The Ramblings of a Madman

Advertising Industry Follies

2006-11-06T16:36:00.000-06:00

Anyone who reads this sparsely updated poor excuse for a blog knows that there aren't many things that drive me crazier than the advertising industry - those champions of appealing to the lowest common denominator of the human psyche in the name of the almighty sale. Whether it's the slovenly, unshaven pigs and the hot women who inexplicably want their pudgy little dicks in Bud Light ads, the excrutiatingly annoying fucks who schill for the wireless telephone industry, or the "sure, I'll just drop 50 g's for a car" quasi-reality of the luxury car world, the geniuses behind these messages make me thank God each and every day that I invest $12.95 a month for Tivo.

I'm not bragging here, but I consider myself to be a relatively intelligent person. I can comprehend science, literature, history, math and geography with the aptitude of an 11th grade honor student (or so I believe). I can apply logic and reason to bridge the gap between the academic and real worlds. I believe that if I bothered to try, I'd probably be halfway decent at Soduku puzzles. To quote Charles De Mar from Better Off Dead: I'm no dummy. It is for this precise reason that I find advertising, particularly that of the television variety, to be so offensive. P.T. Barnum was truly on to something - there's a sucker born every minute, and in today's America, this theory is alive and well.

Now I know what you're thinking: "J, I'm one of The Nine and I take exception to ABC ripping off the moniker you assigned to your loyal, dedicated readers who have since left this site for dead, and slapping it on another feeble attempt by network television to capitalize on the 'let's fuck with viewer's minds over the course of several weeks until it addicts them to our show' success of Lost." Or, you might be saying: "J, if you don't like these commercials, and you have Tivo, why do you waste time watching them??" Well, given it's been over four months since I attempted to churn anything out for you, I need something to boil my blood and get those creative juices flowing. What better way than deciphering a message that's intended for someone whose IQ is around 60 points lower than my own? On to my thoughs on the recent (note: may not be recent) shit that clogs the sewers of our network television septic system...

You Can't Spell Idealistic Rebellious Acidhead without IRA

The Perpetrator: Investment houses

The Logic: The potheads, acidheads, militants, draft-dodgers and freaks of the hippie generation, those idealistic souls who questioned our involvement in Vietnam, who wouldn't stand for the lies perpetrated by the older generation, who believed in love, peace, social upheavel, et al, are approaching retirement age - what a great opportunity to sell some Roth IRAs!!

The Method: Like a flashback brought on by Woodstock's infamous brown acid, the various investment houses (who make money hand over fist off of our meager retirement savings) assault us with images of dancing free love advocates prancing barefoot in a field, wearing flowers in their hair, with popular (and since grossly overplayed) music piping in the background, and wow man, everyone's caught up in the spirit of love. The twist is that these folks are now sextegenarians and the drugs they use are less of the mind-expansion variety and more of the "it hurts when I open my other prescription bottles" type. Time is short, John Q. Hippie, and our 3.6% returns are tough to beat!

The Madness: While I'll admit that I enjoyed the commercial where the colorful cartoon flowers continuously bloom, touting the benefits of the company's no-fee loads in all of their psychedelic glory as Iron Butterfly's In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida blares in the background, it insults me that these companies think that so many of the people who lived through this era still carry the "Spirit of the 60s" with them today. Either they became extremely cynical thanks to the horrors of Vietnam, Kent State and Watergate, or they are sitting in a padded room because that 127th acid trip didn't quite agree with them. And where are the commercials targeting the brave souls who actually trudged through the jungles of Southeast Asia, fighting a mismanaged war as they did anything they could to stay alive? Oh yeah - they spent all of their paltry military retirement benefits to support the heroin addiction they picked up in 'Nam, so they don't fit the demo. Please spare me this shit and get busy preparing your disco-themed retirement investment commercials that will air in 2015.

The Dark Side of Adulthood

The Perpetrator: Miller Genuine Draft

The Logic: "Oh shit. All of the high school kids who used to ask some sketchy older dude to buy them our beer are on the verge of becoming thirty-something schlubs - what do we do???" Well, you simply change the way you market your product!

The Method: As a sad song lamenting a lost love drones on in the background, neo-hipster douchebags stare longingly at the implements of their binge drinking escapades as their killjoy girlfriends give them a "come on, I've almost completely emasculated you, we may as well go the whole way with it" look. Away go the foam-domes, talking beer openers (I still have one) and plastic keg cups, gone like the youth they can never recapture. Once they've discarded the things that actually made them fun, they receive comfort from their new, much less fun friends and imbibe in a bottle of MGD, the grown up beer.

The Madness: It appears that the good folks up in Milwaukee would have us believe that choking down that swill they call beer is the key to enjoying a more grown up brand of "partying", which apparently involves standing around some dickhead's tastefully furnished apartment with three other couples while wearing a sportcoat instead of doing keg stands and vomiting on the shoes of some girl you're trying to impress. Sure, each is its own version of hell, but only one leaves you with something tangible to bullshit over your next set of drinks with. Hell, if the point is to upgrade your beer choice, how about Pilsener Urquell, Duvel, or even freaking Amstel Light? Jesus Christ, if this is what maturity is all about I'm all for arrested development.

OK, We Get the Idea - We're American

The Perpetrators: GM (specifically Chevrolet) and John "Cougar" Mellencamp

The Logic: During that most Amreican of pasttimes, the World Series, We the People of the United States of America, in all of our Americanism, in these trying, turbulent times for America, desire images of American Americana and Americanified American American-do attitude, because hey, it's not "American't"!

The Method: Thankfully Chevy has answered our prayers by using images of this great nation of ours along with John Mellencamp to encourage us to exhibit our Patriotism by purchasing a Chevy Silverado. From the rock 'n' roll of the '50's to those ever-turbulent '60's to recent representations of our trials and tribulations, Chevy feels that by playing the National Pride card, their lagging truck sales will surge before the '07's come out. USA! USA! USA!

The Madness: Good God, what image of our recent past wasn't hijacked for this ad campaign? The funny part of the whole message is that there seems to be a certain demographic that Chevy targets here - white, working and farming class Christrian folk from middle-America who hold traditional American values near and dear to their hearts. Yet a few of the indelible American images Chevy uses seem to fly in the face of that group:

- Rock and Roll in the 50's: Unfamiliar, loud and often played by negroes, I doubt it sat well with these folks.

- Muhammed Ali: Yeah, I'm sure middle America in 1965 just loved a large, brash, outspoken black man who converted to Islam and refused to be drafted.

- Young People Marching for Peace in the 60's: Likely transcript of a person from the target demographic watching the riots in Chicago in '68 on their television: "YES! GO! SMASH THAT GODDAMNED HIPPIE'S HEAD IN!"

In addition, I find it quite offensive that three of the most unpleasant developments of the last few decades - Vietnam; The World Trade Center; Hurricane Katrina - are in a sense hijacked to inspire us to run out and purchase a fucking pickup truck. I guess they couldn't get rights to those videos of civil rights marchers being hosed down in Birmingham or of the Iranian students storming the U.S. Embassy in Tehran in '79 - what a shame.

Last but certainly not least in the realms of my dislike, John Mellencamp, the Champion of America's breadbasket. Spewing from his tobacco-tar-drenched lungs are ballads about scarecrows, shoddy homes, the escapades of young country folk outside the Tastee-Freez, and R-O-C-K in the U-S-A, he serves as the constant reminder that American music can be bland and unfeeling.

Oh, and this is our country.

Where All the Fat Women At?

The Perpetrators: The Fast Food Industry

The Logic: "If we present the patrons of our restaurants as young, hip, thin, good-looking people, we will in turn be patronized in droves by a) young, hip, thin, good-looking people, and b) the obese people who already patronize us extensively who now think it's more acceptable now that we've shown young, hip, thin, good-looking people doing the same.

Pause...

"Ah, hell, the fatties will eat our shit regardless, but let's still go for those good-looking ones."

The Method: It's simple, really - pick a fast-food commercial, any fast food commercial. Next, closely observe the type of individual put in front of us as spokespeople for the product. From the leggy brunette who wantonly seduces the office cretin in the Burger King ads, to the Pam Beasly-esque girl next door who becomes extremely creeped out when her co-worker (?) professes his love for her after she invents a clever word (a Sniglet, if you will) to extol the benefits of a crunchy, chewy, cheesy Taco Bell product, we are assaulted of images of normal, healthy, clear-complexioned people who are frequent fast food patrons - and simply do not exist! Therein lies one of the sinister aspects of these ads - creating the fantasy world.

The Madness: After observing these commercials, pick a fast-food restaurant, any fast-food restaurant, get a bottomless Coke and sit your ass down. Then, watch the traffic flow and make note of their general physical appearance. Do you see any joweled, flabby, smelly, wheezin, pear-shaped men? Any waddling, pale, splotchy-skinned, saggy-bottomed, sweatpants-wearing women? Well, you've just uncovered the other half of the sinister truth - create the fantasy, but don't deliver.

Join me next time when I write about the Super Bowl Commercials, because God knows I'll be too lazy to do anything before then.

Until next time...

Tales from the Lost Semester - The Second Wave

2006-06-27T12:28:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's been far too long, but here I am.

First and foremost, after two months away from posting, I am quite certain that most of my nine readers have given up hope that I would ever put out anything new again. You've had two months to read and re-read my lament over the wretched gas I had back on April 26, 2006. This is unacceptable but not entirely surprising, seeing as there have been several gaps in my creative being over the years I have been churing out these writings. Now that I'm back, I think it's only appropriate that we pick back up with that sensation of sensations - the Tales from the Lost Semester!

Now I have a confession to make. Namely, I have spent a great deal of time fretting over the release of the coming Tales from the Lost Semester, particularly the next volume (as if that wasn’t obvious by the wide chasm of time between my last Tale and this one). Why, you ask? Well, aside from the fact that nine people who are not me will have the chance to witness firsthand the details of my downward spiral into a serious funk, one that took me significant time and effort to dig myself out of, some of what I will reveal to you is quite frankly very humiliating and questions my status as a normal, healthy adult male. I shudder to think of how you might feel about me once these stories of decadence, debauchery and despair rear their ugly heads and make their way onto this dark, scarcely viewed corner of the Internet. Consider this your disclaimer… no, your stern warning: you may never look at me the same way again.

In addition, as we all know, a few of my nine readers are actual participants in the madness that was the Lost Semester. Be forewarned, gentlemen: some of my stories refer to agony and heartache that at the time I perceived to be maliciously inflicted upon me by you all. As the years have gone on, we have collectively (and rightfully) reached the conclusion that most if not all of the misery I suffered through came directly as a result of how I perceived things in my own mind’s eye. However, as I am trying my best to relive these dark days of my life as accurately as possible, it is very likely that my perception had painted you as the bad guys in certain situations. I only ask that you don’t let it ruin your lives as a result – I think that’s not too much to ask.

Now I must take some comfort in the fact that those who know me realize that I tend to overly dramatize matters that in the grand scheme of things are quite trivial – call it my “plan for the worst, hope for the best” mentality. I realize we all have skeletons in our closet that we must deal with, and sometimes to effectively deal with them we must swing the closet’s door open and expose its musty, murky inhabitants to the rest of the world. And no, all this “closet” talk does not allude to a forthcoming confession that I am gay – I am not, have never been and do not plan on being gay (not that there’s anything wrong with it, of course). And to keep the placing-of-J’s-issues-in-perspective theme rolling along, I am not guilty of any crimes, sins or other chicanery that would require me to be ostracized from society and/or humanity as a whole. Although this is technically debatable, I digress.

No friends, when all is said and done the Tales that follow simply divulge the actions and antics of a confused, misguided, insecure, nervous individual with too much of an appetite for mind-altering substances and not enough confidence or perspective to realize at the time that things were probably going to work out just fine. It is in that spirit that I continue down this path and bring you Volume 12…coming to these pages very soon.

I Have Gas

2006-04-26T12:50:00.000-05:00

This is a public service announcement - as of the time of this posting, I have gas.

This is not your every day, run-of-the mill gas. Were this so, I would not feel the need to profess my gaseousness across these blogwaves. This is not the gas that one typically gets from completing their regular cycle of eating, digesting and excreting. No, this is something more powerful, more dastardly, more sinister than your average bout of flatulence.

This is the type of gas that makes you question your own health and, yes, the existence of God. This is "Dear Lord, I hope nobody comes within 25 feet of me right now" gas. This is "oh boy, is this a fart or a shit?" gas. It is "any creature under 45 pounds would surely die if they caught a whiff of this" gas. It's brutal.

What have I done to deserve this? What could I have perpetrated against the souls that guide fate and the cosmos? What Karmic withdrawal did I instigate that has now come back to haunt me in the form of this vociferous, malodorous ailment? What crawled up my ass and died?

Please be mindful that great care must be taken in my current condition - I am surrounded on all sides by air-breathing individuals with a keen sense of hearing and a knack for visiting me at the most inopportune of moments. In addition, the temperament of this gas has somehow confused the section of my brain that alerts my bowels when to clench and my anus when to open in an effort to unleash whatever waste product lies within. Therefore, I am naturally concerned for both my social and physical well-being as a result of this gas. This is certainly disheartening.

Oh my God, here comes one....UGH!

Thankfully that was silent, but God forbid another human being come within my vicinity right now. They too will wonder just what unholy activities are occurring inside my digestive tract. They'll wonder if I've contracted some horrid, contagious ailment that I will pass on to them, leaving them at the mercy of their own foul odor.

Was it those steak tacos I had for lunch yesterday? Or the green beans from the night before? I am truly perplexed.

Yes friends, I have gas. Steer clear until further notice.

Until next time...

Children's Toys, Adult Humor, and the Killjoys at Leap Frog

2006-04-20T12:26:00.000-05:00

As a relatively new father, two of the greatest joys I now experience on a daily basis are 1) watching my boy play and 2) watching my boy learn. Imagine then, if you will, my sheer excitement upon learning that young Brooks had received Leap Frog's Alphabet Pal as a gift. For those of you not in the know, the Alphabet Pal is a 14-inch long purple caterpillar bearing a welcoming grin and a desire to teach your child the ever-important alphabet. The Pal has 26 legs, each one festooned with bright, appealing colors and one letter of the alphabet (in sequential order no less!). So Brooks not only learns his ABC's, he also derives pleasure by playing with a cheerfully hued giant insect that talks back to him (note: currently, he has mastered trying to cram the entire bug in his mouth, so I'm hoping the appreciation of letters is not too far behind).

While most of Brooks's toys provide little if any stimulation for yours truly, my initial review of the Alphabet Pal's features led me to conclude that I too would be able to amuse myself with this delightful creature. You see, this toy has four settings of interactive fun:

1. The Alphabet Pal recites the letter corresponding to the leg you press
2. The Alphabet Pal recites the color corresponding to the leg you press
3. The Alphabet Pal sounds out the letter corresponding to the leg you press
4. The Alphabet Pal sings variations of the Alphabet Song to your youngster

Considering these settings, I immediately determine that setting 2 does me no good, as I have had my colors mastered for some time now. And setting 4 does nothing more than make me want to hurl the beast out of my window, so I don't get much out of that one. However, the possibilities with settings 1 and 3 seemed endless! Immediately upon freeing the caterpillar from his cardboard prison, I flipped on setting 1 (reciting the letters) and set about the process of amusing myself:

"F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U. F-U."

"Hee hee" I thought as Michelle wondered why she married me. "This is too much fun!" After going through other clever combinations such as A-S-S and S-H-I-T, I decide that the hilarity could be driven to new heights were I to make this toy actually sound out swear words! I giddily switch the Alphabet Pal to setting 3 and go right for the throat...

I press F. "Ffffeh"

U. "Uh"

Now, the cherry on top, K...

"Heeheeheehee, that tickles! Kuh."

Wha? That's not supposed to happen! A glitch, I think, as I repeat the sequence...

"Ffffeh...Uh...Heeheeheehee, that tickles! Kuh."

What the Ffffeh-Uh-Kuh is the problem here? I try again and again and again, but every time, this little shit has me figured out, claiming that I am tickling one of his 26 appendages rather than saying "Fuck" like I want him too. Undaunted, I shift gears...

A. "Aaa"

S. "Heeheeheehee, that tickles! Ssss."

"This can't be happening," I think. I press on...

D. "Duh"

I. "(short) i"

K (c'mon, please...). "Heeheeheehee, that tickles! Kuh."

Now I'm getting pissed! Why would those bastards at Leap Frog do this to me? The recommended age on this toy is 12 months to 3 years - those kids can't even spell! Why would they rob me of this small pleasure??? Are they so cold and calculating that they don't trust me to do what's right? Of course I'm thinking all of this while trying to spell out swear words on my five-month old son's toy, but come on! He goes to bed at 7:00, and the Alphabet Pal sits there and tempts me like the serpent with the forbidden apple, only I cannot take a bite. I finally reach my wit's end...

K. "Kuh"

U. "Uh"

N. "Nnn"

T. "Tuh"

VICTORY IS MINE! I beat those fuckers! Kiss my goddamn ass, you piece of shit! Of course, I am soon knocked off of my high horse by Michelle's look of disgust/horror (she hates that word, and rightfully so). At that moment I realized that I was corrupting my son's toy, his implement of learning, his window into a world he currently cannot comprehend. The shame is overwhelming, and I begin to sob uncontrollably. OK, that last part didn't really happen, but the message was clear - give it up, you can't win. Defeated, I shut the Alphabet Pal off, refusing to subject him to any future amoral activities that would taint his effectiveness as a champion of the alphabet.

Except, of course, for the occasional "F-U". Old habits die hard.

Until next time (when judging by the timing of the last posting, only God knows when that might be)...

News and Notes - March 24, 2006

2006-03-24T12:40:00.000-06:00

Well, hello again everybody! To quote The Onion's Jim Anchower "I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I've had a lot of shit going down." Let's see what I've been up to:

- I am a sucker for the lowest common denominator. Case in point: NBC's Deal or No Deal. Just the sheer simplicity of the title itself should give you all the clue you need regarding the nature of this show: simple concept for simple people. The fact that it's hosted by a now-sheen-bald-soulpatch-sporting Howie Mandell is your other clue. The basic premise is that there are 24 suitcases, each containing a sum of money, ranging from $1 million to $.01. The contestant is charged with opening a set number of suitcases (6 at time in the early rounds, progressively fewer in subsequent rounds). Whatever amount is revealed in a suitcase is taken off the board, meaning the person no longer has a chance to win that amount. After each "round", Howie receives a phone call from "The Banker", a shadowy figure that looms ominously above the stage, who relays a money offer for the contestant if they will just stop playing this game. For educated people like myself and my readers, it is clear that the offer represents something that very closely resembles the median of the remaining numbers.

This is where the "strategy" comes in. The contestant is then asked by Howie: "Deal, or no deal?" That is to say "do you want to actually walk out of here with some cash, or are you going to foolishly keep gambling, likely ending up with even less than you have now." Given that each contestant is being egged on by family members, friends and the audience to go for broke, the answer inevitably is almost always "No Deal!", which certainly does not please the Banker (Michelle is no longer amused by my constant "If the banker is so outraged, why doesn't he stand up and start shaking his fist at the contestant" commentary that runs every time this clandestine mystery man graces us with his business-like silhouette). Are you frustrated yet by the sheer stupidity of this game? The only saving grace are the lovely ladies who stand and hold the suitcases, no doubt wondering if and when they'll land a gig with a little more substance. These models open each suitcase at the behest of the contestant, and they display one of three signature reactions: 1) Small Amount: "AH! I am SOOO excited for you! Great job!" 2) Medium Amount: "Hey, OK, it's not so bad, it could be worse, hang in there!" 3) Large Amount: "I'm really sorry I just ripped your heart out of your chest!". Every now and then, one will dare to speak, but she's immediatey lashed with a cat-o-nine-tails by a crazed albino mental patient. Yes, that last part is 100% true.

I'll admit it - watching rubes get duped via shell game antics on National TV gives me reason to live.

- OK, I just finished watching Nova-BC, and Jim Nance just commented on how ecstatic "Rowan Massamina" must be. I'm guessing Rollie Massamino is probably pretty stoked as well.

- You all know that from time to time, I make a feeble attempt to express my views on politics in this fair space. I'm sure you also know that my facts are often quite shaky, my positions foggy and my knowledge as deep as the pool of vomit Mama Cass passed away in. I have come to the realization that it simply does not matter what I think. During our Illinois primaries, which were stocked with Illinois politicians who carry with them that great tradition of those that have served and passed, in whose shoes they now walk. Which of course means, they're all crooks. OK, that's harsh, not true, but not the point. I received a call from one of the candidates' cronies, suggesting that I go vote for his man because "you're registered as a Democrat." As soon as I finished dry-heaving, I quietly said, "thanks, but no thanks." I am most certainly not a Democrat. At least not what Democrats are today: corrupt, money-laden machines on the local level; a stumbling, inept complainer with a persecution complex on the National level. Does this sound like a wise affiliation?

