ability to locate Iraq on a map! That’s why you should tune into the next installment of The Biggest Loser, which to me is a hilarious title because, while they’re commending people for losing the most weight, they’re really saying that fat people are big losers. Think these folks can lay off the Popeye’s and Baskin Robbins for a few weeks? You’ll have to tune in and find out!

o Are you a modern man with a gender role viewpoint that harkens back to the glory days of sock hops, poodle skirts and Communist witch hunts? Maybe you should whore your family out for Meet Mister Mom, where moms (who, being women, naturally stay at home with the kids) are sent on a vacation while their ingrate wage-earning husbands stay home to run the household. According to NBC’s vague description of this surefire hit, “the results are funny, heartwarming and something every busy family can relate to!” Well, every busy family outside of single parent households below the poverty line, but hell, they’re watching UPN anyway, so who cares!

o Hey, if you thought the business savvy go getters of The Apprentice weren’t insufferably arrogant enough for your tastes, NBC has the perfect remedy: The Law Firm! Since everyone can appreciate how much good a “promising young attorney” can add to American society, surely we will all enjoy watching them develop from fresh-faced go-getters to ludicrously rich, divorced assholes in the coming weeks. Contests include the Ambulance Chase Cannonball Run, the Frivolous Lawsuit Shuffle, and the Bottomless Pocket Corporate Defense. The winner receives a one year job in a law firm and an 85% fee from Donald Trump’s next divorce hearing.

Yes, friends – Must See TV is back and better than ever! Who needs writers when there are millions of misguided souls looking to fulfill the American dream and be on TV? Not me!

• In other Reality TV news, don’t forget about Reality TV’s biggest and brightest whores, er, stars appearing in E! televisions made-for-hell show/movie Kill Reality, which if I am not mistaken takes a bunch of people who were overexposed the minute they appeared on our airwaves and finds another way to shove them down our throats. And it’s almost time to bust out those tank tops and nut-hugger shorts, because Bravo’s Battle of the Network Reality Stars is ready to hit our summer airwaves in an effort make us more culturally void than we already are (note: only if humanly possible). I just can’t wait until these shows go the way of the Game Show fad – that way, we can look forward to a Reality Network on obscure basic cable, which will no doubt feature a reality show about people trying to get on a reality show about being on a reality show. We should only be so lucky.

• The king is dead – long live the king! Fellow infidel and U.S. Sugar Daddy King Fahd of Saudi Arabia died at age 82-84, which makes him eligible to pitch for the Dominican Republic in the Little League World Series. And the White House mourns. My only question is whether he still gets the 72 virgins, or if they are reserved for those who die with the blood of the infidels on their hands? Just curious.

• The UN needs tough love, and here comes their dominatrix – John Bolton, who was appointed during a Senate recess by that wily President Bush, thereby avoiding any blockage in the Senate (note to self: use this phrase as your new euphemism for constipation). I hear this guy’s a ball buster (a colleague once noted that Bolton was a “kiss up, kick down sort of guy”) so those pricks at the UN better watch their step. Now I want to give Mr. Bolton and his hair-trigger temper the benefit of the doubt, so I have all the way into the second week of October in my office pool for when he tells Kofi Annan to go fuck himself for the first time. Make me proud, John.

• Marty Casey update from the Rock Star: INXS site on cbs.com – “Dave then tells Marty he knows he gave him a hard time last night about his performance of Nirvana’s ‘Lithium’. Dave jokingly pouts, ‘I’ve only been booed twice in my career, and both times were last night.’ He adds, ‘Obviously, you listened to [the band] when it came to the stage craft clinic.’ Kirk agrees, and tells Marty that the band wants him to do an encore. The audience erupts with applause. Marty takes center stage and kills again, getting a standing O from the band.”

Looks like Marty has won the favor of Carmen Electra’s sideshow act of a husband, an aging band fading into obscurity, and a crowd of people assembled for the sole purpose of cheering for singers on a CBS show. I can’t wait to be one of those losers who comes out of the woodwork to say I knew him when – I am already tweaking my resume for the soon-to-be-open position of groupie screener. I’m here when you need me, Marty!

• Does anyone else realize that we’re only a month and a half away from Hilary Duff’s 18th birthday? It warrants mentioning.

• Fresh from the pages of Us Weekly: Jude Law is a fucking idiot. Mr. Law, whom I always thought was a pretty good actor, has proved himself to be nothing more than a foolish scoundrel. He has openly admitted to cheating on his extremely attractive fiancée (Siena Miller) with his children’s moderately attractive nanny. Not only that, but one of his kids (from a previous lady) caught the two of them in bed. Furthermore, the nanny claimed to the London Mirror that Jude referred to her as “delicious and wonderful.” Did he have a momentary lapse of reason? Don’t you think simply breaking up with your fiancée is a better career move for a celebrity than screwing the nanny? Is Sienna such a cold fish that simple masturbation wasn’t enough of an outlet? Will Sean Penn become offended once someone cracks a “Jude Law sleeps with women that are not his fiancée” joke? These questions are likely to remain unanswered as, aside from my initial theory that Law is indeed an idiot, I just don’t care that much. Bang away, Jude – you won’t have me breathing down your neck!

Until next time…