Of course it goes without saying that I'd sooner play chess against Death himself (and I suck at chess) than associate myself with the Republican party. I just finished watching an excellent PBS special on the Reconstruction - the Republicans were doing everything in their Godgiven power to make sure those newly freed African-American slaves were given a fair shake...in the South. You see, the Feds wanted to bring the South back in because shit, there was CASH to be made! But in order to get them to behave, they thought it would be a fine idea if they forcibly introduced their former chattel into their economically crippled society. I mean, sure, all of the Northern cities were still almost completely segregated, with a wide chasm between living conditions and civil rights, but we won the fucking war, so tough shit! It is said that it had to be like this - Abraham Lincoln was truly working towards upholding the "All men are created equal" jive in the Declaration of Independence. I guess you can say the modern Republican party owes John Wilkes Booth a debt of gratitude.

"Jeez, J, that was 1873, what about now?" What about now? Today, instead of being run by bloated bureaucrats who only wish to force their agenda on the general public because they stand to profit from it, the Republicans are run by...uh...hmm...moving on. Besides the euphamisms, half-truths, legal troubles, speculation, propaganda and outright lies, there's that pesky little matter of the Religious Right. Call me crazy, but I'm not huge on associating myself with someone who adopts a literal interpretation of a book written approximately 1600-2000 years ago, mainly in a time that was known as the "Dark Ages"? Plus their stadium-style churches are tacky as hell. And finally, your Republican Party is rounded out by...this week's contestants on Deal or No Deal!

Card-carrying Independent, my friends. I can be had - whattya got?

- I've looked back over my years of writings, and I've noticed a pattern. Every time I write about the White Sox with even a twinge of hope, they do a belly-flop and have one of those Tartabul-Navarro-Belle-Wells years. Last year I wished gonhorrea on Kenny Williams for his idiotic moves, and joy ensues. This should come as no surprise to anyone who is remotely aware of my sports prognostication skills (or complete and utter lack thereof). I am the one who bet on the 1994 49ers twice, and those were the ONLY two times they didn't beat the spread all goddamned season. I'm also the guy who's notorious for his 0-5 five team parlays. And I've gone approximately 2-28 in single games during all my time in Vegas. Sensing a trend? So here's my official, iron-clad prediction for 2006: They are not going to be good. Here we go...

- While watching all of this basketball action, I came across a commercial for Old Spice men's deodorant. The ad featrured a lusty young woman with a sweaty bare midriff, skin tight leather pants, a breast-accentuating top and a come-hither look that would render any mortal man to weak for comprehension, gyrating suggestively to sultry jungle music. As you are mesmerized by the display of raw sexuality occuring in front of your yearning eyes, up flashes the following string of words: "There's no such thing...as a hot....steamy...sweaty...sexy...DUDE!" Um, I know of a few gentleman in Chicago's own Boy's Town area that might take you to task on that one, Old Spice.

Until next time...

Tales from the Lost Semester - Mid-Semester Break

2006-03-07T08:15:00.000-06:00

“The Lost Semester was a time of discovery; a time of missed classes, missed opportunities, frat house living, late night food, 12-packs on Monday nights, vomiting, low self-esteem, high friends, hockey, hallucinogens, jury duty, conflict, poor decisions, bad grades and good times. Oh, and tons and tons of pot.”

That’s right, folks – on May 19, 2005, a new phenomenon was born unto the world – a phenomenon known simply as Tales from the Lost Semester. The 49 words listed above barely gave you, my nine preferred readers, a glimpse into the madness that was to come. Up until a few years ago, I lived in complete denial of the fact that I was a stammering, drugged-out head case with little academic skills and no romantic prowess to speak of. Only recently, as my ongoing maturation process continued, did I come to the realization that those were indeed some awkward times for yours truly. The next step after admitting that you were wrong, of course, is to come clean to those around you. The Tales have served as a great way for me to get some pesky things off my back, like the fact that I actually gave a speech professing that the Grateful Dead were the best thing to ever happen to music – hell, I’m not even sure if they were the best thing to ever happen to jam bands at this point. But that’s what maturity brings, friends – realizations that your views on what seemed acceptable, normal or sane at one point of your life don’t always age very well.

It took a scant 9 months, but I have cranked out a whopping 11 volumes of the Tales to date – a quick recap:

1. Intro/The Paper (Volume 1)
2. Where the Happy People Meet (Volume 2)
3. The Most Fun You’ll Never Want to Have Again (Volume 3)
4. The Nevada House (Volume 4)
5. Caps (Volume 5)
6. Are You Nervous? (Volume 6)
7. Stupor Bowl XXVII (Volume 7)
8. The Greatest (Volume 8)
9. The Dead (Volume 9)
10. Attius (Volume 10)
11. Are You Experienced? (Volume 11)

Quite an eclectic group of stories, if I do say so myself. However, there’s one thing that really frightens me about the Tales – these 11 initial volumes are in many ways innocent, endearing and amusing, and they don’t make me appear to be very troubled at all. However, as I peruse the subjects of the remaining volumes, my throat starts to dry up, my palms begin to sweat, my stomach begins to flutter, and I get just a teensy bit…nervous. Some of the things I plan to reveal about myself will make you scratch your collective heads and wonder how it is that I am a) employed and/or employable, b) married, and c) alive. Most of these stories are only known by a few select individuals, and some things have not been revealed to anyone – yes, you read that correctly. There are certain elements of my Lost Semester life that, for the first time EVER, I will come clean about. Oh, imagine the possibilities! For me, a load off of my mind; for you, an entertaining way to realize that you really weren’t so screwed up by comparison. Needless to say, I look forward to it.

Up until now, the Tales have been told solely from my perspective – everything you have read is based strictly on my memory of what went down that fateful Spring Semester. I feel that this cheats you out of the full Lost Semester experience, and my goal in these writings is to bring you back there, to live as I lived, drink as I drank, smoke as I smoked, hallucinate as I hallucinated…well, you get the picture. On that note, it is my great pleasure to present the Tales from the Lost Semester Mid-Semester Break – a forum featuring a few key participants in the madness. Our panelists today will be CS (a Room 23 resident), Sadahara, Pops and Mayo – quite an esteemed bunch, I must say. I hope that their input will provide you with some additional insight into the sheer madness that was the Lost Semester. So, without further adieu…

J: Gentlemen, welcome. To start us off, please discuss your favorite Lost Semester memory I’ve shared thus far.

CS: The most outstanding/everlasting memory about Room 23 was that at those lazy times of my existence, I owned the right to the most comfortable bed and recliner at the same time, not to mention the fact that I could never get out of bed for my only Tuesday/Thursday class at 12:30.

Sadahara: I enjoyed your walk home from the Nevada house and your speech to argue that the Dead was the best band of all time mainly because I'd never heard either. I almost barfed out of Pavlovian response with the Nevada story.

Pops: Got to be the episode on booming – I felt like I was there and it made me smile A LOT. Puliter Prize-winning stuff.

Mayo: Volume 11 (Are You Experienced?) is my favorite piece that you have written thus far. You did a great job capturing that evening. One thing I will never forget is the first time we did shrooms and how they put me in the best mood. I felt like we should redo the food pyramid and put shrooms on the top (or is it bottom). Fantastic.

J: Well, I’m glad you’ve enjoyed them. Given that you all spent so much time in Room 23 (which is why you’re all so prominently featured in these Tales), I’d be interested to hear your feelings on the Room 23 musical rotation. Maybe it was because I was so wasted, but I got the feeling that it was quite repetitive. And I always got the feeling that folks like Sadahara weren’t too well represented. Thoughts?

CS: The musical rotation really could have only lasted for the four months that we lived there. Truly a shooting star and sometimes maddening for Sadahara. However, I think we offered a much better alternative to a "Cure" soaked Room 20 (Dirk’s room).

S: Actually, I felt it was the best music in the house. People were very conscious of it and it was meant to enhance and include. No, I am not a big Dead fan, but there was always the Repo Man soundtrack. Also, Shakedown Street was a very nice catch-all album. Cypress Hill, Jazz, Beatles, The Rapper...I could go on and on.

M: The Room 23 musical rotation was a duumvirate. Did Miser own any music? Not that I am complaining as I enjoyed the musical rotation, but outsiders did not have much influence on what was played.

P: As a proud Deadhead I loved the music – the Dead and Allman Brothers. It was all good with me. Room 23 and (the Dead’s) "Unbroken Chain" will forever be linked. I also loved CS singing along to "Shaft". Hilarious.

J: Talking about the other important aspect of Room 23, what was your favorite “utensil”?

All (in unison): The Aquapipe, hands down.

J: Gee, I’m shocked that no one picked the shitty wooden bowl that I constantly had to farm for resin. Moving on – CS, in Volume 2, I describe you as "wily", "Slick bastard" and "Room 23 Alpha Male". How does this make you feel?

CS: The Volume 2 characterizations make me feel like I have become more refined in my later years. "Room 23 Alpha Male" was all bluster on my part. Miser could have snuffed me in a heart beat, but at least not without me taking a vital organ or two.

J: What about your role in the infamous “Paper” scandal – do you feel that the whole debacle was worth it? Was your grade justified seeing as I got a C?

CS: The First Triumvirate Paper Scandal was worth it a 100 times over. I felt I earned that B by my expert scheming and the fact that I won Rock-Paper-Scissors fair and square.

J: Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t be such a sore loser. Speaking of losers, you guys, be honest – just how fucking nervous was I?

S: Very nervous. Occassionally painfully nervous. To be honest though, so was I.

CS: I didn’t think you were that nervous; you were (and still are) verbose. But the hairdo didn't help.

P: J, you had your moments, but you were not nearly as bad as you think they were. Everyone was nervous at some point in their college career, as Sadahara alluded to. I think the Chronic would freak you out every once in awhile, and some of our friends loved to instigate trouble; yet all of our boys get unconditional love.

M: You were not that nervous! The only truly nervous times I can recall were when we were hacky-sacking.

J: Mayo, while I appreciate the sentiment, I think I have to side with the others on this one. It’s painful for me to think about. Must…fix…hair… OK, moving on. Sadahara, in Volume 8, when walking to That's Rentertainment, when did you make the determination that you would be renting "The Greatest"? Were there any other movies under consideration?

S: The decision to rent "The Greatest" was not made on the walk; that is for sure. I'd never heard of the movie before I saw it on the shelf. As I mentioned above, I too was pretty nervous in college and I honestly did not want to rent something that the crowd would poo-poo. In the state of mind I was in, I over-thought things about a billion times too much and ended up with "The Greatest". I'm guessing "History of the World" and "Weird Science" were both considered, as well as "McVicar" starring Roger Daltrey.

J: Personally I got a kick out of it, but you definitely were not so lucky with the others. But that was all part of the fun of our group – in many ways we were quite different, but we all found common ground (i.e. pot). On that note, Sadahara and Pops, you guys lived in Room 7, which can best be described as the not-quite-as-friendly version of Room 23. Where did those differences lie for you guys?

S: I suppose that Room 7 was the fun, but less-friendly, less-charming and more-drunken half-brother of Room 23. Way more booze, capping, metal, thrash, shit-talking and general meanness in Room 7. Please bear in mind that I'm not bad-mouthing my old room, for it had its own charm to be sure. I loved it. But Room 23 was more relaxing, quieter and cleaner. Plus, you all were more likely to have girls hanging out in your room so that was good. Really, I guess it boils down to fact that 7 had it's foundation in booze and 23 had its foundation in herbal delights and everything kind of goes from there, no?

P: I agree with Sadahara, your room was nicer (especially when you have the Big O and myself ripping most everyone we didn't like on a daily basis, and Sadahara would jump in but nearly as bad as us) and we did drink more. I think we got a little more traffic just because people were afraid of the "old" Room 23 and we never went to bed. Your room was a lot cleaner (we had Mickey's Big Mouth bottles and Keystone Light cans on our floor for the entire month of March – we’d just push them around for space on the floor to watch TV). But both rooms were arguably the best rooms in house – that's why we had all the guest partiers.

J: Well said. Speaking of girls, Pops – I alluded to the fact that you happened to date one of my close “relatives”. Describe if you will the awkwardness you experienced as a result of your dating Emma. Do you regret this relationship, and if so, why?

P: I have no regrets – it was a lot of fun. I probably wish I wasn't such a prick to girls, but college boys will be college boys. As far as awkwardness I just didn't want you to be pissed off at me, and I think you were damn cool about the whole thing – God knows what I would have done in your shoes.

J: Yeah, you’re just lucky I was a nervous little shit, or I might have pounded you. Or not. Let’s talk about Hell Week – Mayo, you definitely stand out in my mind as one of the key players of that miserable experience. How utterly disturbed were you when I rode the bike through the basement during Hell Week wearing tighty whiteys?

M: Actually, it was both funny and disturbing. At that point we had nothing left and that was the sign for me. sort of like when one of the losers going through with us was doing push ups and fell flat on his face and blood from his nose started falling down the front of his face and he refused to do anything about it in fear of being punished. But it was a very original idea and got many laughs!

J: Jesus, if there were laughs, I didn’t hear them. One last question – what is your favorite shrooming experience down at school?

(Editor’s note: I had to withhold many of the answers received to this question as it would provide a major spoiler of one of the most mind blowing Tales yet to come).

J: Well you guys, I really do appreciate you taking the time to weigh in on all of the goings on that semester. Needless to say, it would have been a lot more “lost” without you all (wiping away a tear…).

Friends, please stay tuned for the next 11 installments of the Tales, which as mentioned should be disturbing, hilarious, sad and enlightening all rolled into one!

Until next time…

News and Notes - March 1, 2006

2006-03-01T17:04:00.000-06:00

Greetings and salutations to my nine readers. Here I come on the run with a burger on a bun, and a dab of News and Notes on the side…

• Well, another season of The Bachelor has come and gone, and I did my best to stay up to date and informed on all the desperate husband hunting goings on (OK, that's bullshit, but whatever) – sadly, these efforts did not translate into postings on this fair blog, and for that I feel shame. So in order to make it up to you, here’s a handy primer of everything you would need to know in order to appear Bachelor-savvy at your local watercooler:

o During my commentary on the opening episode, I referred to Ali G (no, not that Ali G), the freakish troll woman intent on starting the reproductive phase of her life. As I told you, when she was not selected in the first MOST DRAMATIC ROSE CEREMONY EVER, she confronted the Bachelor (Travis) and demanded to know why he didn’t pick her: Too short? Not pretty enough? Boobs too small? Well, yes, yes and yes. But say “reproduction” to a single man and he will likely drop you quicker than Matrix dropped Sully over that cliff in Commando. So she basically made about as complete and total of an ass as one could possibly make of themselves…on national TV! In what comes as a shocking turn of events, she declined the invitation to appear on the “Women Tell All” episode. My question: wouldn’t you think that ABC would have made this a contractual obligation of being on the show in the first place? Isn’t she in breach of said contract by not facing the music? Isn’t there a lawyer somewhere who stands to profit off of this?

o The show was tabbed “The Bachelor: Paris” but at least 1/3 of the time was spent in another European location or in the U.S. doing the obligatory “meet the families” escapade. And while we’re on this topic, has there ever been a family in the history of this show that remained skeptical of the whole fiasco even after the visit was over? No matter how hard-ass the father/brother/mother/drunken grandmother tries to profess themselves to be, by the end they’re always gushing about what a great guy the Bachelor is and how they could really see their daughter/sister/drunken granddaughter ending up with him. Ball-less wonders, each and every one of them.

o The Canadian girl who lived at home with her parent in Winnipeg was so drunk when Travis kissed her that she didn’t remember it when they were talking the next day. I’m not sure what part of that sentence scares me the most.

o Travis narrowed down his choice down to two decidedly different ladies (there’s a shocker): a homely-yet-cute Kindergarten teacher from Nashville and an attractive-yet-psychotic brunette from LA. The teacher basically had to beg Travis to make a move on her, was loved by his family, was great with kids, and had a frumpy mother who had real reservations about the possibility of her ever leaving Nashville. The brunette was constantly being undressed by Travis’s eyes, liked to surf, had an asshole for a father and an attractive stepmother, cried at the drop of a hat and, when asked questions like “why do you like our son” by Travis’s parents, started bawling and saying things like “Do you know what it’s like to look at someone and see your own soul?” and “He rocks me to the core”. Yikes. If history held true, he’d pick the hotter chick who’s fucked in the head, but he bucked tradition and went with the safe bet. I’m sure it’s going to last.

• From the “People are a bunch of miserable fucks” department: Michelle, Brooks and I were flying home from Florida on Friday, where I had spent the week in training. We checked in, got through security and got to our gate with no issues. However, as we readied ourselves to board the plane, I looked at our boarding passes and noticed that good old United had given us two middle seats! What stellar work on their part! So we reluctantly head to our seats, and I linger in the aisle, hoping that the kind soul holding the ticket next to Michelle’s seat will see it in their heart to let these new parents sit together with their 3-month-old son.

Much to my chagrin, the two people I see bearing down on our row are two frumpy, haggard, violently ugly women bearing menacing scowls. “This should go well” I think. As they approached our row, the lead woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Leatherface from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, belts out in her wretched three-pack-a-day-smoker voice “THAT’S my seat.”

“Excuse me ma’am, this is my wife and son, and this (I point to my middle seat across the aisle) is my seat, and I was hoping…”

“I DON’T WANT TO SIT IN A MIDDLE SEAT! NO!”

Fine, you horrid bitch, I think to myself, but I quickly, calmly say, “OK, thank you” and start to gather Brooks up because, hey, this plane’s going to take off and I want to get situated. So Leatherface wheels around to her equally-disgusting friend and barks, “Do YOU want to switch seats?” “I just want to sit down!” With that response, Leatherface doesn’t even try to hide the contempt in her voice when she wheels back to me and says, “OK, FINE, GO AHEAD, WHATEVER!” I quickly try and gather my things together before her dark lord and master Satan implores her to change her mind, and very nicely say, “thank you very much, we really do appreciate it.” To which she of course responds:

“WELL I DIDN’T REALLY HAVE A CHOICE WITH THAT GUILT TRIP!”

At this point my face is so purple that Michelle thinks blood is going to start shooting out of my eyes. Guilt trip??? What in the holy living fuck are you talking about? Is my baby the source of this guilt trip? Gee, I’m sorry my wife and I decided to procreate last year, you vile creature. Michelle can see that I’m about to do something that would likely get me declared an enemy combatant and thrown in a prison for several months without being charged, so she calmly encourages me to let it go. Cooler heads prevail, and I take my new seat. But will Leatherface let it die? Of course not! She’s shooting us dirty looks. She’s making all kinds of comments: “I can’t believe I’m in a middle seat again!” “We took the time to make sure we reserved the seats we wanted, why can’t THEY?” Remember how I told you all that I regularly wish gonorrhea on people? This was seriously the closest I’ve ever come to wishing death on someone – she was truly despicable.

After we took off, the woman sitting in their row’s window seat must have caught wind of their smelly vibe, because as soon as she found out there was another seat available, she bolted like she was fleeing the Grim Reaper himself. This left Leatherface and her hideous friend room to stretch out in their seats, sleep, snore like an emphysema-riddled vagrant with their legs spread, exposing their likely-barren wombs to the world. Michelle, Brooks and I took the high road, made friends on the plane and returned to our happy lives. Leatherface and her friend went back to their sparse, depressing one bedroom apartments to eat canned dog food and wonder what life had been like had they not been born such ugly people (or so I hope). And all was right with the world.

• I have previously mentioned in this space that one of my guilty pleasures (no, not autoerotic asphyxiation) is watching many of the fine programs featured on Gen-Y Wasteland MTV. From True Life to My Super Sweet 16 to There and Back (one of Michelle’s favorites) I can’t seem to get enough stories about guys on steroids, ludicrously rich girls whose fathers throw them $100,000 parties and buy them cars for their 16th birthdays and a former boy band member who must now get a job like the rest of us schleps. However, the show that has captured my imagination most recently is Parental Control. The premise: Parents whose teenager is dating an undesirable interview several potential candidates to replace this undesirable as their child’s significant other. The mother and father each select a date for their child, and then (this is great) they sit in their living room with the undesirable and watch footage of each date, all the while trading smarmy comments and witty barbs about the child, the dates selected by the parents and the undesirable’s status as a loser. For example, the parents of one boy, who must be a huge Ali G fan because he kept saying “sexy time” and had a tattoo that said (yep) Sexy Time on his stomach (there’s no way he’ll regret that when he’s 35). His loser girlfriend, a sardonic harlot wearing too much makeup, sat with his parents and commented how their son would not be interested in a girl the mother had selected because her breasts weren’t big enough. It was surreal and delightful at the same time. My only question: who is initiating participation in this show? Is it the child dating the loser? Presumably they’re quite happy with the loser, which is why the parents are upset in the first place. Could it be the loser who wants to prove his/her worth? Why would they risk it? In the other episode I watched, the loser guy with no prospects for the future was jettisoned in favor of a tennis-playing aspiring financial professional, whereby he commented that he felt he needed to upgrade from his girlfriend anyway. Or is it the parents? This would seem logical except for the fact that I can’t figure out why the parents would be watching MTV, unless they stumbled upon the show as their son and daughter watched – but then who started it all? It’s the chicken or the egg. It’s baffling, but quite entertaining and well worth a viewing.

Until next time…

J is Lazy: Best Of J

2006-02-28T11:22:00.000-06:00

The Jackson-Feldman Tapes

(originally published on the disasterous MySpace site, February 22, 2005)

It appears that child mega-star Corey Feldman has been subpoenaed in the Michael Jackson kiddie-rape trial. Apparently, all of the news coming out about the King of Pop & Little Boy Fondling caused the star of such hits as “Meatballs 4”, “Blown Away”, and “The Thief and The Stripper” to reevaluate some of his encounters with his former friend. In fact, I was able to obtain a never-before released audio tape from an undisclosed source that reveals the details of one such sordid encounter. In this tape, we hear Jackson stepping out of line as he helps Feldman learn his lines for the 1985 hit “Goonies”:

Feldman: OK, Mike, let’s take it from the top of page 12. You’ll read as Data and I’ll be Mouth.

Jackson: Ooh, ‘Mouth’…I like that.

F: Um, just read the lines…

J: OK, Mouth…“Jeez Mouth, what’s the matter with...”…say, Corey, is this Data kid the Asian one?

F: Yeah, Jonathan Ke Quan plays him.

J: Oooh, I like those Asian boys. Should I talk like one? Ching chong chang!

F: Mike, that’s not very nice.

J: Do you have Jonathan’s phone number? Maybe he wants to come hang out…

F: Look, I really need to learn these lines…

J: Sure, whatever you say, Mouth

F: Why do you keep saying “Mouth” like that?

J: Well, I… (Unintelligible; struggling)…Are these Fruit of the Loom?

Sadly, the tape cuts out at this point, and we are only left to wonder what happened to poor Corey.

This Love

2006-02-17T15:50:00.000-06:00

Thanks to Michelle’s trusty subscription to beloved celebrity rag Us Weekly, the shocking news has been revealed that Jessica Simpson allegedly cheated on Nick Lachey while they were still pretending to be a couple in love for the purpose of promoting their MTV Series Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica. The “other” man? Why it’s Maroon 5 front-man Adam Levine! Now, a quick perusal of the official Maroon 5 website indicates that it would be set up much like any other celebrity’s site: links to news, bios, pics, info, and the ever-important store, where you can buy all kinds of Maroon 5-adorned crap – my favorite item would have to be the Maroon 5 black logo panties, which will no doubt need to be changed by their wearer once they get a peek at the dreamy Mr. Levine.

Oh, Adam Levine is dreamy alright. And if you don’t believe me, go take a gander at the staggering 317 pages of posts that comprise the Adam Levine Love Thread. Levine lovers such as M5FanoverFifty (who depressingly has posted 3,009 messages to the Maroon 5 website in the past 12 months) and Feet11 (hobbies: Listening to Maroon 5, knitting [while listening to Maroon 5], playing with my kids [while listening to Maroon 5]) (call DCFS, somebody, please!) pay homage to the dreamy rocker by posting picture after picture coupled with cutesy messages thanking each other for posting such wonderful pictures. And while it’s true what they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, the first few words that flow into my mind from looking at these pictures tell the whole story: “My name is Adam Levine. Look at me, for I am hot shit. See how hot I am? See how sexy my half-assed beard is? See my underwear? I am almost too cool to have fans, but I deserve the ones I have…” And on and on it goes. From the sullen rocker gaze to the smarmy grins to the painfully posed “action shots” to the “oh, yeah, I guess being in the VIP section of this hot LA club is kind of cool and all” photos, it doesn’t take yours truly to reach the conclusion that aside from the fact that he puts out (in my humble opinion) shitty music, I don’t think I care very much for Mr. Levine.

Which brings me back to Jessica Simpson. I realize that this marriage of hers was likely doomed from the start. I don’t imagine it’s ever a good idea to allow the delicate first years of your marriage, your “lifelong commitment” to another human being, play out on television airwaves. Regardless of how good it may be for ratings, it’s probably not a wise idea to paint yourself as a buffoon by wondering whether buffalos have wings or acting confused when tuna is called “Chicken of the Sea”, especially when you are not legitimately so stupid. Further, one would think that when you are a) a widely recognizable celebrity and b) married, it almost certainly wouldn’t be prudent to engage in coitus with someone who is not your spouse and not expect some backlash. But here we are with fresh allegations that, while still indeed married to noted Cincinnati Bengals fan Lachey, Simpson and Levine were having an affair. And now that the marriage has ended, it appears that she and the “bad boy rocker” (Us Weekly’s term, not mine) are now an item, with their recent meeting at Levine’s hotel resulting in a visit from the hotel’s security unit responding to another customer’s complaint of “loud, amorous noises” emitting from the room. Puke.

Now of course Jessica comes off as despicable for this adulterous act. However, I maintain that it takes two to tango, and given her stature as a pop culture icon, there is no feasible way Levine couldn’t have known that she had a husband. Yet there he went, romancing her, wooing her, perhaps even performing oral sex on her, despite the fact that she was married. And judging from what little I know of him, from that crappy album his band put out (I believe there’s still only the one – are we looking at the next Coldplay?) those pictures that scream thousands of unlikable, arrogant and narcissistic words about him, part of the whole appeal was to prove a point: “I can bang Jessica Simpson if I want because hey, I’m Adam Fucking Levine.” If Lachey wasn’t such good friends with Matt Leinhart, I might feel sorry for him. But I guess in a sense Simpson and Levine deserve one another. They both enjoy unprecedented publicity as a result of their limited accomplishments. They both rely heavily, perhaps too heavily, on their good looks. They both think the LA club scene is just to die for. And by 2008, they will both likely be rotting away on Lite FM stations across the country. So maybe, just maybe, things do happen for a reason. Maybe these are two self-centered star-crossed lovers that truly deserve each other. So I say kudos to you, Jessica – go have a great time w/Adorable Adam in his hotel room. And after you two get done fucking each other, go fuck yourselves.a

A Desperate Plea from a Desperate Madman

2006-02-06T16:58:00.000-06:00

I never thought it would come to this, but here we are.

Sigh

I come to you, on bended knee, seeking...Validation.

As the nine of you know, I often refer to you in the most loving manner in my rants, writings, tales and ramblings. The original Nine were hand-selected by me, the Madman, because of their loyalty, their forthcoming nature and their willingness to comment on what I used to forcefeed them via email ever couple of days/weeks/months. These stalwart souls even hung with me through the myspace.com debacle, during which I tried to lead everyone to a site that required registration and led to thousands of irritating spam emails for requests to add "friends" to your profile. Thankfully, I bailed on myspace.com, which thanks to Dateline NBC is now known for its keen ability to lead sexual predators to unsuspecting tweens and teens. Good wholesome fun, that myspace.com (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/10912603/).

Perhaps it's insecurity, perhaps it's my lack of faith, but lately my references to the Nine have begun to question their very existence. Sure there are the few, the proud, the trusty commenters: greg, roman, mark, mary, jeff, drexel, and my surprise German commenter Chriswab (Willkommen meinen Freund!). I also receive the occasional email to newsandnotes@hotmail.com, aka, Your Pipeline to the Madman. And yes, others of you provide verbal notification that you enjoy what I spew at you. I love you all for it.

However, one thing I've always relayed to my faithful is my desire to expand my reach, to boost readership, and to receive some sort of "shout out" as the kids say that, yes Madman, we're here, we're drinkin' it in, and man, we DIG. And given that I'm no longer banging out Word documents and forcefeeding them to dozens of unsuspecting fools, many of whom have activated their junk mail filters against all 127 of my email accounts, my true reach can only be measured by the number of lucky individuals I contact via the Madman Ramblings email alerts. And at my last count, including the Nine, the population stood at...18.

Yes, 18 people may very well be the highest level that my readership will ever swell to. That would be a shame, because as anyone who knows me can attest to, I aim to please, and pleasing 18 people isn't quite the same as pleasing 180, 1,800, 18,000, etc. I have my eyes on world conquest, folks, and 18 just ain't gonna cut it.

Now don't get me wrong - the 18 people who I currently reach are very near and dear to my heart - again, I imagine the number to be less than that because of the aforementioned junk mail filter option, but hey, I'm an optimist. You are the heart of this operation, meaning you pump my blood and will die a violent death when I as an American eventually succumb to heart disease that could have been prevented by eating a little bit healthier and walking up one flight of stairs one day a week instead of constantly taking the fucking elevator (as many fatasses in many of the office buildings I've worked in are apt to do, but I digress). But you are also the heart of this operation in the figurative sense of the term - you are the the driving force behind my creative juices, my inspiration, my collective muse. Don't go changing on me now.

When I say don't go changing, I actually mean that I need you to change IMMEDIATELY. I am putting out a challenge/request - if you are indeed out there, and you are indeed reading this particular posting, I ask that you scroll down to the end, click on the Comments link, and give me and the rest of the Madman Ramblings community your thoughts on my pathetic insecurity regarding this whole matter. You don't have to register ala myspace, so you won't have some creepy, potbellied 48-year-old man show up in your kitchen bearing gifts of Smirnoff Ice, pictures of his genitals and Trojan Extra Lube condoms (lucky you!). I believe you'll only be required to jump through a Ticketmaster-esque security step (keeps the spammers at bay) and pick a screen name. Feel free to identify yourself (ala greg) or take the clandestine route (ala roman). And tell me what you think - one word, two words ("Eat Shit" will do), a dissertation, I really don't care! I'll never reveal your identity should you not want me to, so feel free to go a little nuts. Hey, I've admitted to ingesting large quantities of psychedelic drugs - you can too, and with the warm security blanket of sweet anonymity!

The other thing I ask - if, and only if, you know of someone who might get a kick out of what I write, I implore you to send them the link. If the threaten you with social isolation as a result, speak no more of the Ramblings - I will still be grateful. However, if I can turn a few more people on, get a few more commenters lobbing words of encouragement and/or insults my way, I will feel validated, and hey, isn't that what it's all about?

If they ask "why should I bother reading this loser who updates his site maybe once every three weeks and writes about the same crap ever time?", acknowledge that they have asked a valid question. This is where my end of the bargain comes in. I fully admit that I do not update nearly enough to make it worth your while to check back in on a frequent basis - I know many of you who don't check the site for over a month and come back to find that you've only missed three posts - unacceptable! I vow that if I get a warm response to this request, the volume of my Ramblings will increase. You and your contacts can look forward to my thoughts on the following:

- The continuation of Tales from the Lost Semester - the first eleven volumes have set the stage with fun anecdotes about skipping class, heavy drug use, cheating, and using class time to express love for a band that I was really into for all of about 2.5 months. I can promise you that the next eleven volumes are more shocking, more entertaining and tremendously more pathetic, so be sure to tune in!

- Although my television watching has become much more laser focused, I promise to keep my finger on the pulse of all that sucks inside your idiot box. And I will make sure that you know exactly where I stand on the hard-hitting news that outlets such as Us Weekly and the Enquirer see fit to report.

- What's a blog without someone's views on current affairs and politics? An entertaining one! But that won't stop me from getting my digs in on my Hawkish friends as I spout my bleeding heart liberal messages in this narrowly-read forum. Oh, and I'll rip on liberals too.

- Since I've done so many great things in the past (see Tales from the Lost Semester), I will dig through the archives and provide you with Best Of snipets that will make you wish you had bought stock in me back in '99. Nowhere to go but up!

- My favorite targets will still remain squarely in my crosshairs, so here's fair warning to the advertising industry, obesity, the credit card industry, fast food companies, divorce/bankruptcy/injury lawyers, douchebags, liquor salesmen, realtors and other the other scourges of our society.

- Sports, sports and more sports! Will the White Sox repeat? Will, uh, well, I guess that's the only sports thing on my mind right now, but don't worry - I'll find a way to steal material from the Sports Guy and Deadspin.com!

- Top Five - yes, the Top Five will return in triumphant fashion, and you will learn everything from the Top Five Cereals to the Top Five People I Wish Had Gonhorrea.

So in conclusion...

...is there anybody out there?

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 11

2006-01-30T15:17:00.000-06:00

Are You Experienced?

*****

Leave your cares behind
Come with us and find
The pleasures of a journey to the center of the mind

From “Journey to the Center of the Mind” by the Amboy Dukes

*****

College campuses were designed for tripping.

Think about it for a minute. A college campus is essentially a secluded enclave covering a few square miles. Many of these campuses have been around for years and years, which means they come complete with stately old buildings and grounds, windy cobblestone lanes, and gaslight districts seemingly caught in the past, great for the ever important “visuals”. They are extremely pedestrian-friendly, often with a large, uninterrupted area (i.e. the Quad) that is only accessible by foot (where many of the cool, old buildings sit) – great for roaming about in a stupor. Forget about finding cops on a college campus – these communities seem to police themselves, with actual officers only being called in when needed, and even if they were around, what are they really going to do to you? Since college kids are inherently crazy, no one is even going to look cross-eyed at a group of guys walking around acting extremely goofy and speaking nonsensical dribble. If you’re not feeling particularly social, any living quarters outside of the dorms provide a perfect home base, with TV, stereo and Nintendo to boot. Throw in the seemingly never-ending supply of other stimuli – bars, beer gardens, apartment parties, house parties, video arcades, and movie theaters come to mind – and you have yourself a perfect, self-contained psychedelic playground.

What does this have to do with the Lost Semester? Why everything, of course! For outside of pulling bongs in Room 23, experimenting with psychedelics was my very favorite leisure activity in the Spring of ‘93! Given that it was truly a buyers market, you constantly had your choice of the two heavy hitters – LSD or psilocybin mushrooms. However, given the relative brevity of the overall experience (roughly 6-8 hours of fun compared to acid’s 12-14), as well as how ridiculously easy they were to get your hands on, “shrooms” were definitely our preferred method of hallucinogenic mind expansion. I’d estimate that some combination of members of our little group dabbled in hallucinogens roughly 2-4 times a month, with yours truly being one of the more active participants. Bet you never would have figured that.

And what was not to like? More than anything, it was a bonding experience among friends – a chance for all of us to delve deep inside each other’s psyches, listen to some trippy music, have all sorts of grand visuals and have a generally rip-roaring good time. The whole event, from the confirmation of the participants to the loosely-designed plan of attack, was usually established well in advance – at least a week in many cases. This is because it is essential to have plenty of time to clear your schedule and get yourself in the proper mindset if the experience was to be an enjoyable, worthwhile one. Plus it was a good idea to give Stems and Seeds, our friends at the Nevada House, plenty of time to stock up on merchandise if they were not already holding on to some – can’t make an omelet without eggs, so to speak.

On the designated evening of the festivities (for some reason we rarely day-tripped, although those occasions have proven to be just as pleasant), the participants would gather in one of our rooms, more often than not Room 23 (my drug den of a room) or Room 7 (the other MPB house drug den). When you factor in a) the quantities the goods were sold in with b) the quantity required to achieve the overall desired affect (think “Baby Bear” portions from Goldilocks), you almost always had a group ranging from four to eight in number – a perfect party size for such revelry. The goods were then laid out on a nice, flat surface for proper divvying. For those of the nine of you who have never experienced these frantically fun fungi, they can best be described as brownish-gray in color, extremely dry bordering on flaky, their make-up consisting of both stems (ranging from short and thin to long and fat) and caps (ranging from the size of a nail’s head to that of a half dollar) and they smell like…cow shit. And that’s because that’s where they grow – on cow shit. So yes, I’ve willingly eaten a strange fungus that grew on cattle feces – I am a creature of logic. As the proper experience is all about the dosage, a member of the group would meticulously separate the entire batch into evenly-distributed individual piles. We took great care to make this process as fair as possible – if you put a mid-size cap in one pile, you assigned approximately the same proportion of caps to the others; same thing with stems. Keep in mind that the need for such careful rationing held especially true for caps, as it is well known among experienced trippers that between caps and stems, the caps pack the more potent punch of the two.

So, we have four to eight strikingly similar piles of dried out, shit-smelling fungus. Now comes the tricky part – the actual ingesting of these foul-tasting victuals. There are many ways to go about this with minimal anguish. Some put theirs on pizza, some washed theirs down with beer or juice; I was a peanut butter sandwich man, myself. Then there were those brave souls who took the big plunge and ate them sans flavor-masking. I have done this myself, and it only takes about three hours to pick all the bits of mushroom out of your teeth – not a pleasant flavor-saver. Once this unpleasantness is over, it quickly becomes ramp-up time.

Ah, ramp-up time – 45 of the most exciting, queasy, unsettling, ticklish, giggly, suspenseful and fantastic minutes you’ll ever spend. The minute you down your portion, you know your body is already feeling the effects of the foreign substance you’ve just ingested. More often than not, your stomach instantly sends your brain the message, “What is this shit your boy just dropped in me?” and you may start to feel a bit nauseous. Thankfully, this feeling soon develops into something resembling butterflies in the stomach – a little flitter that tells you your system is digesting the shrooms and unleashing all of the wonderful desired effects. Those first 45 minutes after eating are usually spent glued to your seat, moving only to shift your weight from one butt-cheek to the other. After the butterflies in the stomach fly away, you are experiencing more of a whole-body feeling that falls short of discomfort, but certainly isn’t the most relaxing you’ve ever had. You feel somewhat uneasy in your skin, like you need to get up and move around, stretch, do jumping jacks, whatever – only you have no desire whatsoever to get up. More often than not, you go through a several minute stretch where you are plagued by fits of yawning. You keep in your mind that this is all part of the package, and the payoff is coming soon enough. At this point someone in the group usually recommends ripping a few bongs to “kickstart” the whole process – why the hell not, you ask as you proceed to blow a few ghosts. Maybe you’re sitting around, listening to music, a song you’ve heard a million times before, but somehow you’re hearing it for the first time – the notes don’t quite fall into place the way you remember, but that’s why it seems fun. You start to look around at the rest of your group and you can instantly tell that they are feeling the same things you are. You get flashed a wide-eyed, all-knowing grin that seems to say, “Yeah, I know – holy shit!” You start to glance about the room, and perhaps a poster on the wall catches your eye. So you stare. It never quite looked like that before, you think, as images in the poster seem to become flush with more color, more fluid, more complex. Maybe it’s something you saw on the poster, maybe it’s a noise you heard, maybe it’s a look you got from one of your mates, but you suddenly can’t help thinking “it” is hilarious, so you start to giggle. You’re much more aware of how your throat expands and contracts and the saliva sloshes around in your mouth when you laugh – how weird is that, you think? Suddenly, a feeling comes over you – you just need to stand up, stretch your legs, move around, shake yourself loose…

And then…BAM!

Anyone who’s walked down this path knows what I mean when I say “BAM” – it means ramp-up time is over, and you are now basking in the glory of full-on psychedelia! And I have to admit, it is quite a feeling. It’s an all-out assault on the senses. Sights – the walls breathe, the ground waves, colors explode and vibrate, textures and layers of complexity reveal themselves, items in motion seem to defy the space-time continuum by leaving traces of themselves everywhere they go, and it just all looks so damn GOOD. Sounds – music is richer and fuller, with notes and melodies, nooks and crannies that you’ve never heard before. Echoes and bells and the wind and the rustling leaves and the traffic and people and silence – it all swims inside your head and makes its way into the things you see. And tastes – I’ve never really eaten anything under the influence (hunger is the last thing on your mind), but I can honestly say that beer has NEVER tasted better…

OK, I need to back off just a bit – I’m starting to sound like the reincarnation of Timothy Leary and to be honest, it’s freaking me out a little bit. I don’t want my precious nine readers to get the impression that I’m a fried-out druggie who’d rather swim around in trip-land than be firmly entrenched in reality – quite the contrary. One of the most appealing things about these experiences is that this is exactly what they were – experiences. I would go absolutely crazy if my entire existence was spent in this psychedelic stupor rather than the sane comfort of everyday drudgery. These were certainly times I looked forward to with great anticipation, don’t get me wrong. I’m not even saying that I’d ever completely rule out another go at it. But at the end of the day, it’s a nice world to jump into and leave a few hours later, and surely not somewhere I would want to stay.

Now the pendulum needs to swing back from the cautionary after-school special tone. Let’s just say this – I shroomed quite a few times back in college, and for the most part every single time was a fucking blast. And the Lost Semester certainly saw the “peak” (pun intended) of that activity. I’m sure my cohorts could recall several journeys into the depths of the psyche and they would all say the same thing – great freakin’ times. But that’s because our group had the right attitude, the right approach. As previously mentioned, it is most certainly advisable to ensure the proper state of mind before embarking on such a journey. Just as these foul-smelling little mushrooms could take you to the peaks of enjoyment and whimsy, they could also plunge you into the depths of despair. That’s the thing about these types of drugs – the psychoactive impact is so profound that your mental state becomes amplified to the point where it will most certainly dictate how enjoyable (or intolerable) the next 6-8 hours of your life were going to be. This concept, of course, was of great interest to me considering the ever-expanding fragility of my self-confidence. Looking back, I’d say that there was a chance I may have been teetering on the brink of disaster every time I shroomed– now mind you, I’m not talking about a permanent descent into madness or suicide or anything like that – I was a mess, but I still basically had my shit together. But what I am saying is that it was very likely that I could have been thrust into several hours of some of the most intensely self-conscious, hair-fixing, stammering, lack-of-eye-contact moments of my life. I hated those moments when I was sober or merely stoned. But to have them along with visuals, auditory hallucinations and a constant, swirling mindfuck – let’s just say that would not be the most enjoyable experience.

But the good thing for me is that your state of mind in these situations depends greatly on the company you keep – and I for one was very selective about who I would and would NOT shroom with (and you know who you are). Sure we were all good friends and we all got along, but I can assure you that there were people and situations that put me at ease and those that would have blown my mind beyond repair, and if there’s one thing I did well during the Lost Semester, it was to be very selective about the company I kept, especially during a psychedelic drug episode. Now if you asked my parents, they’d probably wish the one thing I did well was schoolwork, but you can’t please everyone all of the time (and if they’re reading this, I hope you’re enjoying my fictional writing, Mom and Dad!)

Mushroom trips are like snowflakes – no two are exactly alike. Sure, the basic concepts – eat shrooms, giggle, hallucinate, solve the world’s problems, drink lots of beer, have a great time – were consistent, but the scenery and situations often varied greatly. While the various stories and situations are too numerous to fully recount here, I do recall one particular trip that was quite entertaining. One of the sororities on campus was having an annual “crush” party, which involved each girl inviting four guys to a bar they had rented out in order to socialize and drink ridiculously cheap booze. Yes, it’s always fun to willingly attend a party where you know going in that the guy-to-girl ratio will be 4:1, especially when under the influence of hallucinogens. Plus, as I was friends with many of these sorority girls through Emma, who of course was dating Pops at the time, the MPB house in turn had good relations with this sorority, and a large group of us were invited to the party. The shindig was on a Saturday late afternoon, so of course by the Tuesday prior we had made the decision to shroom, selected our group and ensured that the goods would be in our possession in ample time for us to enjoy them to their fullest. I mean, why go there to meet girls when you can trip your balls off instead?

When Saturday afternoon rolled around, we stood around six individual piles of psychedelic mushrooms in Room 7 and proceeded to munch away. Upon eating, we immediately set out for the festivities – for me, the ramp-up process was always much more enjoyable when I had a healthy dose of fresh winter air pumping through my lungs to help me keep my bearings. We soon arrived at the bar, carved out a sizeable hang out area and began drinking. That’s one other thing about shrooms – your resistance to alcohol seems to increase tenfold, with the booze having a leveling effect that kept the whole experience under just the slightest bit of control (plus it helped you sleep once the effects wore off later at night). There we all were, drinking, ramping-up, chatting with the gals and having a good old time…BAM! As the full effects kicked in, I began to get fully into the groove and notice all sorts of cool things swirling around me. For one, neon signs were a wonderful addition to any experience – not only were they great to look at in their own right, but the way they played off of people’s faces gave you the impression their faces were melting – but not in a creepy, scary, Indiana Jones sort of way. However, the other things I noticed were not so pleasant. While enjoyable music is supremely enhanced during a trip, conversely the irritating qualities of bad music become all the more grating. The bar this party was held in (C.O. Daniel’s) was notorious for its horrid music selection (as evidenced by its “Time Warp Tuesdays” that featured all the 80’s music you love to hate). For instance, I can say with great conviction that EVERY time I went in C.O. Daniel’s, I inevitably heard the wretched excuse for a song “Play Guitar” by John “Cougar” Mellencamp, who always has and always will rank on my Top Five list of most hated musical artists of all time. I can also tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that this horrific song becomes downright painful when you are three hours into a mushroom trip. It was all I could do to focus solely on the visuals as I blocked out the music; of course this intense concentration on my hallucinations occurred as I blatantly ignored a girl who was trying to flirt and strike up a conversation with me; I’m guessing she didn’t realize that my pupils were probably as big as frying pans at that point, but what can you do.

The other strange phenomenon (aside from hallucinations, of course) that I always encountered during my trips that occurred inside one of our fine campus bars – I always found people who have been drinking to be fiercely unattractive, almost to the point where I couldn’t bear to look at them without becoming visibly disturbed. I have no idea how it happened, but if one part of my perception was sharpened beyond all others during these experiences, it was my innate tendency to observe drunken people and make careful note of just how unsightly they appeared. It seemed as everyone’s bleary, bloodshot eyes were glazed and half-open, that they all wobbled back and forth as they tried to stand in one spot, and that not one of them could hold a drink without spilling at least a quarter of it on the filthy floor. It was also as if I could look through their eyes into their minds, see their inhibitions lay down their defenses, and watch the slurred words roll out of their mouths along with an inordinate amount of spittle and bad breath squarely into a conversation with another ugly person that they would no doubt either forget or regret by daybreak. It was to the point where the only other people in the bar who looked normal to me (aside from the sober and visibly annoyed employees) were my partners in crime. No matter what the situation, no matter what bad conversation you were trapped in, all it took to regain your sanity was a knowing glance and a shit-eating grin from one of the other trippers. Needless to say, we stuck together in a pretty tight pack in this situation, especially given the aforementioned male-to-female ratio (because as we all know, drunken guys are immensely uglier than drunken girls).

Seeing as we’ve established that I wasn’t a huge fan of our campus bars to begin with, my feelings of dislike and discomfort were grossly magnified when under the influence of psychedelics – if it were up to me, our tripping activities would have primarily consisted of roaming around outside, looking at trees and buildings and holding nonsensical conversations, followed by drinks and pinball at one of the more low-key bars on campus. But here we were, in the middle of the muck and mire that comprised the worst in alcohol abusing fun our campus had to offer. About four hours into the trip, I had certainly had enough. While my friends and I certainly preferred remaining completely in tact as a unit, we also understood that at a certain point it was inevitable for some people to want a change of scenery. I polled my cohorts, and Mayo was quick to agree that it was indeed time to get the fuck out of Dodge. So off we went.

Our first order of business was to get as far away from that bar scene as humanly possible. So we began to walk. And walk. And walk. Pretty soon we were clear on the south end of campus, neither of us with a clue of how much time had just passed or how far we had just walked. As we strolled down one of the campus’s busier thoroughfares, we saw car after car after car driving toward us. It was quite dark at this time, and we were quite fucked up and all we could really see were set after set of headlights flashing upon us and fading away, flashing upon us and fading away. It was as if these headlights were being pointed squarely on us, much like the lights of an interrogation. I wasn’t scared, but my mind started to move in the direction of wondering just how obvious it was to everyone else that I was walking around under the influence of mushrooms. “My goodness,” I thought to myself, “everyone keeps shining these lights right on us. They must have some clue what’s going on here. They must…”

At that point Mayo turned to me, flashed a giant grin and said, “They know.”

I nearly fell on the ground I was laughing so hard – how the hell did he know that I knew that they knew what we knew they knew? “Yes!” I snorted. “They know! They know exactly what we’re up to right now! Holy shit, that’s funny!” I guess in more dire circumstances, the concept of everyone all around us knowing exactly what we were up to would have been great cause for paranoia. But I didn’t really give a shit, nor did Mayo. In fact, we reveled in the fact and as strange as it sounds it made that particular experience all that much more enjoyable (it probably didn’t hurt that we had been drinking, but still). I don’t remember exactly how we wound down from that trip, but something tells me it provided the perfect ending to a perfect time.

And that’s really what it comes back to – the experience, the company, the state of mind. I neither condone nor apologize for those experiences. I do know that I wouldn’t trade them for the world. And if, just if, all of these factors – friends, scenery, attitude – aligned in just the right manner, in just the right way, at just the right time, you had the recipe for the greatest experience you could ever possibly have. Just if…

Until next time…

On Parenthood

2006-01-25T12:36:00.000-06:00

Everything changed that day.

November 13, 2005 – a day that will always hold a very dear place in my heart. Not only would it have been Michelle’s Grandfather’s 92nd birthday, but it also happens to be the day that she impressed me like I have never been impressed before – the day she gave birth to our son. There’s no feasible way I can describe in writing the feeling I had that day – and continue to have – but I will tell you that it really makes you adopt a new way of looking at things. My brother Greg put it best: “It gives you a reason to not be so eager to put yourself in life-threatening peril.” Well said.

Given my upbringing as a TV Casualty, parenthood has given me great cause to re-examine things I have observed on television, if only to make sense of bearing this great responsibility Michelle and I have chosen to shoulder. As I look back over my life as a television viewer, I am given great reason to reflect on the life lessons I have gathered from all of the great programs that have molded and shaped my approach as a father.

• One thing has always bothered me about The Brady Bunch – in the pilot episode where Mike and Carol partake in their nuptials, I am disturbed by the scene where Mike visits Bobby in his room, only to take notice that Bobby has removed the picture of his deceased mother he keeps by his bed. Mike and Bobby proceed to share a tender moment whereby Mike urges Bobby to always carry the memory of his mother deep within his heart and to never forget her. By the time the next few episodes roll around, Tiger is stealing everyone’s shit, there’s a goddamned payphone in the TV room and Bobby’s calling his brand-spanking-new stepmother “Mom” like she had squeezed him out of her own womb. And none of this seems to bother Mike in the least. It’s almost as if he’s adopted the attitude of “hey, the sooner he forgets my dead wife, the sooner I have to stop dealing with his night terrors and bedwetting.” Am I the only one who finds Bobby’s eagerness to forget his mother absolutely chilling in its sheer indifference?

• Growing up, I was an avid viewer of The Courtship of Eddie’s Father – don’t ask why, because to be quite honest I have no clue myself (note to self: ask Mom why the hell I watched that show). Perhaps I saw Bill Bixby and figured if I waited long enough he would turn into Lou Ferrigno with green body paint and purple pants. Now if memory serves correct, aside from the haunting theme song, the most memorable thing about this show, aside from the fact that Brandon Cruz went on to be in a punk band (Greg, which one?), was the presence of Mrs. Livingston, the Japanese maid. What was her story? Does her surname suggest a life of isolation resulting from her interracial relationship with her unidentified husband? How was she compensated? Does she approve of Tom Corbett’s promiscuity? Have they ever had relations? These are things that shouldn’t just be left to twist in the wind.

• Regarding Family Ties – just how in the hell is it that two peace-loving, nuclear war-hating, pot-smoking hippie freaks like Steven and Elyse Keaton raise such a fascist little shit like Alex P. Keaton? Is this a commentary on the dangers of pushing your child to conform to your viewpoints? Was Michael J. Fox’s character serving as a symbol that even well meaning intentions could inadvertently give birth to sinister tidings? Or did the creators of the show simply think it would be funny to have a child ridicule his parents for pissing away a vote on the Mondale-Ferraro ticket? I guess we’ll never know.

• OK, let me get this straight – first Jim Walsh can’t stand Dylan, the bad seed that happens to be diddling his precious daughter. Later, after Dylan has dumped his daughter for her best friend, Jim takes him and his millions of precious dollars on as a preferred client. What kind of message are you sending, Mr. Walsh? Well, I guess Casa De Walsh isn’t going to pay for itself. The Almighty Dollar wins again.

• I’ve always found it fascinating just how quickly sitcom parents can address their kids drug problems. These issues rarely, if ever, carry over from one half-hour episode to the next. Mr. Drummond flushes Willis’ weed down the toilet. Problem solved! Jason Seaver worriedly locked the door after taking his teenage son’s word that he didn’t try coke at a coke party. No worries! Steven and Elyse Keaton shake their fingers at Alex in his crazed speed-induced state, and he sees the light. Nary a concern! At least that loser son on Blossom (no, the loser NOT named Joey Lawrence) constantly reminded us of his former addict ways in an increasingly unfunny manner from week to week.

• Not to digress, but my God – I was just doing research for that last paragraph (I Googled “A very special episode and went to Wilkpedia.com), and I came across the following descriptions for two very special episodes of Facts of Life, which made me wish I actually watched the show more often:

o A pimp almost strong-arms Tootie into prostitution.

o Natalie is almost raped by a clown on Halloween.

Thank goodness they stopped at “almost”! Of course I’ve seen the one where Blair is ashamed of her cerebral palsy-afflicted comedienne cousin Geri, but I ask you – how in the name of all that is holy have I never seen these other two episodes? The quest begins…

• I am appalled that America was not more outspoken about Mabel Thomas’ blatant use of physical violence to reprimand her son Raja. I mean, she only outweighed him by 350 pounds – not a fair fight if you ask me. Mabel, give me YOUR belt and we’ll see how you like it (this reminds me of my favorite fat joke where Rerun gives her his belt and she bellows, “Good LAWD, Rerun – I want to whip him, not hang him!” Man, I miss that show).

• Hey, did you know that the dad from Alf was featured in the Enquirer smoking crack and making out with homeless men? Once again, life imitates art.

• Given his short fuse, gruff demeanor, protective attitude towards his daughters and overall flair for the dramatic, I was thrown for quite the loop when Gimmie a Break’s Chief Kanisky took the fact that his daughter Katie had implanted an inter-uterine device in her reproductive organs in order to avoid pregnancy virtually in stride. I guess it pays to have an overweight black woman who acts as housemaid and caregiver to your children to help put these things into their proper perspective.

• OK, like any red-blooded American male adolescent would, I had my fair share of crushes on TV Moms/Mother Figures. Maggie Seaver, even with her horrid perm, was quite the looker. Elyse Keaton had that homely-yet-pretty down home quality to her. Hell, even Claire Huxtible kept herself in pretty damn good shape, right? But to me, none of these ladies holds a candle to Kate from Silver Spoons. She could ride my train through the house any day of the week! ROWR!

• I find the whole concept of My Two Dads extremely insulting. Here you have two men (“lifelong friends” as they are described on www.tv.com) who can each lay claim to screwing the same woman at the same time. OK, I’m sure it wasn’t the exact same time, but it was within the same menstrual cycle at the very least, because said woman became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter (played by Staci Keanan, who I had a huge crush on when she was on Step by Step, a delicious pun as it involved step-families). Apparently the woman dies shortly after giving birth, and both men are appointed the baby girl’s legal guardians. I want to know what sick, activist judge handed down such a ruling. “OK, we have a dead woman and an infant girl. In my opinion, the best situation for her is to be raised by two guys who happened to be fornicating with her slut of a mother. Never mind that they have no legal obligation to remain friends, nor would they given the betrayal they both must be feeling, but what the hell? Custody granted to these two dudes. Next case!” That this abomination lasted 60 episodes is a true testament to the entertainment value demanded by the ever-fastidious American TV viewing public.

Until next time…

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 10

2006-01-16T13:12:00.000-06:00

Attius

Having been where I’ve been and seen what I’ve seen, I can say with some conviction that living one’s college years on the inside of a University’s Greek system offers that individual with some unique perspectives on life and affords them the opportunity to experience certain events and phenomena that most GDI’s (that’s “God-Damned-Independents for all you GDI’s out there) will never quite grasp, understand, comprehend or, frankly, ever miss. For better or for worse, a vast majority of my college experience was heavily influenced by the structure, rituals, nuances and annoying tendencies of the interconnected system of fraternities and sororities strewn about the U of I campus. In a way it was somewhat comforting to be a part of it all – having left the warm, sheltered womb of high school for the stark, cold, scary world of self-responsibility that college life presents, the Greek system provided the comfort of knowing that you could still run with a clique consisting of individuals who were molded in your likeness, as well as pre-judge those unfamiliar to you on the basis of some vague, overarching stereotype that was based on the two-to-three Greek letters slapped on the front of their residence. What convenience this afforded us!

For all of its faults, many people, including yours truly, realized great benefits for participating in the Greek system. First and foremost, when you arrive on campus fresh out of high school, it is imperative that you find a reliable way to acquire alcohol as soon as humanly possible (as I have established in earlier additions, alcohol is the lifeblood of the college social scene). Given that dorms are chock-full of dorks who wish to enforce lame alcohol ordinances and fraternities are chock-full of guys over 21 willing to buy you beer, the choice is quite simple, for you are instantly able to be where it’s all happening. Additionally, if you’re like me (and I know for a fact that many of my nine readers certainly are), the ability to secure other forms of mind-altering goods is of paramount importance; rest easy, because it’s an itch that most every fraternity had at least four or five guys ready to scratch, and 1993 most definitely saw a buyer’s market. Also, as mentioned in an earlier yarn, when you combine dangerously high levels of 18-to-23-year-old testosterone with ludicrous amounts of alcohol, add a packed-to-the-gills shithole of a bar with blaring music and the attention of college girls to compete for, and throw in a complete lack of adult oversight just for shits and giggles, the potential for unwanted fisticuffs multiplies uncontrollably. It is here that the age-old axiom “safety in numbers” applies – you’re more likely to take less bullshit if you know there are 25 guys who have your back. I’m not saying that it’s right, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and every little bit helps.

Perhaps you’re looking for a reason to blow off studying? You’ll always find someone wandering the fraternity house with the requisite low motivation and cash from home ready to be blown on booze. Or if your feeling particularly lazy, someone is always available to sit on their ass with you, order food and watch Commando for the 37th time. Finally, and people I can’t stress this enough, sorority girls are drawn to fraternity parties like moths to a flame – if you throw it, they will come, and they will get shitfaced. And more often than not, a few of them will choose not to leave. Romantic, isn’t it? I guess there’s just something about a man with random Greek letters sewn on his Champion sweatshirt or silk screened on a Beefy-T.

However, we all know that with anything in this world, you must take the good with the bad (or the bad with the good, depending on your perspective). The Greek system was no exception. For me personally, several things stand out. For one, I have always considered myself to be an open-minded, easygoing, accepting person. However, at a school like Illinois with its large Greek population and even larger GDI population, a clear rift had developed between these oft-warring factions over the years (peaking sometime around the late 1960’s, no doubt), and the bitterness and contempt hurled from one side to the other on an ongoing basis was enough to make you want to vomit. I knew plenty of people that were not part of the Greek system, and these were fine people – the fact remains that I liked these folks immensely more than several of my own “brothers” – yet in many instances I was unable to make true friends with people outside the system simply because I was in it. I always found it pathetically ironic that I was being scorned and shunned by these GDI’s because they felt I came from a social set that scorned and shunned those different from its members. But we were all idiotic assheads in our late-teens and early-twenties, so what do you expect?

Outside of the friction between Greeks and non-Greeks, most of the things that annoyed me about the Greek system were inherent to the system itself. Take, for example, hazing. As discussed in depth back in Volume 3, the ridiculousness of it all reared its ugly head during Hell Week, yet my entire pledge semester was a constant stream of doing things you would not normally do in order to gain inclusion and have people view you as an equal (and even then you were still ranked in order of when you pledged, so the pecking order always remained). Whether it was doing countless push-ups after midnight on a weeknight, being duped into believing you were going to have to walk miles back to campus from the middle of nowhere, memorizing obscure facts about your fraternity and being tested on them (apparently, without TV, video games, radio, or recorded music, the only thing those crazy college guys had to do in 1899 was create a bunch of meaningless facts and rituals for a secret organization), or serving as housemaid and waiter to a bunch of ungrateful slobs, there was some way for you to be fucked with on a pretty constant basis. And the beauty of it all was the omnipresent mentality of “if I had to go through it, so should you,” which sadly I subscribed to for a time after joining in on the fun. I guess whatever doesn’t kill you only makes your stronger. Or extremely bitter. The beauty of it all is that it really didn’t end with pledge semester – we have the aforementioned neophyte status during Hell Week, the semester after Hell Week you are a “JA” (just activated), which brings with it additional menial tasks (i.e. performing work duties prior to securing a new pledge class), and most if not all fraternity activities were dictated by your pre-established pecking order in the whole scheme. It’s a great way to feel homogenous and inferior all at once.

The other element of Greek life that I absolutely, wholeheartedly despised was the set of rules that fraternities were required to abide by in order to convince a sorority house to bestow upon them an invitation to hold a joint social function the following semester. I give you the time-honored tradition of serenading! Yes, serenading, which involved visiting numerous sorority houses on campus and singing a bastardized version of a recognizable song whereby the lyrics were manipulated in order to argue the benefits of socializing with your fraternity, all while the girls sat agape in horror as they tried not to puke up their dinner as they laughed at you under their breath. What a blast! Now as anyone who has heard my lame attempts knows, I cannot sing; in fact, I am absolutely horrible at it. But singing poorly with music I enjoy is one thing – singing poorly with lame, hastily written lyrics over bad music in front of girls you had minimal chance of ever scoring with in the first place as you nervously shifted your feet and wished for death, that’s something quite different. Seriously, who wants to stand in front of dozens of piercing, female eyes and sing lyrics like “Those insert sorority nickname here are the best, they’re hotter than the rest” to the tune of “Hello, I Love You” by the Doors? Certainly not me. When serenades were announced, up until liftoff time I would be engaged in a violent internal struggle: Do I skip the serenade, which will most certainly result in an obligatory $5 fine (per MPB House rules) as well as draw the ire of several older members and result in possible exclusion from social events? Or do I suck it up, make an ass out of myself in front of that girl I have a crush on and contemplate my collegiate future sans sex? For me, a short, nervous guy with fading social skills, these were the moments I dreaded. Looking back, I probably should have taken the $5 hit quite a bit more than I did, but being short did have its advantages, as it was quite easy to make yourself invisible during these treacherous times.

What do these rants have to do with the cryptic title of this essay? Well, as with any aspect of life, you learn something new every day. And one day during the Lost Semester, I learned that U of I had an annual event during the spring semester known as “Attius”. Webster’s defines “Attius” as, well, nothing – it is not a real word per the dictionary. I did some half-assed research and found that Attius is something that’s existed at U of I since the beginning of the 20th century, and the primary focus is on the show that’s put on during Mom’s Day weekend (which I believe fell in April) where groups of co-eds put on self-produced singing and dancing routines much to the delight of all the easily-entertained U of I moms. And guess what? The MPB house, for some Godforsaken reason, decided that it would be a good idea to participate in this debacle!

We were paired with the Alpha Gam sorority (whose services we acquired through the hated serenade process the semester prior) and when time came to assemble guys from the house to participate, some of the more senior actives came calling on the JA’s. “Great,” I thought, “we’re all going to be required to participate in this crap.” I braced myself for the certain humiliation to follow. The problem was that my key JA allies, CS and Pops, actually had a set of balls and, when told they were going to participate, they laughed it off and basically said, “Make me”. However, I was not so staunch in my anti-humiliation stance, and when coerced into participating, I crumbled like a piece of old drywall. Thankfully, my friends Ox and Miser were also roped into participating, so the good news was I wasn’t going to suffer alone. But I certainly was going to suffer.

On the first day of Attius practice (which I believe was twice a week, and I seem to recall having to be constantly “reminded” that I had “agreed” to participate), my first indication that this was going to suck was surveying the participants on the Alpha Gam side – all of them were juniors and seniors, and all of them knew the older guys in our house who were participating. Translation: being a freshman, the only potential benefit of this whole debacle (meeting a girl) was quickly squashed. So just to recap, I was obligated to perform in a song and dance routine (I can’t sing or dance) with several girls, none of whom I had any chance of hooking up with (the Curse of the Freshman), and that obligation became a non-inebriating way for me to neglect my studies (not a bong to be found). Way to speak up for yourself, big guy.

Now my experience has shown me that nearly every fraternity, by virtue of sheer volume of members, had a couple of guys who were aspiring musicians, and invariably these guys found each other and formed something resembling a band – our house was no exception. Granted we had some decent musicians, but the Beatles they were not (hell, they weren’t even the Rutles). But the group we had thrown together was by all accounts halfway-decent, and they were to serve as the musical backing for our little routine. Oh, I guess I should talk about that, shouldn’t I, seeing as it’s the point of this little tale? As we’ve established, Attius consists of co-eds preparing and performing a song-and-dance routine, and my foggy memory informs me that the routine the lead culprit within the Alpha Gam and MPB houses constructed told the tale of a girl on a Midwestern college campus (a real stretch, I know) who must decide whether to stay true to her roots and date townies or be wooed by a city slicker who promises her the glitz and glamour of bustling city life. So our musical grouping played background to this fascinating story, including covers of “Hard to Handle”, “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys”, and Alabama’s “Mountain Music” as we all struggled to learn the rudimentary “dance” steps that had been painstakingly choreographed for us. For example, during the “Mountain Music” scene (the title of the song was changed, quite cleverly, to “Country Music”, at the point in the doctored song where the lyrics said (I’m sick knowing I remember this):

Tip some cows, and toss their patties
Climb aboard my monster truck
Hit the woods and do some hunting
We’ll go out and shoot a buck

Our dance routine involved tipping invisible cows, tossing invisible patties, making a “steering the car” motion, and pretending to shoot a gun. Simplistic and embarrassing all at once!

On and on our routine went – lyrics of songs doctored to include lines like “He’ll probably get in his Z28 and probably just drive away” and “Hey pretty thing, pack your bags and come with me to the city now” coupled with crude, unrefined dance maneuvers – we practiced like dogs in the hopes of getting selected to perform so that we could humiliate ourselves in front of not just our own mothers, but the mothers of people we didn’t even know and most likely wouldn’t have liked had we known them. Seriously, if my father knew I was spending my valuable time in such a dismal, useless manner, this more than the drinking or pot smoking would have given him great cause for alarm regarding the appropriate use of his hard-earned dollars for tuition and the like. Participating in this exercise in ridiculousness was definitely not my proudest college moment.

“In the hopes of being selected…” Yes, you read correctly in that last paragraph. To add insult to injury, simply making the effort to throw together a laughable attempt at stage entertainment did not in and of itself guarantee you a spot in the Mom’s Weekend Entertainment Guide – no, each troupe of budding performers had to put on their show before the ever-intimidating Attius Council to see whether or not their routine was worthy of the grand stage that is Mom’s Day Weekend. This tryout process involved assembling the group at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning (I think we had to meet at 8:30 and “perform” at 9:00) and schlepping ourselves to one of the lecture halls on campus where we would tell the story of a young girl torn between the lusty lure of the Chicagoland area and the down home goodness of remaining a “townie” – it was like “A Tale of Two Cities” without drama, insight or dignity. Also, just so the judges would not be swayed by our fanciful costumes (of which we had none), all participants were required to wear white shirts and black pants during the tryout. This at least provided me with an opportunity to remain somewhat anonymous, lest I should run across anyone I knew on the way there (of course at 8:30 on a Saturday morning, this was highly unlikely).

Speaking of “highly” unlikely, myself, Ox and Miser plainly saw the writing on the wall – there was no way in hell we were getting selected to do this stupid show, so we took heart that the Saturday morning event would be the final humiliation in this whole process. So to celebrate, we came together at 8:00 that morning and each proceeded to rip about 10 bong hits – no reason why we shouldn’t be oblivious to the fact that we were a bunch of wieners, right? As we stumbled over to the designated meeting place, we couldn’t help but giggle ourselves silly, partly because we were elated that this misery would soon be over, partly because we were stoned to the bejeezus.

We arrived at the designated tryout spot with minutes to spare. As those around me struggled to remember their lines and worked to brush up on their dance moves, I stared out over the seats to see the Attius Council – it was just like in the movies where there’s a tryout in a huge auditorium where four or five people sit 20 rows back in silent judgment. My mind wandered to thoughts of whether or not the lectures I regularly skipped actually occurred in this building. “Next up is the Alpha Gam/MPB squad” a voice called out. “OK guys, places!” our bubbly Alpha Gam leader called out. Maybe it was the pot, maybe it was the fact that I was about to participate in a painfully embarrassing song-and-dance routine, but I suddenly couldn’t remember one single thing about the routine, and I was hit with a wave of overwhelming self-consciousness, complete with my requisite stammering and a bout of the cold sweats. “I’m going to fall on my face and bloody my nose,” I thought. “I’m going to fall off the goddamned stage.” The music started…

And shockingly enough, our routine went off with barely a hitch, just like we practiced it over and over in the MPB basement during those nights I really should have been studying (or at least playing Tecmo Bowl). I think I did pretty well – I only butchered about three dance steps, and I used my trusty serenade trick of lip-synching instead of singing. In a flash the whole thing was over. “Thank you, we’ll let you know” bellowed one of the obscured faces from the back of the auditorium. I quickly found Ox and Miser and we proceeded to have quite the good laugh. We headed off to McDonald’s to satisfy our munchies and thank our lucky stars that we had all fucked up just enough to not qualify but not quite enough for any theories of sabotage to surface.

You might be thinking that this is the part of the story where I shock you and reveal that, oh my God, we made the final cut! Not even close. If memory serves correct, approximately 15 groups tried out, 10 were selected, and mercifully we were in the minority. That Saturday morning represented the last time I have ever had to participate in such a farce. Sure, there were plenty more standard serenades in my future – however, I quickly figured out that by offering to “take care of the music”, I would simply be required to carry a boom box, hit “play” on a CD player, and crouch behind the group as they made asses out of themselves. A few weeks later, my Mom came down for a visit and strangely enough we never quite got around to seeing that Attius show. And all was right with the world.

Until next time…

Le Célibataire

2006-01-11T16:23:00.000-06:00

Bon jour, mon ami! Champagne, cheese, baguette, Perrier, souffl'ee, beret, Cochon américain, and c'est la vie to all of you! I am reporting to you LIVE from Paris, the city where everyone surrenders themselves to both the powers of love and the marching of occupying Germans. OK, I'm not really in Paris, but I felt as if I was whisked to this magical city while watching the premiere of what has become a seemingly neverending stream of installments of ABC's The Bachelor - the newest prize is Travis, a seemingly likeable, tall, dark, handsome emergency room doctor in whose chin dimple one could serve spinach dip. Yes, I know it's hard to imagine any woman being interested in a man possessing these qualities, but let's try and live the fantasy, shall we?

Early on in the whole Bachelor phenomenon, the whole concept was thought to be new and fresh and wholesome, and one could fool oneself into believing that people could actually find love on television if one really tried. Of course a skeptic like myself wasn't having any of it - the minute I saw what's-his-name choose what's-her-face over Trista the Attention Whore, I knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that it would last. However, Michelle, ever the romantic that she is, was fascinated by the concept, and thought that these good folks wanted to find their true love, even if it meant having directions barked at them by ABC producers.

However, with each subsequent installment of this program, as the pool of borderline-respectable participants continued to thin, as the level of dignity decreased in the half-life manner of a radioactive element - you know, barely a shred of dignity left, but just enough where you had to feel some embarrassment for these people, as opposed to say, participants on The Real World, where everyone is simply insane - Michelle slowly adopted the same jaded views as mine, and the results of this deterioration of respect came through in the most entertaining manner during the recent season premiere. One by one, the desparate women unable to meet a man by conventional means poured out of limousines driven by French men who bore such a look of contempt it was almost frightening, and over and over, Michelle and I competed to see who could be more cruel and belittling, with predictably hilarious results.

The first episode of each Bachelor/ette installment usually breaks down like this:

8:00-8:05 - Meet the person who will cause 25 people to act like unstable, petty, emotional freaks.
8:05-8:25 - Limos pull up and prospective mates get out to awkwardly introduce themselves to the alpha male/female; several then go inside the house/mansion/chateau and begin drinking heavily, which greatly enhances my viewing entertainment
8:25-8:42 - Alpha male/female makes the rounds to enjoy several nervous, uncomfortable conversations, prays producers are keeping track of names
8:42-8:54 - Elimination process is shown in excrutiating detail; several potential mates become visibly ill when they are not among the first two people called, even the ones you've pegged as eliminated from the moment you saw them (i.e. delusional is another fine quality of these people)
8:54-8:58 - post-elimination goodbyes, featuring forced hugs, insincere well-wishes, and the obligatory freak-out from one of the more unstable losers
8:58-9:00 - Dude, scenes

I, for one, found it heartwarming that Michelle now shared my contempt for these fools. We first noted that 10 of the girls were 25 or under, and only two were over 30. In what would prove to be a shocking turn of events, the two 30+ girls were sent packing (more on one of those old bags later). Why, in God's name, would anyone at or under the age of 25 feel the need to participate in a process, televised or not, whereby in a scant six weeks they may be receiving a proposal? I realize that people in my parent's generation regularly got married at 22 - oddly enough, they are also key contributors to the current divorce rate that stands at roughly 50%. Conincidence? Of course not. I think about myself at 25 versus now at the ripe old age of 32, and I realize that while I most certainly don't have everything figured out, I'm definitely a hell of a lot better off than I was at 25. Sure, I had a blast at that time of my life - but I was also, in many ways, a complete moron with no basic life skills. So why would I make a decision that only majorly altered the course of my life, but that of at least one other person (and is multiplied when kids are thrown into the mix) and that point of my life? I barely feel mature enough to handle fatherhood at this age - I would have been an absolute train wreck at 25. My point is, I just don't understand the rush these girls are in. They are all at least remotely cute, and seem somewhat personable, but the fact that they've reached this point tells me that they're either a) desparate, b) impossible to deal with, or c) attention-starved - three traits that, while they might contribute to an entertaining and heated short term sexual tryst, are hardly the qualities normal people would hope that their life partner would possess.

What else did Michelle and I learn about this installment's crop of potential mates for our dreamy doctor?

- Well, we learned that women in Sales, Marketing or Advertising must either be the only ones willing to apply for this show in droves or are just plain desperate - approximately 1/3 of these sad, lonely creatures worked in these fields, with Student/Teacher being the next most common category (16%).

- We learned that there are some sets of parents out there who either a) have a cruel sense of humor, or b) simply don't have a clue about naming children to avoid schoolyard ridicule. Observe if you will some of the names: Cole, Jehan (I kept saying Jihad), Kyle, Moana, Princess (yes, you read that right), Shiloh (I think her twin's name is Antietam), and Venus (Parents names: Zeus and Hera). Yes, it's fun to play cruel jokes on your children that will haunt them the rest of their lives, even when they desperately appear on TV in the hopes of landing a husband in front of millions of viewers.

- Many of these ladies lacked basic social skills. Michelle was incredibly cruel in this regard (much to my delight) as she ripped each contestant for her ability to introduce themselves in a somewhat human manner. Our favorite trend was the obligatory butchering of the French language - i.e. the girl from Virginia screeching, "Well BON JEW-OAR! I'm Jaime from Virginny! OK, see you inside, Travis! OAR-REE-VOO-OUR!" The other one was every girl from the South who upon hearing Travis lived in Nashville, naturally asked, "Don't you just love country music?" His response: "Uh, not really"

- Maybe it was their passengers' nationality, maybe their general bubbliness, but once again, the look of pure contempt on each French limo driver's face was truly a sight to behold.

Per usual, Travis made his way through the group, had his awkward conversations, identified the girls who pleased him the most when he had mentally undressed them, and pared the field down for easier scorekeeping at home. He keeps 12 girls, meaning 13 are sent right back to Charles DeGaulle for the looooong flight back to the States. Twelve of these ladies leave with some shred of basic human dignity - but not Allie G. Oh no, being dignified is way beyond this 33-year-old Oncologist. After she is cut, she can't seem to fathom how in the hell this guy wasn't interested in her. After all, she's a doctor too, a powerful, successful woman who put everything on hold to focus on HERself and HER career. Hey Allie, figuring it out yet? That whole attitude alone would be enough to send even the steeliest of men running for cover.

But Allie takes it a step further - as she's rambling on to Travis about how awesome she is for having a kick ass career and such, another girl pulls the classic Bachelor move by coming over and requesting that Travis finish this conversation with this obviously psychopathic individual so he can hear about the benefits of others at the party. So Allie is asked to finish her thought, and like any logical woman whose biological clock is ticking with the force of a wrecking ball striking a battleship, she launches into the following: "So basically, I'm at a point in my life where I'm ready to reproduce. My eggs are going to dry up and, well, I'd like to reproduce."

You hear that sound, Allie? It's the sound of your unborn child saying "NOOOOOOOO you fool! Shut up! You're blowing it for both of us!!!" This, of course, brings me back to the shock that Allie expresses after being shown la porte. As she heads out to the limo to return to her lonely, childless existence, possiby to concoct a plan to steal a baby from the nursery at her hospital, she suddenly turns around, storms back in and confronts an obviously frightented Travis. "So...why did you eliminate me, huh? Huh? What, too short? Boobs too small? What? Why?" Before the producers have the opportunity to step in and taser her, Travis smiles calmly and says, "Frankly it was because you said you wanted to 'reproduce' and that's not what I'm here for, not now." This response doesn't satisfy this little badger of a woman, who responds beligerantly, "Then what? What are you here for? Why are you even here?" Again, Travis stays level and says, "not for that," and points toward the door, where Allie is ushered out, not to be seen or hear from again until the MOST ANTICIPATED AFTER THE FINAL ROSE EPISODE...EVER! I for one have already instructed my Tivo to record it. This whole exchange leads me to ignore my own advice to can the hyperbole and declare Travis the BEST BACHELOR EVER. As a final view into Allie's madness, during the closing credits she is shown berating a producer about Travis's intentions, and all the producer can do is respond to every barb nervously, "Hey, I don't know him!" Can I get a psych consult?

Will I continue to keep my eye on this Paris adventure? Absolument! I will keep you updated on the madness, so keep an eye on those biological clocks and make sure you stay fertile...until next time...

Just How Wonderful of a Life Is It?

2006-01-05T13:58:00.000-06:00

Well, I’ve had some time to decompress, get back to work, return the presents I pretended to like and take down all the cutesy kid Christmas cards that demonstrate just how quickly my friends and family are multiplying. The eggnog has gone bad, the menorah has been snuffed out eight-fold, and the Lexus December to Remember Sales Event has come and gone (hopefully, with a new Lexus for each and every one of you). Now that the dust has settled, I’d like to take a brief look back at one of the passing phenomena tied to the holiday season just to try and make sense of something that has eaten at me for some time now.

One of my favorite holiday traditions has always been the obligatory viewing of It’s a Wonderful Life. Granted I used to watch it about 47 times during December when I was a kid, given that it was just some old movie that PBS could dust off and run ad nauseum in an effort to bump up viewership during one of their 73 annual pledge drives (you know, like Miracle on 34th Street is today). However, savvy businessman extraordinaire Ted Turner quickly realized that this hot piece of advertising-revenue-generating gold was up for grabs, and he snatched in up for 30 silver pieces and held it hostage, only allowing us to view it on Christmas Eve in years past – tossing the proverbial crust of bread to the pee-on masses, if you will. However, this year, Terrible Ted was nice enough to allow us to see this gem of a film not once, but twice! Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus! I guess those DVD sales figures looked pretty good this quarter.

Now as hokey, goofy and sappy as this movie is, I admit that my holidays don't feel complete unless I watch George Bailey’s story unfold – from his young, whipper-snapper days as a soda-jerk, to his braggart taunting of his nude bride-to-be, through his days of toil keeping up his father’s wonderful old building and loan (which was closed after the market crash of ‘87 amidst terrible scandal, I’m told), right up to his life-altering encounter with Clarence, the sissy angel with no wings. By now we all know that George was in a financial quandary, and he was considering offing himself as a means to unburden his family from the shame – a noble gesture at its heart, I’m sure. But Clarence is having none of it – and to prove it he decides to show George what his life would be like had he not been born (not the same as him killing himself, but I’m splitting hairs).

As he falls under Clarence’s angelic hallucinatory spell, George is shown what the world would be like had he never been born, and he encounters many disturbing situations, none of which he can make sense of. As we are drawn along with George through this hellish alternate universe, we see the terrible fate of George’s friends, family, and beloved home town of Bedford Falls: Ernie the cabdriver is a loser living in a shack without his family; Violet is a whore who cannot ply her trade as she is hassled by the police; his wife Mary is an old maid and possibly a virgin (which would actually make me happy – I figured she’d be shacked up in New York City, the love-slave of rich playboy Sam Wainright, but whatever); his brother died at the age of nine, despite only being alive from 1911 to 1918 (even the laws of mathematics are affected by George’s non-existence – curse you, Pythagoras!); and the quaint, quiet streets of Bedford Falls are now the swinging, wild streets of Pottersville, teeming with riff raff and lined with gambling dens, sex palaces and other houses of ill-refute. Yes, the world is a darker place for everyone without George Bailey. Everyone, that is, except for…

…Nick the Bartender. We were first introduced to Nick when George left home to drown his sorrows over the missing $8,000 that foolish Uncle Billy had stupidly given to Potter. We are instantly taken by the almost catatonic state of the clientele at Martini’s – just George and Mr. Welch pounding shots and a few other people, perhaps having a nightcap prior to retiring for the evening. Dullsville, baby. An annoying, unintelligible Italian song blathers on in the background. The level of activity barely justifies having the fucking doors open at all, and Nick will be lucky to leave with two-bits worth of tips, barely enough to buy his own mother any kind of Christmas gift. Yes, he is sad, but ever the good soldier, Nick labors on, even taking orders barked at him by Mr. Martini in his pidgin English after Mr. Welch punches George in the mouth (rightfully so, I might add): “He no-a-come in-a-here no mo, you unnastan-a-me Nick?”. Nick can only meekly nod in agreement as he helps his immigrant employer’s drunken, unshaven “bess-a-fren” to his feet, secretly wondering what his own life has become.

Flash forward to the alternate George Bailey-less universe. All of a sudden, Martini’s is Nick’s. In one fell swoop, he’s gone from lackey bartender to hotshot nightclub owner – how thrilled he must have been! As George and Clarence step inside, we go along and are immediately whisked into a world the likes of which Bedford Falls had never seen. The place is absolutely packed. A large Negro (bear with me, it’s 1947) bangs out riotous jazz music on a piano. People are laughing, yelling, drinking, burning reefers and having a rowdy good time. As those crazy kids back in ’47 would say, “The joint was jumping!” And in the center of it all is Nick – the man with the plan, the head honcho, the guy no one wants to fuck with. George and Clarence sidle up to the bar (how there were two open seats at the bar in such a packed place, I’ll never understand, but again with the hair-splitting), and George orders his booze – Nick respects pouring a hard drink for a man who wants to get drunk fast – after all, the quicker and drunker they get, the more that cash register dings, the more moolah that makes its way into his pocket. It’s Capitalism at its finest. But Clarence, sissy boy that he is, quickly draws the ire of the tavern’s owner. The sweeter, and frankly more irritating, he acts, the more exasperated Nick gets – it’s like, “Hey man, I’ve got drinks to pour and cash to make, and that Negro piano player ain’t gonna pay himself, so let’s get a move on here!” Rightfully so – again, this is Nick’s livelihood – can you blame him for wanting his customer to get a move on with his order of mull wine, heavy on the cinnamon and light on the cloves?

As George and Clarence’s conversation begins to delve into Clarence’s unique “situation”, Nick is at his wit’s end. He has an image to uphold and a clientele to keep happy, so who needs two pixies – who have the audacity to address him by name even though he doesn’t know from Madame Zorf’s Ox, no less – sticking around giving the joint atmosphere? Just as he’s at his wit’s end, an elderly derelict makes his way in. This is a man who poisoned a child 30 years prior, mind you – a boozed up druggist who couldn’t hide his grief and killed an innocent as a result. So there goes George, brazenly associating with this vile rummy, calling him by name and treating him like a respected elder no less. Well, our alternate-universe Nick has seen enough – whether through the door or out the window, these two characters are gone! Slowing his liquor sales? Talking about being angels and over two-hundred years old, which is creeping out the regulars? Associating with drunken child-killer? You better believe anyone with any set of values would have these freaks tossed. At the end of this whole debacle, Nick, ever attentive to the well-being of his customers, provides them with some much-needed comic relief after this unsettling incident by pretending to give out wings as he rings up the cash register. The crowd loves it, the Negro beats his 88 keys, and the fun never stops at Nick’s.

Yet poor Nick would get a rude awakening when George Bailey suddenly decided to re-materialize and join the living again. While George was hugging his wife and children, having mounds of cash dumped on a table in order to correct a discrepancy in his company’s accounting records (one that had not yet been resolved, mind you), being reunited with his football hero medal-of-honor-winning brother, drinking Italian wine, and singing fucking Auld Lang Sine, Nick was being transformed back into the nice local boy forced to work for an Italian immigrant (undoubtedly insulting in 1940’s Upstate New York) for nickels and dimes, wondering how in God’s name he was ever going to afford that swank place in Bailey Park. Now I ask you – what the hell is so wonderful about that?

Until next time…

'Tis the Season...for Luxury!

2005-12-22T12:18:00.000-06:00

Seasons greetings, all you Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanza/Festivus/Other celebrants! A very warm, vaguely non-secular holiday season to all of you! That's right, if there's one wonderful trend that's carried over from the 1990's to this yet-to-be-stereotyped decade (perhaps the zero-chance-at-maintaining-civil-liberties-zeroes?) is that of our tendency to not want to offend anyone. Merry Christmas? Offensive! Christmas tree? How dare you! Santa Claus? Hang him from the highest tree! Yes, we must be careful how we wish people peace and goodwill this time of year, because God/Yaweh/Allah forbid it comes from the heart!

OK, this is somewhat of an extremist viewpont - I personally have no problem saying "Happy Holidays" or, better yet, saying nothing at all. Yet the conservative AM talk station here in Chicago (560-WIND - their billboards boast "Liberals Hate Us!" - a fine selling point), which inexplicably hosts the Fighting Illini sports network, had no problem with shoving the "Merry Christmas" message down our throats, boasting "WE'RE not afraid to say it!" Way to stand up for what you believe in AND be smug about it!

As we all know all too well, this time of year has become less about the religious significance of past events and more about commercialism, weight gain, depression - you know, all the things that make America what it is. It's no secret that when October rolls around each year, we all begin to see the signs that we are going to have the fact that retailers rely on us during the fourth quarter to meet their lofty pro forma financial goals for the fiscal year crammed squarely down our throats. Sure, it's usually well packaged and sugar-coated just enough to keep us sane for the next two months. We've all seen the cutesy Target ads with the two sets of cute triplets opening their cute gifts and looking so happy that they've received goods that are available for sale at your local Target store. We know all too well that JC Penney, Marshall's, Best Buy, Overstock.com, Circuit City and the like all have exactly what you need for your holiday shopping needs - including the whopper credit card bill you're going to receive in January (of course, I can't wait for the January commercials that boast sales for those folks who have maxed themselves out, another proud American tradition, but I digress).

As loyal readers of my writings know, the two annual events that I am guaranteed to wax philisophical on are 1) St. Patrick's Day, where I juxtapose great moments in Irish-American history with the current tendency of hijacking the holiday as a vile booze-fest, and 2) the ever-so-popular Lexus December to Remember sales event. Yes, every year, Lexus reaches out to the general public to offer a gift idea everyone can agree on - a luxury automobile.

My favorite commercial (oh, how I hate to have to pick a favorite!) features the wife/mom (the attractive mature lady from the aforementioned Overstock.com ads....Rrrrowr!) surfing the net and feeling dismay, for she just cannot decide what to get her husband for Christmas. Does she get him golf clubs (est price - $500)? Does she go with the cashmiere sweater (est price $250)? She is torn! Are these gifts special enough for her darling husband, the provider of her family? NO!

Then, at her lowest moment of holiday shopping quandary, as if implored by the gods (or the folks at Lexus), she turns to look out the window, most likely to gaze longingly in hopes of thinking of the perfect gift for such a wonderful provider...and there it is. A Lexus, with a ribbon on top! Is this a dream, she seems to wonder? Then, in a moment of delicious coincidence, the Lexus pulls away, and it turns out the giant ribbon actually adorns the gated home across the way (of course it's a gated home - we're Lexus-shopping here!). Well, that's all the inspiration she needs, for in the next scene she has led her husband out to the garage. He is a handsome man - graying, yet dignified - and he is dressed for success - the Saturday garb of a high-powered corporate executive or orthopedic surgeon, perhaps. At that moment, his attractive, loving wife pulls her hands away from his eyes to reveal a beautiful, shiny, silver Lexus! "Merry Christmas" she seems to tell him without saying a word, and his face lights up with a joy that only a luxury automobile can provide, as he envisions a brighter future and a more luxurious ride as he drives his sons to lacrosse practice.

So, this is the image that Lexus has presented us with: Stuck with your shopping? Buy one of our cars on a whim, put a red ribbon on it, and be the best gift-giver this world has ever seen! Yet there is an untold part of this tale - how, from the moment of her epiphany to the revelation of this most-perfect of all holiday gifts, did things come to be? How much did it cost? Was tax, title and lisence included? Whose credit was checked? How much did this set the family back? For the benefit of all my readers who are considering buying a Lexus as a gift (better hurry, only 3 shopping days left!) I have done you the service of filling in these pesky gaps.

Let's pick the story up from the point where the attractive wife, in a flash of brilliance, says to herself, "by gum, I'm going to get that man I love a Lexus!" This being Amereica, let's assume this family is among the millions with an unhealthy obsession with the Sports Utility Vehicle, so Attractive Wife opts for the Lexus LX470 SUV - a fine automobile for the upwardly mobile, and with a sticker price of a mere $67,990, quite the affordable impulse buy. And let's also assume that, seeing as they obviously have more than they could every hope for (aside from golf clubs, a cashmiere sweater and a luxury SUV), Attractive Wife doesn't find it necessary to succumb to the temptation of the various frivolous upgrades, such as Lexus Night view ($2200), Lexus Link ($900) or the ever-popular rear-spoiler ($280). However, seeing as their children are likely avid movie viewers and likely don't have much to discuss with their parents seeing as Graying Handsome Husband likely works 70 hour weeks, let's say Attractive Wife opts for the Lexus DVD Rear Seat Entertainment System, a bargain at $2,469). So that brings the price up to the low, low price of $70,459!

OK, I'm going to assume (maybe not safely, but whatever) that Attractive Wife has not been able to sock away 70-large in some secret Christmas account, so some financing will be involved. However, let's say instead of spending her weekly allowance money on pearl earrings, pilates class and copper spatulas at Williams Sonoma, she did scrimp and save and was able to come up with $10,000 (that's a big allowance she gets). So she goes to her local Lexus dealer, slaps down the 10 G's and asks to finance the rest. Now, a credit check will likely need to be run at this point, and in our scenario we are assuming that Graying Handsome Husband brings home all of the bacon in his high profile job - so are they going to come back with a FICO score of 750 for a housewife? Or does she simply authorize them to run the check on her hubby since he'll be financing this gift? Well, instead of making my head explode thinking of how this woman could finance $60,000 without her husband's knowledge, I'll say she's a working mom - maybe she runs a lucrative home-cosmetics business, grosses 100k, and after expenses/overhead/taxes pulls home 35,000 of her own ($2900 per month). Let's further assume she's got a great credit score, thereby ensuring her the prime APR of 6.8%. Isn't impulse shopping fun?

OK, so we have a working mom netting 35,000 who goes and buys a luxury SUV on a whim, puts a whopping 10k down and finances the rest over 60 months. Hey honey, not only did I give you a brand new SUV for Christmas, I also got you an obligation to pay almost $1,200 per month for the next 60 months - don't you just love it? Sure, we'll be paying over $70,000 in cash on top of the $10,000 we already put down at the start of this whole fiasco, but I just love you so much and knew you'd love it! Who needs a new set of golf clubs, right? Honey? Who are you calling? Your divorce lawyer? And Oprah? For her "Couples in Stupid Debt" special? Honey?

So as you can clearly see, the Lexus December to Remember sales event presents your average family with an easy, affordable option for the holidays. Who needs iPods, sweaters and turkey roasters when you can ride in the lap of luxury, and only have to part with $80,000 in cash over the course of 5 years to have it? So hurry to your nearest dealer, because this fantastic offer, like your fiscal security, won't last long!

Oh, and Merry Christmas.

Until next time...

Continuing My Thoughts on The Apprentice

2005-12-19T09:12:00.000-06:00

OK, that last post ended rather abruptly, and that does not sit well with me. I thought I had a good flow going, but averaging 5 hours of sleep per night where your wake up call is an infant who is quite vocal about letting you know that a) his ravenous appetite cannot be satiated, despite your most noble efforts, and b) he does not appreciate lying in his own filth, your brain tends to lock up at inopportune times, particularly when trying to entertain your nine preferred readers during your precious lunch hour. To me, this is unacceptable and frankly a tad rude - my time is no more precious than yours, and to have you begin reading a News and Notes posting without a full and complete effort on my part insults all of us. I am ashamed.

But redemption is here in the form of a continued posting - oh joy of joys! When I last left the nine of you hanging (and my guess is you were not left hanging as I never informed you of my last weak posting) I was discussing Season Whatever-Number-This-Is of NBC's The Apprentice, featuring everyone's favorite self-serving egomaniac Donald Trump. Personally, I like Trump - I think it's hilarious that he's not afraid to come off like a total asshole for the sake of boosting his own sense of self-worth - there's a lot to be said for that. I watch The Apprentice for many of the same reasons I tune into other reality shows - so I can watch people whose personalities and tendencies I despise make complete asses out of themselves. As I touched on in the last rant, my main beef with the Apprentice participants was their shameless ass-kissing, as well as their desire to say the exact right thing at the exact right time, regardless of how contradictory or foolish it makes them look.

As so many other things do, watching the Apprentice causes me to hearken back to my college days. I specifically remember my first auditing class (yes, college life was a thrill a minute for yours truly). The course was taught by a "respected" professor who, in his mind's eye as well as that of his favorite students, was the gift hand-crafted by God Himself when He made the decision to bestow upon His human race a University professor whose purpose it would be to teach auditing. OK, I'm being a bit dramatic, but it's my blog, so tough shit. Anyway, shortly into the semester, I was rather unfairly in my humble opinion tagged an underachiever in this professor's class - I can't say for certain, but I'm almost positive one of the students in my assigned group singled me out as dead weight. I hope his student visa was revoked and he was sent back to Communist China to toil in a state-run wheat field, but that's beside the point. I was reassigned to another group with a Japanese girl who barely spoke English and a Russian girl who spoke just enough English to articulate that she thought my work was for shit.

I toiled through the entire semester with these two, and we headed down the home stretch to the final exam, which you were not required to take if you were happy with your grade. Well, I was not afforded this luxury as I was teetering on the border of B and C - I really thought I was doing well, but I guess the information that was given to Professor Shit-Don't-Stink contradicted this feeling I had. As we neared the exam, which of course was graded on a curve, I spoke to the professor at his office about what critical topics would be covered, and we got to talking about my group. I mentioned something about the Russian girl, to which my professor said, "Oh, she won't need to take the exam - she's got an 'A' by a long way" - kind of his way of saying "Up your ass, you underachieving bastard." Whatever - after this class was over I never had to see him or the Czaress ever again, which was good enough for me.

So I show up for the final exam, having just completed the act of studying my balls off. Keep in mind: Optional final exam if you liked your grade - this is crucial information! As I settle in my seat to sweat out by GPA and therefore my career options, who comes walking in the door, down the aisle and right up to the front row? If you guessed the Russian girl with the fat 'A' average, give yourself a pat on the back. Not only did she have to remind me to my face that I sucked, apparently she felt the need to indirectly stick it up my ass by throwing off the curve in the hopes of increasing her average from a 98.3 to a 99.1. Needless to say, I ended up with one of my multitude of C's (setting myself a bit further back than my Lost Semester already had), Princess Alexandria got her fucking A while screwing me in the process, and our professor got to send another group of prized pupils off to the Big Six accounting firms, which most likely came with it a nice kickback to the Accounting Department that coincidentally paid his crusty, tenured ass.

Why do I bring this story up? Because every single person on the Apprentice is that Russian girl - the person that wants to boost their own image, even (or should I say especially) if it comes at someone else's expense. To these people, business/money/success is a zero-sum game - if they're not getting it at someone else's peril, it ain't worth getting. OK, fine, you want to screw me over? Have at it. But just to throw another multiple into the annoyance quotient, the way they come off in the whole process almost undermines their whole "Succeed at all costs" mentality. Simply put, none of these individuals is below groveling, kowtowing, begging, or whimpering at the feet of the Mighty Donald in order to accomplish the goal of getting a vague management job. Hell if I got paid $250k a year, I'd be tempted to let them make my job title as vague as they wanted it - it might even be worth it if the job description read, "Work". But there's that pesky voice inside my head that keeps harping on integrity, self-respect and sense of purpose starts rambling on, and those thoughts of pie-in-the-sky glory quickly go by the wayside.

However, no such voices exist for Trump's tyros of tractable tradesmanship. They choose their words very carefully when addressing the Shah of NBC's Thursday night lineup, usually leading to an exchange similar to the following:

Trump: OK, Apprentice-hopeful, tell me why I shouldn't fire you.

Apprentice-hopeful: Mr. Trump, as you can see by my words and actions, Mr. Trump, I, Mr. Trump, am dedicated to serving you, Mr. Trump, and the glorious Trump name. I am well-educated, Mr. Trump, and Mr. Trump, if you would only be so kind as to spread the ass cheeks that you, Mr. Trump, currently have on your body, Mr. Trump, I would be a humble servant to you, Mr. Trump, and leave you with a gleam the likes of which have not been seen by any normal Wharton School graduate, Mr. Trump.

Trump: Wow, that's something. Say, Other Apprentice-hopeful, what do you have to say about the person you're competing against whom you just told in a previous scene was a good, strong person.

Other Apprentice-hopeful: Mr. Trump, this person, while bearing the intelligence of a common member of the human race, Mr. Trump, does not truly understand, Mr. Trump, what it would take, Mr. Trump, to succeed Mr. Trump in your Mr. Trump organization Mr. Trump. I Mr. Trump Mr. Trump, Mr. Trump, hire me Mr. Trump, validate my abilities Mr. Trump Mr. Trump Mr. Trump Mr. Trump.

Every single fucking conversation goes on and on and on like this. Don't you think that a man of Donald Trump's ilk would be somewhat impressed by someone who had the balls to be like, "Well Donny, if you hire me, I'll kick ass for you, if not, I'll kick your ass" or something along those lines? Wouldn't it drive you absolutely insane to have 12 people constantly kissing your ass when you clearly know they're kissing your ass not out of true respect but out of fear of elimination? Isn't one's ego adequately inflated without needing to be called "Mr. _____" every 13 seconds?? Apparently, the answer is no.

Not that some of these people aren't talented - they pull off some shit in a tight timeframe on a shoestring budget that borders on the exceptional. In the last episode, both final contestants did put on pretty damn good events considering the varying circumstances beyond their control. However, right as The Donald hired the token black contestant, he gave his new MIT-educated charge an opportunity to create a position for the runner up as well, to which the new hire replied, "Mr. Trump (didn't see that coming), I feel that Mr. Trump since the show is called 'The Apprentice' and not 'The Apprenti' (sic) I believe, Mr. Trump, that there should only be one hire Mr. Trump." Granted, the look on the face of the runner up that screamed "you cocksuckingmutherfucker" was truly priceless - however, this just serves as final validation of the true despicable nature of these overachieving pricks. I'm not saying you shouldn't put your best effort into getting some dream job and that you should slack off to hold the curve back - all I'm saying is let's keep just a smidge of perspective, lest we all become boot-licking self-serving pricks looking for our 15-plus minutes.

This public service message brought to you by The Apprentice - airing on NBC, Thursdays this Spring! It's must see!

News and Notes - December 13, 2005

2005-12-13T12:05:00.000-06:00

Hello all. I realize that it's been one month plus one day since my last posting - at this point, my population of readers has no doubt shrunken from nine to three, but as always I press on with the sole intent of entertaining what's left of my following. So away we go...

- Let's see, there has to be a good excuse as to why I haven't written anything in a while. What could it be? Oh, that's right - one month ago today, Michelle gave birth to our son Brooks (please, hold your applause until the end). When you're a surprisingly selfish, set-in-your-ways individual who's spent the last 32 years of your life focused primarily on doing things that are intended to give you pleasure, let's just say that parenthood can be somewhat of a shock to the system - a very heartwarming shock, no doubt, but a shock nonetheless. We are often told by more experienced parents, "don't worry, it'll get better" but that sentiment is often difficult to embrace when your boy urinates on the wall at 3:30 AM. On the upside, I never knew how well I could funciton on such little sleep, I never knew how proficient I could become at changing a diaper (I had done that exactly one time before he was born), I never knew formula smelled so funny, and I never knew one little person could warm your heart so much just by making noises while he eats. About a week after he was born, I heard Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle" and nearly lost it. Let's just say I pray I never hear the words "But what I'd really like dad is for you to give me the car keys - see you later, can I have them please" because, well, that's just poor sentence structure, rhyme or no rhyme. He's one month old today and, as those more experienced parents keep telling me, it just keeps getting better. Now if he just learned to sleep for 8 hours at a time...

- After Brooks was born, I spent about 2 1/2 weeks at home helping him get assimilated to life outside of the womb. This gave me the chance to catch up with an old friend - daytime television. Oh how I missed you! Between Oprah giving people LCD TVs and catching sexual predators, TNT's Primetime in the Daytime, and the unbelievable quantity of courtroom dramas, I hardly knew what to do with myself. As many of you know, one of my favorite things is to catch up on what the dregs of society have been up to, and these aforementioned courtroom shows offer an insider's view into the life of America's loser class. One episode that particularly grabbed my attention was a disagreement on Divorce Court featuring a couple with the following problems:

1) The man, a 23-year-old, refused to get a job because he needed to work on pursuing his ambition of playing in the NBA. His intense regimen involved practicing with a Junior College team of which he is not a member.

2) The woman, a 26-year-old, apparently seduced this gentleman when he was 16 and playing high school basketball. Shockingly enough, she became pregnant with their first child shortly thereafter.

3) Despite her attempts to straighten her man's life out, the woman was unable to get him to fully embrace fatherhood, and she asked him to move out of the house. She became pregnant with their second child shortly thereafter.

4) After the birth of the second child and the man "playing house" for "a couple of months", he once again seemed to tire of the fatherhood game. In one instance where he was responsible for babysitting their oldest child, the woman went to find him at a friend's house, where she found her child sitting with "some FE-male". She then found her man in the basement, which was engulfed in some sort of smoke, and stormed out with their child.

5) She became pregnant with their third child shortly thereafter.

I didn't stay around to watch the end of this fine program, but something tells me that these two crazy kids were going to be just fine.

- I was fortunate enough to come across an unedited showing of Police Academy the other day. Not #2 (Their First Assignment), #3 (Back in Training), #4 (Citizens on Patrol), #5 (Assignment: Miami Beach) or even #6 (City Under Siege). We're talking O.G., the real one, the only one - the first great romp through the police academy. Mahoney in his prime. Larvell Jones and his wide array of hilarious sound effects. The evil Lt. Harris and his two goons, gun-crazy Eugene Tackleberry, hilariously inept Commandant Lassard, man-child Moses Hightower, and soft-spoken Laverne Hooks. Oh, and lots and lots of gratuitous boob shots. More than I ever remember, to be quite honest. The brilliantly-designed women's shower with an open window facing out on campus. The sexual romps of the faux-Latino cadet. The glorious bonfire scene featuring all of the female cadets dancing nude around the fire. The pot smoking prostitute that felates Cmdt Lassard under a podium. I still have no idea why this movie appealed to me so much when I was 12.

- I have recently gotten sucked into NBC's The Apprentice (thank you, Thanksgiving catch-up show), and I can honestly say that if I ever had to work with any of these smug, pompous asses, I'd be fired for physical assault. What gets me more than the gratuitous ass-kissing of Donald Trump is the measured, calculated speech patterns - I have yet to hear anyone say anything that would remotely resemble something from the heart. Every word is so carefully planned, every story so skewed in their favor, every problem not their own that...ah, I got nothing else to say.

Until next time...

At a Loss for Words

2005-11-12T15:12:00.000-06:00

Long ago, when I first began this quest to pass myself off as a writer (or something resembling one), my motivation was quite simple. A small group of us, including my brother Greg, my then-neighbor-and-friend-now-beloved-sister-in-law Violet, our friend and O.G./loyal reader Mary and a varying cast of others came together on Wednesday nights to eat dinner, chit-chat, and (most importantly) spend two hours watching, dissecting, critiquing and lambasting Beverly Hills 90210 and Party of Five, Fox's double barreled package of mediocre acting, tired story lines and guilty pleasure. As we would approach each week's viewing, I would tantalize the group with the questions that should have been in the forefront of our minds: Would Dylan reconcile with the former patriarch of The Hogan Family? Would Brandon resume his hot incestuous relationship with Valerie? Would the gap between Donna's misshapen breasts continue to grow so wide that Steve Hawking himself couldn't explain the phenomenon we were all witnessing? Would Andrea and her Hispanic husband raise their daughter, whom I dubbed Juanita Epstein, to be as bland and unlikable as they both were? Would Nat serve a purpose? What madcap adventures would Steve land himself in? Would Bay have the nerve to tell Jul about the way Char was acting towards Claud and O? Mindbending stuff to say the least.

Regardless of how stupid or asinine the topic was, it was a constant source of material for yours truly, and it kept the prose flowing like mad. Between these two shows, every conceivable topic that could be considered remotely controversial was addressed: Sex, drinking, every drug known to mankind, race relations, death, diner/restaurant ownership, rape, incest, robbery, money problems, fathering children out of wedlock with your wife's sibling, DJ-ing, homosexuality, homoeroticism, madcap hilarity, night club management, having a child with a stripper - you name it, they covered it in an extremely awkward, unrealistic and ultimately hilarious fashion. Needless to say, when these shows went off the air, I felt like a piece of me died. Where would I find another useless, time-wasting outlet for my quasi-creativity? It was the first time I questioned God's very existence.

Then He gently reminded me that He did indeed exist and that life was beautiful by introducing the concept of the sexually-themed reality show. Joy! Shows like The Bachelor/Bachelorette, Temptation Island, Paradise Hotel, Love Cruise: The Maiden Voyage, Elimidate, Chains of Love and the like filled the airwaves like thousands of toilets emptying into one big, beautiful septic tank. Despicable, wretched human beings from around this great nation of ours fought for the chance to make complete asses of themselves on national TV for all normal, intelligent, devilishly handsome people like myself to bear witness to. I found a new purpose in life exposing these people for the vile people they were - the skidmarks on the underwear of humanity, if you will. Nothing gave me more joy than to see their anguish, heartbreak and insecurities play out on the air, and then to go sit at my computer and spend twice as long as each show's actual airtime typing about it. My nine readers pored over every sordid detail of my summaries, which actually blew away the entertainment value of the actual productions themselves in this humble man's opinion. Yes, I was truly on top of the world.

Yet as time went on, my efforts became more futile and labored. How many different angles can you come up with about guys who vie for the attention of a shallow girl like Jen Scheft or people who think placing their significant other in a situation where they are given the green light to cheat on them is a great way to “test” their relationship? Aren't these people all the same? Insecure, well-coifed, arrogant, dressed in the latest fashions - it's like an army of clones has been created to fill the ever-growing spaces available on these shows. Having used every conceivable angle, I found myself at a loss for fresh words to describe my hatred for these people. Even as I write this, I am struggling to come up with new, creative ways to rip these people, but nothing comes to mind. I think I've covered it all.

And I guess that's the point here - I am slowly, surely running out of ways to express my general disdain for the state of popular culture, sad as it may seem. Some people tell me to focus my energy on dissecting the laughable political landscape in the country. Why bother? Hasn't it all been said? I think we all know that President Bush is an incompetent boob who associates himself with other incompetent boobs (Harriet Miers) and still can't seem to break his habit of looking like he's about to crack up laughing no matter what he's talking about, as he did again last night while talking about the Jordan bombings. How many different ways can I point out the ridiculousness of his Administration and the things they tend to focus their energy on, such as the latest issue they've raised with Southern Illinois Univeristy's apparent discrimination against white males. Yes, I agree it's a travesty how this nation treats its poor, downtrodden white men. I guess I could go with “Haven't we suffered enough? Why can't WE get access to those three programs with a whopping collective annual budget of $1.2 million so we can advance past the shackles that society has placed upon our clean, non-calloused, well-manicured hands? Where's MY 40 acres and a mule?” But really, is this the best I can come up with? I also trust I'm not the only person who wishes they could slap the glasses and smarmy look right off of Karl Rove's fat, rosy face right before greasing him up with Crisco, leaving him tied up in the sun and emptying a colony of red ants on his body. And I surely am not the only person who has next April in his office's “Dick Cheney dies of a heart attack because he'll be damned if anything gets pinned on his crotchety-yet-wealthy ass” pool. It's all been said - I'm just parroting it at this point.

“Why J,” you say, “you should focus your angst on celebrities and the decadent, privileged lives they lead.” What am I going to say that you haven't already heard? That Joe Simpson harbors unnatural sexual feelings towards his marginally talented daughters, so much so that he's obviously trying to drive away any men in their lives so he can fulfill his sick fantasies? Am I going to point out that Britney Spears, aside from remaining true to her trailer-trash roots, is even more of an idiot for having married and born the child of an equally-trashy, buffoonish aspiring-rapper deadbeat? What else could I possibly add on the topic of Tom Cruise's continuing downward spiral into complete lunacy to the point where he somehow got his hands on some loose sperm in order to have his contracted girlfriend impregnated? Is there any way for me to lend any more credence to the constant parade of sham relationships between Paris Hilton and extremely wealthy men of Spartan descent or on Tara Reid's transformation from a haggard mainstream actress to a haggard hardcore porn star? Really, there's nothing new to add here.

Yet whether or not it's all been said before, the fact remains that this is my healthy outlet, the avenue I have for getting my frustrations off of my chest. If I tend to repeat myself or harp on the same topics over and over, I do it because I need to vent, because I need to make myself laugh (not a difficult task, seeing as I am hilarious), and because my nine readers demand it. So this is by no means a Swan Song - I guess its just acknowledgement that certain things do bear repeating.

News and Notes

o I have a guilty secret - because I have a child on the way any minute now, I have been a homebody on recent Friday nights, and during those times I have both watched and enjoyed NBC's sappy Three Wishes featuring Christian musician Amy Grant, whom I've always thought was cute (not that I'd ever watch the show for that reason). This show does not just tug at your heartstrings - it uses them to bungee jump off of a 300 ft cliff. I have seen the wife of a dead soldier with two young children get a brand new house, complete with a memorial for her dead husband in the backyard, a guy with inoperable brain cancer be reunited with every friend, family member and teacher from his past while surrounded by his children, and a family displaced by Hurricane Katrina get transplanted to a small town where they were showered with gifts, including their most prized possessions rescued from their home. I quote the late, great Jim Croce: “There's something in my eyes; you know it happens every time.” The lengths that NBC goes to in order to fuck with your emotional well-being boggle my mind. It's extremely hokey, unbelievably corny, and surprisingly effective. If this shit doesn't get to you, you must be dead or German. Give it a whirl, won't you?

o The NCAA shot down the University of Illinois' appeal regarding the ban on their mascot, Chief Illiniwek as an insensitive and abusive image of Native Americans (via ESPN.com). The report gave no word on whether this had anything to do with the incident at the most recent home football game where the Chief, inebriated on fire water, took out his frustrations surrounding his recent gambling losses by brandishing a pistol and vomiting in the south end zone, only to be subsequently relocated to a small, desolate patch of land 500 miles west of campus by University officials.

o If they call you a dork, a spaz or a geek, stand up and be proud. Don't be meek.

o Not trying to parrot the Sports Guy or anything, but I recently partook in a new episode of Saturday Night Live featuring host Lance Armstrong and, coincidentally enough, musical guest Sheryl Crow (they're engaged, don't you know). There were a few good skits, several really bad ones (including token fat guy and inappropriately-timed-laughter-prone Horatio Sanz dressed in drag where the running joke was that a fat guy was dressed in drag - boo). However, the Weekend Update crew featured the following hilarious joke: “In a recent poll, 63% of Americans are not satisfied with President Bush's performance. The other 37% believe that Adam and Eve rode dinosaurs to church.” Why am I bringing this up? Because I'm thrilled with voters in Pennsylvania that voted out seven freakish school board members who were trying to incorporate teaching of “supernatural” theories (i.e. Creationism) in their schools' science courses. It's nice to know that people can still vote logically, even if it is in one of those odd elections no one seems to pay attention to.

o One of my new favorite websites is www.deadspin.com. They were the ones who initially released the pictures of Bears QB extraordinaire Kyle Orton wearing a few shots worth of Jack Daniels on the front of his t-shirt. They take a wonderfully sarcastic approach to their sports reporting, and I have recently been invited to be a commenter on their site (OK, I groveled for the invitation, but you have to take it as you can get it). Anyway, if you chance to be reading through some of the stories, take a look at the comments sections and you may see the Madman giving his viewpoint, complete with a link to this wonderful sight. Maybe I can increase my readership to 11 or 12 - dare to dream.

Until next time…

Cover Hi-Jinx

2005-11-04T14:11:00.000-06:00

(Disclaimer notice to my loyal Cub fan readers, should I still have any: I realize that you are all quite sick of hearing about the White Sox, and I also realize that I am becoming as insufferable as ESPN.com’s Sports Guy and his incessant ramblings about the Red Sox, but I must be true to what I am, and right now that is pissed off and needing to get something off of my slightly too-hairy chest).

Seventeen years as a subscriber and this is the thanks I get.

Yes, I have been a loyal reader and subscriber of athletic-themed periodical Sports Illustrated since the summer of 1988, when I was a 14-year-old little shit whose days consisted of swimming at the public pool, playing baseball, riding bikes and wondering what crafty things I needed to say in order to get to second base with the various girls in my sphere of influence. Magical times to say the least. In addition to my newfound love of breasts, I also had a long-standing love for sports – most importantly (you guessed it), the Chicago White Sox. Since I was much younger, the one hope I had is that I would see my beloved boys of summer win the fall classic and grace the cover of my favorite magazine, just like Dan Hampton and the boys had done back in that glorious February 1986 issue. Throughout the 1990s, I saw Michael and the Bulls earn cover after cover with their impressive run of six titles. I quietly, patiently and, yes, somewhat bitterly watched the parade of Cubs related covers, from Sammy Sosa’s potentially chemically-fueled power surge and the Wild Card of ’98 to the exciting-yet-tragic run of 2003 to the bold prediction of a Cubs World Championship in 2004. And I never even so much as bitched at the fact that the Blackhawks, not even Bobby-fucking-Hull, never made an SI cover (given the state of that franchise since 1996, I shouldn’t be that surprised).

So when the Sox finally won the AL Pennant, naturally I was ecstatic and, being the glutton for punishment I am, I couldn’t wait to see what kind of treatment they got in the National Media. When the NBA Preview issue arrived, the Sox got an upper corner mention for their achievement. “No big deal,” I thought, “they always give the NBA preview the cover – I’ll just ride it out until the World Series starts.” Of course it was thrilling for me that the next week’s cover featured Scott Podsendik’s dramatic home run off of Brad Lidge in Game 2, and my mind was racing thinking of what glorious image would grace the next week’s championship celebration issue. I made my appointment at the Great Frame Up in giddy anticipation and waited patiently for yesterday’s mail…

…and that’s when I was forced to stare straight into the faces of Peyton Manning and Tom Brady standing on either side of the headline “The Duel: Monday Night – Peyton Manning vs. Tom Brady – Best Two Quarterbacks in the Game – Who Will Win?” And there, in the upper right hand corner, hovering slightly above the halo that adorns Tom Brady’s deified persona, was a half-dollar-sized photo of the Series celebration encircled by the words: “World Series Champs – Chicago White Sox.” Naturally, I was a bit incensed by this – is the bigger sports story of the week SI’s prognostication over a mid-season NFL tilt with a tired, predictable story line, or is it the fact that a team that hadn’t won a title in 88 years finally broke through? What am I missing? Am I overreacting? Am I nothing but a bitter, scorned Sox fan with a typical Sox fan inferiority complex? You bet I’m bitter, and yes, I feel scorned. And sure, being 5’5”, I may have somewhat of a complex. But there’s more to it than this. I decided to see what precedent SI set last year, when America’s Darlings, the Ben Affleck-endorsed Boston Red Sox won their first title in 86 years. Hurt and puzzled, I did my research and found the following covers from 2004

• July 5, 2004: Photo of everyone’s favorite schizophrenic miscreant Manny Ramirez
• September 13, 2004: Soon-to-be cult hero-turned-washed up has-been Curt Schilling is featured, who is reportedly very supportive of George W. Bush (he and a whopping 37% of the nation) and has a direct line of communication to God Himself.
• November 1, 2004: Red Sox-Cardinals World Series Coverage; reference to 3,459th story on the Curse of the Bambino.
• November 8, 2004: “New Era: What’s next for Boston’s New World Champions” featuring Schilling, soon-to-be Met Pedro Martinez, and ape-man/Christ lookalike Johnny Damon wrapping his arms around David Ortiz in a lovingly homoerotic fashion as they bask in the glow of the World Series trophy.
• December 6. 2004: SI’s Sportsmen of the Year? Why it’s the Boston Red Sox and Red Sox Nation! Big surprise there! Read about all the anguish and joy and dead people from New Hampshire who are now smiling down from Heaven!

Keep in mind that littered among these Red Sox covers are five covers featuring the other Greatest Team in the History of Mankind, the New England Patriots. Also keep in mind that since the beginning of the ‘90s, the most recent Podsednik cover represented only the fifth White Sox cover (and one of those was Michael Jordan playing AA ball). Yes, the Sox have been sorely disappointing over that time, but come on.

What’s my point to all this? Do I even have a point? Am I, as I mentioned, nothing but a bitter little White Sox fan that should just shut up and enjoy his team’s championship? Most likely. Am I jealous of Boston and all the attention they’ve been getting? Who wouldn’t be jealous of three Super Bowls wrapped around a World Series? Of COURSE I’m jealous – this jealousy has led me to this bitter state, and now I feel wrath towards Boston and the National Media – couple that with my feelings of envy and my earlier breast references and that’s THREE deadly sins I am currently succumbing to because of SI's slight! And that ain’t good.

Here’s my actual point: when it’s taken so long to reach the mountain top, aside from the personal joy and satisfaction I feel from a team I love winning it all, it would feel that much better if that team that I love so dearly got just a little bit of due recognition. I’m not asking for statues of A.J. Pierzynski to be erected nationwide. I’m not asking for Tom Verducci to pen a glowing, gushing account of “White Sox Nation” (I do submit that when a team is the only game in town in six rather densely-populated states, their fan base is bound to be a bit larger than normal, but I bitterly digress). And I’m not asking that the 2005 White Sox be declared the greatest team in sports history. All I’m asking is for what SI seems to have given every other major college or pro championship team in the 17 years I’ve been a subscriber. Both of my grandfathers died before the Sox had a chance to win; my dad waited 58 years; my brother waited 35 and I waited 31. My only question: Where’s our cover?

Until next time…

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 9

2005-10-31T13:45:00.000-06:00

The Dead

I have never considered myself to be on the cutting edge in terms of my musical tastes. As a young child, the only music I can ever remember myself proactively listening to was The Beatles – I had the albums Rubber Soul, Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s from my dad’s collection, and I kept these albums on a pretty steady rotation on my shitty, one speaker record player. As I got older and puberty began to cloud my judgment a bit, my musical tastes got much more obscure. Let’s face it – popular music in the mid-to-late ‘80’s sucked ass, so I spent most of my time alternating between the oldies and classic rock stations, and the albums I owned painted me as some sort of a schizophrenic freak. I guess when you have Blackout by the Scorpions sitting on top of the four “Weird” Al Yankovic records you own, that just screams “identity crisis”. Or “loser”, but that’s beside the point. Even after my brother brought home the Dead Kennedys’ Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables, which caused me to open my eyes to a whole new genre of music, I still remained pretty true to form – classic rock was my cup of tea, with no other band holding a candle to my beloved Beatles. To this very day, I still point to those lovable moptops as my all time favorite band, no questions asked (they currently hold three of the top five positions on my “Desert Island Albums” listing, which is no small feat). However, as we have established beyond a shadow of a doubt in these Tales, I was not always as level-headed as I am now. At no time was this more evident than the Lost Semester, where for a few brief months, I sold my soul, forsaking the Beatles as my one true musical love…for the Grateful Dead.

Allow me to clarify something – I do not dislike the Dead. As a matter of fact, I still quite enjoy some of their work and listen to it to this day. And “Unbroken Chain” remains my favorite song of all time – I think everyone has a song that sweeps over them, takes them to another place, and, if only for a few minutes, let’s them be alone in their own mind without a care in the world; that’s “Unbroken Chain” for me. Yet for as much as I still enjoy their work, I have also come to realize that much of what they have put out over the years comes off as clunky, repetitive, rambling nonsense aimed at keeping their doped-up audience in a trancelike state for hours on end (see: Drums and/or Space). Yet during the Lost Semester, fueled by marijuana and mushrooms, I was captivated by the music and the concept of the Dead – it was like they could see inside my mind, like they were singing to me, man!

Rooming with Dead fan CS only helped fuel my newfound fascination with the aging San Francisco-area band. CS had a stockpile of Dead CDs that made mine look downright puny. As freshman year progressed, my collection grew, as did the frequency with which I listened to their music. I mentioned in Volume 2 of the Tales that there was a steady diet of music that typically made its way onto the stereo system in Room 23 – the Dead’s live album One From the Vault was probably the most frequently played of the bunch. Whenever the CD or album we were listening to would end, someone would invariably shout out, “Hey, so-and-so, put on some music.” There was no rhyme or reason behind who was called upon to put on the tunes – usually it was the person sitting closest to the stereo or the person who had just walked back into the room and was arguing with the individual who had just stolen their seat. Being that I was pretty fried most of the time and that I was no longer self-confident enough to make a radical choice that might (God forbid) be ridiculed by the group, when I was called upon to DJ, there were probably three albums that I felt comfortable putting on – One From the Vault, Live from the Mars Hotel (also the Grateful Dead), and the Beatles’ Abbey Road. As I would get up to spin one of these oft-heard selections, I could usually feel Sadahara’s energy seeping out of his body – unlike most of the group, who liked or at least tolerated the Dead, Sadahara was, to put it lightly, not a fan. He often tells a hilarious story about going to a Dead concert with his friend, who happened to be wearing a Public Enemy t-shirt, and being accosted by a dirty hippie demanding to know, “Why are you the enemy? We’re just trying to have a good time!” Yes, that exchange alone would be enough to turn even the most open-minded individual in to an enemy of Jerry’s dancing guitar riffs, Bob’s bluesy tunesmanship (or was it tunesy bluesmanship?), Phil’s ample bass work, and Donna Gordceaux’s incessant caterwauling.

But I digress. When I would stick in One from the Vault (always disc one), in an instant everyone would know exactly what we were in for as the voice of Fillmore West Master of Ceremonies Bill Graham belted out, “Good evening, we welcome you…on behalf of the group. We wish to introduce…

“On the piano, we have Mr. Keith Gordceaux”

“On the drums on stage, left, Mr. Mickey Hart”

“On bass and vocals….Mr. Philip Lesh” (ba-dum-bum-bum-bumbadada-dum-dum-dum)

“On rhythm guitar and vocals, Mr. Bob Weir”

“On the drums on stage right, Mr. Bill Kreutzman”

“On the vocals, MISSUS Donna Jean Gordceaux” (half-hearted cheers)

“On lead guitar and vocals, Mr. Jerry Garcia” (wild cheers)

“Would you welcome please, the Grateful Dead!”

And on into Help/Slip/Frank (anyone into the Dead will know what that means; anyone not into the Dead – don’t concern yourselves). This became somewhat of the anthem of Room 23, and I have no doubt that by May, most of the primary players had probably grown quite tired of this whole sequence. Me? I still enjoy listening to this introduction, if for no other reason that it brings me back to those great, fun, nervous, stoned-out, class-skipping times when all I really cared about was whether I’d end up with the next green hit.

Now, I suppose if I had kept my newfound love of rambling hippie music within the confines of my living quarters, it wouldn’t seem so silly when I look back on it. But the thing about yours truly back in those days was that my judgment was so regularly clouded that I never quite realized that I was stepping over the line until it was much too late. Such was the case when my new obsession with the Dead made its way out of Room 23 and into other aspects of my life. I could tell you about my journey to see the Dead during Spring Break, but let’s save that story for another day. No, instead I refer you to the infiltration of my Dead fandom into a place much more inappropriate than a drug den – the classroom.

Up until this point, I have painted quite the picture of my academic mindset back in the spring of ’93 – five discussion sections on Friday, which I almost always missed. An all time low GPA that continued to handicap me three years into my career. Countless projects and assignments rushed through due to the fact that we had a fresh bag of marijuana waiting to be smoked. Yes, it was a banner semester for me! But as hard as it may seem to believe given the stories that have bubbled to the surface, there were those times where I actually got off my ass, shook off the cobwebs and made my way to one of U of I’s fine campus buildings in an effort to fulfill the primary purpose of my actually being in Champaign. One of the classes I happened to attend regularly was my Speech class – a required course for all undergraduate students in the College of Business Administration. What a great class to take while you are watching your ability to speak with any semblance of self-confidence slip away before your very eyes! Truth be told, I didn’t mind the class all that much – when I was forced to, I could still dig deep and turn on my speaking abilities, usually just enough so where I could get through my speech and relax, knowing that there likely was a full bowl or six-pack of beer waiting to wipe all my worries away. Since I actually had a cute teacher for the course (or so I think she was – can’t really remember at this point) and since time not speaking was spent listening mindlessly to others as they spoke, it was a pretty easy class to coast through a few times each week.

Throughout the semester, each student was required to give a number of different speeches – we had to debate a topic, present factual evidence to support a hypothesis, and also deliver a personal belief speech. Any guesses on what my personal belief statement, the one that would be the basis for the 10 minute speech I would nervously deliver to a room full of skeptics, ended up being? Why of course, it was: “I believe the Grateful Dead are the greatest band in music.” Are you fucking kidding me? Of all the commentaries I could have made, of all the axes I could have grinded, of all the causes I could have championed, this was my personal belief statement?? Why in the world would I profess this as a personal belief to a roomful of strangers and a teacher who could prove instrumental in determining whether I will be allowed back at the great University of Illinois in the fall?? My guess? I got stoned, listened to One From the Vault, went to class, had the assignment thrust upon me, and given that I had was humming “Sugaree” in my head during the walk to class thought, “Man, the Grateful Dead are the best band ever.” And yes, I actually have a job that pays me money right now.

So there it was, my personal belief statement, out there for all to judge. My first assignment for this speech was to draft an outline of how the speech would progress. I had to present my statement, give reasons as to why I believed what I was saying, acknowledge potential opinions to the contrary (I had Sadahara for that, thank goodness), present personal evidence as to why my opinion was correct, and reinforce that, yes, I did believe that the Grateful Dead was the best band in music. I’m sure my dad would have been proud to learn how that hard-earned tuition money was being spent. Someway, somehow I cranked out the outline for my speech – I amazingly found enough to talk about for 10 minutes, most likely because I made up all of the stories that I was going to include in the speech, including the one where I started dancing with some random girl at a Dead show during a particularly rousing rendition of “Turn On Your Love Light”, which was made all the more humorous given the fact that at this point I had never been to a Dead show and that the guy who sings it had been dead, literally speaking, since 1970. I turned in my outline to the teacher, who surprisingly approved it as a topic worthy of speaking about in a college-level course, and as I left class I was instantly hit by a wave of panic. “Am I seriously going to give a speech on how awesome the Grateful Dead is? What the hell am I thinking?” I started to realize that by giving this speech I was essentially saying to my teacher and the other 20 people in the class, “Hey everyone, I’m a dopey stoner and you should never, ever take another thing I say seriously, not even for a second!” Another banner moment for our protagonist!

Since every other student in the class also had to deliver a speech, our teacher had to spread our presentations out over the course of a few class sessions – mercifully the speech order in this cas was dictated by where your last name fell in the alphabet. Being comfortably back in the R’s, I knew I had some time to sharpen my angle about how amazing Jerry’s guitar playing was given his missing right middle finger, as well as con myself into thinking the stories I had fabricated had actually occurred. Of course given my fragile psyche, I also knew this extra time could work to my disadvantage should I fall into the trap of over-thinking just how stupid the whole concept behind my speech really was. No, I decided I would tough it out and keep fooling myself into believing I was doing something that was neither academically nor socially damaging. Call it the power of positive thinking.

Then, something amazing happened. As I sat in anticipation of my assigned speaking time, my nervousness approaching new heights, the other students in my class began delivering their speeches. One by one, they came and went, and slowly but surely my concerns that these bright, forward-thinking minds would put me to shame with the sheer depth and magnitude of their socially aware statements of personal belief evaporated into dust. Strange as it may seem given the silly personal belief I had selected for my speech, I found myself wondering how our teacher had approved some of the topics that were being spewed forth. There was the speech from the nerdy guy whose personal belief was that he had been abducted by aliens, which may or may not have been a joke. There was the normal everyman stating his belief that all state trooper automobiles should be painted a bright fluorescent orange (a great idea, I must say). And there was the Jewish girl whose personal belief statement was something to the effect of, “I believe Jewish people should only marry other Jewish people.” Hey, she believed it, so what the hell? There were many other topics too silly or boring to remember, and by the time it came to be my turn, I had little to no reservations about my topic. I stood in front of that class, delivering my heartfelt speech outlining the merits of American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead, barely stopping to fix my hair (if at all), and by the end of it all I led the class in a stirring rendition of “St. Stephen”. OK, I made that last part up, but not only did I not make a complete ass out of myself, I think I may have even looked cool to some of the class, most likely because they thought I might be able to score them some pot. My teacher gave me an A on the speech, leading me to finish with a solid B overall (attendance issues, don’t you know).

Looking back, I tend to believe that my love of the Dead peaked on that day – they carried me through that speech, they helped add to the fun of my Lost Semester, and they gave me a new appreciation for other people’s musical viewpoints. After all was said and done, I threw away all of my notes associated with that speech, went back home, smoked a bowl, went over to the stereo, and popped in some Beatles. And all was right with the world again.

Until next time…

Debunking the Myths of the World Champion White Sox

2005-10-28T13:36:00.000-05:00

This smile on my face just won’t go away.

It’s been there since approximately 11:05 PM CDT, Wednesday October 26, 2005. This also happens to be the moment that Juan Uribe charged hard to field a high bouncer and fired it into the glove of likely-to-be-former-Sox First Basemen Paul Konerko, giving my beloved White Sox their first World Championship since the days that predate all four of my grandparents (the three who are no longer with us can lay claim to being Sox fans as well). My birthday - November 26. Bears Super Bowl - January 26. White Sox World Series - October 26. What a number.

Yes, I said “World” Championship – apparently former Major League manager Bobby Valentine is saying that it’s “arrogant” for the Sox to call themselves World Champs unless they play the Japanese Champs, the ones he coincidentally manages, in a seven game series. I’m sure he would have felt the exact same way had his Mets beaten the Yankees in 2000, but I guess that’s beside the point. Domo, but no domo, Bobby – we’ll take our title as is.

As hard as it may seem to believe, the Sox (the ONLY Sox in my heart) have won the World Series. Hell, it’s amazing enough that a team from the Greatest City in the World has won a pennant, making this all the more special. I have been trying mightily to reconcile the events of the last few weeks in my mind, to realize that this is indeed real and not part of some Lost Semester flashback episode. It’s real, and it feels fucking glorious.

As the World Series is baseball’s biggest stage, arguably only second in overall sports popularity in this country to the Super Bowl, there has naturally been a lot of attention placed on my White Sox. Surprisingly enough, the National Media has finally acknowledged that there is a team here in Chicago that participates in baseball’s American League, and they’ll be darned if they can’t play the game! Actually, the National Media already discovered the Sox when they were eager to put their spin on what surely would be the most brutal collapse in sports history – they were hoping for it, begging for it, loving every minute of it. But sadly for those vultures, the pesky Sox decided to go 20-3 in their last 23 games, sticking those hopes and wishes firmly back up the National Media’s collective ass.

As the spotlight has been shined upon this beautiful franchise in which I’ve committed an inordinate amount of love and loyalty lo these 31 years, and as it has taken so long to discover what so many wonderfully dedicated fans already know, the media naturally made a few missteps in the way they reported the goings-on of these Champions. For the benefit of my nine readers, I would like to take this opportunity to debunk some myths that surround the White Sox, their fans, and the developments of the last season.

Myth: The Sox rid themselves of the Curse of the Black Sox when they won the Series.

Fact: We’ve said it before, and we will say it again: White Sox fans do not believe in curses. We never have been, are not, and never will be cursed, unless by cursed you mean victims of poor decisions surrounding the management and marketing of the franchise. Shoeless Joe Jackson was not responsible for this 88-year stretch of misery. Blame it on poor personnel decisions, the Sox being pulled off of WGN in favor of a pay-TV network that many people in the area didn’t have access to, running into teams who were better than they were or at the wrong time, etc. But don’t lean on the excuse of a bunch of uneducated ballplayers who were being horribly lowballed pay-wise by their stingy owner and were lured to the promise of riches and security for their families by a shady gambling element. I’m not trying to defend the Black Sox either, but let’s keep it in perspective – 1919 was a fucked up time in America and Chicago – Women couldn’t vote, we were on the verge of making liquor illegal (smart move there), child labor was still out of control, the city had a burgeoning vice district that alderman not only permitted but profited from, and a violent race riot raged through the city leaving 38 dead and 291 maimed or wounded. My point? Let’s not place too much stock in what folks were up to in 1919 when talking about a baseball team.

Myth: Sox fans care that this was the lowest rated World Series in history.

Fact: Has anyone hyping these stories ever actually met a Sox fan? If so, they would realize that nobody who likes the Sox gives a fiddler’s flying fuck about what anyone else in the city, let alone the nation, thinks about their team, nor how close of attention they are paying. New York and Boston aren’t watching? Couldn’t care less about them or their overpaid, underachieving ilk. L.A.’s not interested? Chicago had baseball when L.A. was a barren hellhole (as opposed to its current state as a densely populated hellhole). The fact is that it’s quite probable that 75% of fans residing on the city’s South Side have never even been outside of Cook County, or even north of Madison St, so I doubt they’re placing any stock in what anyone else across the country thinks. This, of course, brings us to our next myth…

Myth: All Sox fans live on the South Side of Chicago.

Fact: This, of course, is complete bunk. There are Sox fans everywhere – South Side, North Side, West Side, Suburbs, Indiana, Texas, California, etc. Now don’t get me wrong – I understand the concept of placing everything into perspective for the people around the country (who apparently weren’t watching anyway). It is true that the majority of Chicagoans who live on the South Side are Sox fans. However, the opposite is far from true. I grew up in the suburbs and live on the North Side, yet I am 100% a Sox fan. It is true that the root of most Sox fandom traces itself back to where the family’s ancestor’s lived. Yet the exact same can be said for the Cubs and the North Side. What the national media fails to realize is that even though Cubs fans may outnumber Sox fans, the argument can be made that this is more attributable to deft marketing, national television exposure and a pretty darn nice beer garden, er, ballpark than true-blue fan loyalty. Don’t get me wrong – true Cubs fans are as violently passionate about their club as Sox fans are. Just don’t inaccurately report that the only Sox fans you’ll find in this city, this country or this planet are Bridgeport residents.

Myth: All Sox fans hate the Cubs and are obsessed with them.

Fact: Although my Cub fan friends will likely argue my point, I maintain that this is absolutely not the case. Yes, there is a strong contingent of Sox fans who would love to see nothing more than Wrigley Field crumble to the ground (which it’s currently doing, even as they add more seats/revenue as we speak). But this is by no means a representation of the full population of Sox fans. I will further argue that this World Series victory will result in many Sox fans that previously held feelings of resentment and/or inadequacy in relation to the Cubs converting them to feelings of purely neutral indifference. At least let’s hope so. As the great Chris Sporer says: “The world doesn’t need haters.” Couldn’t agree more.

Myth: Jimbo’s Bar is located in Southside, Chicago.

Fact: Fox proves once again that they don’t have a clue. It’s the South Side of Chicago – Southside is not a proper name in and of itself. Yet during Game 4, every time the cameras showed the inside of Jimbo’s, complete with mulleted, mustachioed off-duty union men and trashy women who could barely lift their drunken heads off of the bar and take a drag off of their Virginia Slim, the graphic flashed up: “Jimbo’s – Southside, Chicago.” Get your facts straight, NewsCorp – and while you’re at it, try doing so at your news network.

Myth: Joe Buck is a balanced, unbiased announcer who would never resort to being smugly condescending about the two teams appearing in the World Series due to the fact that it meant less viewers for Fox and less exposure for his delicate ego.

Fact: Yeah, and the Pope is Jewish.

What’s my point in all this? I’m not quite sure – I guess since I’ve already soaked up everything there is to soak up about the players, the situations, the great moments, the unbelievable outcome, etc, I wanted to hit this from a different angle. And maybe everything has already been said that needs to be said. I love the White Sox, I love this team as much as the ’85 Bears, and I will always, always, ALWAYS remember the moments that made this the greatest baseball season of my life.

A final word to all you Cubs fans – I am convinced that your misery cannot possibly go on forever. Someday, the Cubs may win the Series – all I can say is savor it when it comes because there is honestly nothing like it in the world. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

THANK YOU WHITE SOX!

Rambling on the Eve of Potential Euphoria

2005-10-21T13:47:00.000-05:00

The White Sox are in the World Series.

Let me just repeat that so it sinks in.

The White Sox are in the World Series.

Holy shit.

This is a day I thought I would never see. This is something my father last saw when he was 12. This is something I've been yearning, hoping and wishing for since my dad took me to my first Sox game. I was four years old and strangely intrigued by the sight of staggering men with bad mustaches vomiting into drinking fountains in the dark, dank concourses of Comiskey Park. The place was vile, dirty, smelly and beautiful all at the same time, especially on the nights we seemingly had that grandstand in right field all to ourselves.

Over the years, there were many players who pulled on that often-garish White Sox uniform who I idolized: Chet Lemon, Bull, Baines, Pudge, Rudy, Ivan, Walker, The Hammer, Thiggy, Ozzie, Scooter, Rock, La Chispa, Blackjack, One-Dog (Sporer's most hated nickname of all time), Robin, Ray-Ray, The Big Hurt, the Little Hurt, The Officer, Spanky...the list goes on and on and on.

My love for the game truly blossomed when they won ugly in '83. I sat in golden box seats as Tony LaRussa whipped third base across the infield shortly before he was fied by Hawk Harrelson. I held out hope that the 1990 squad would give the best ballpark around a proper send off by toppling the hated A's - unfortunately, Dave Stewart was right - we couldn't hold their jocks (some things never change). In '93, I emerged from the Lost Semester a happy, somewhat-well-adjusted young man as the Sox won another division title. To this day, the Orioles, A's and Blue Jays make me want to vomit.

I remember the oh-so-lean years of the mid-late '90s - Jaime "Piece of Shit" Navarro, Danny Tartabull, Chris Snopek, Jorge Fabergas, Tony "Crackpipe" Phillips, Carlos "Fatass" Castillo, Mike "Potential? What Potential?" Caruso - dark, desolate times, friends. Throw in the White Flag trade in '97 (Sox facing an INSURMOUNTABLE 3 game deficit on July 31) and the God-awful 1998 Season of Sammy that spawned a colony of "Cubbie Diehards" that made even the true-blue Cub fans want to wretch over their fickle nature, and it was quite the unpleasant time to be a Sox fan.

Yet in April of 2000, watching a Saturday game against Detroit that featured two brutal bench-clearing brawls, I started to feel like that team could be special. They stuck together, made a nice trade to pick up Charles Johnson, and basically coasted to a division title. Unfortunately, they happened to coast straight through the first round against Seattle. Another great season, another flameout.

Throughout the early part of this century, I watched in agony as a team loaded with talent and potential middled their way through each season as the Indians and Twins fucked them right in their minds in much the same way the Hanson brothers applauded player-coach Reggie Dunlap for doing to Tim "Dr. Hook" McCracken. An All-Star appearance here, a 27-game hitting streak there, another 83 win season, and nobody seemed to give a shit.

Enter Kenny Williams, who I foolishly chided at the beginning of this season for the work he did on the 2005 model of the Sox. "Get rid of Ordonez and Lee?" I gasped. "Heresy!" Given this man's track record (David Wells, Todd Ritchie, Roberto Alomar...TWICE) I thought he had finally lost it. Yet here we sit today - a glorious season for a glorious franchise. As they steamrolled through July, I thought "Great, another easy division title, another first round flame out." Instead, we had what may have been three of the most nerve-wracking weeks of my life as the Sox tried to give their season away. The National Media loved every minute of it - dickheads like Jeff Brantley saying "See, I told you I was right about the White Sox being a fluke!" Too bad for them that their self-righteousness got shoved right back down their throats...

As for how everything has gone until this point, I couldn't be happier. We kept the hated Indians out of the playoffs, giving Cleveland fans yet another reason to be depressed (given that they have to live in Cleveland, that's pretty hard to do). Next we swept America's Darlings, the Boston Red Sox, right out of contention. As much as I was rooting for Boston last year, I have to say that there was no sweeter sight than watching the White Sox dance around Fenway park as 34,000 New Englanders sat in stunned horror. (Sidenote: I was watching Alias with Michelle the other day, which should now be known as Gay-lias, and there was a scene when Jennifer Garner, who is carrying the fruit of known-Red Sox fan Ben Affleck's loins, is in a coffee house in Prague talking to some dude who is wearing a Red Sox hat - she says "The Boston Red Sox - I like them" - I am convinced that when this scene was filmed, she and Ben believed that the timing would be perfect, as the Red Sox would naturally be readying themselves to defend their title. Just another reason the sweep made me happy). We then were able to dispatch the club from Orange County, holding last year's AL MVP to a 1-for-20 showing (for those of you not into baseball, that's an average of .050, and that's not very good).

Now, we get to face the tough club from Texas, which as Sgt Hartman reminds us is only home to "steers and queers". Yes, they have good pitching. Yes, they play in the friendliest righthanded hitting ballpark in American history. Yes, they have a neat train that rides around and such. But since their stadium's former namesake is Enron, and Enron is the reason I lost a plum job with Business-class travel, four-star hotel stays and a planned trip to the Netherlands that certainly would have involved a weekend trip to Amsterdam, leaving me in a stupor of stoned euphoria, I must blame the Astros for having that taken away from me. I call upon the Baseball Gods to smite these villains and allow the White Sox to bask in the glory of a world championship.

So in conclusion, thank you to the 2005 White Sox - should you win the Series, you will have a place in my heart above all others - above the 2005 Illini, the '90s Bulls, the '85 Bears, and, well, I guess that's all the good teams I know.

GO GO WHITE SOX!!!!!!!!!!!

Random Thoughts for the Day

2005-10-07T15:44:00.000-05:00

- SWEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

- The last three Sox games were arguably the three best games in franchise history.

- On ESPN Radio this morning, Peter Gammons was speculating whether the Red Sox fans would start a "1917" chant, similar to the "1918" chant they used to hear from Yankee fans. This led me to ask myself: Is this the sports equivalent of a cancer survivor heckling patients in the oncology ward?

- The only thing worse than having to suffer through three games of Chris Berman's amazing feat of announcing a baseball game with Johnny Damon's scrotum in his mouth was having to watch as the ESPN cameras panned the Fenway crowd as poor, poor Red Sox Nation had that look of "We haven't won in 11 months, woe is us!" horror on their collective faces. How soon we forget.

- Wait a second - actually, watching those shots of the Fenway crowd was surprisingly pleasing.

- On an unrelated note, if you ask me, nothing screams "I'm a complete and total asshole" quite like a colored dress shirt with a white collar and cuffs.

- Is there a creepier person on the fringe of celebrity than Joe Simpson, patriarch of the Jessica/Ashlee duo of overexposure? I believe this guy used to be a Baptist Minister, and now he wears his hair like a cast member of The Real World, dons an earring, and doesn't quite button his shirt all the way to the top. Not only that, but he is being cited in all the current rumors as one of the main reasons for Nick and Jessica's impending split. Am I the only one who is completely unsettled by his sheer scuzziness? What would Freud say about his strange, pseudo-sexual relationship with his daughters? Can someone please splice this guy's brain open, study it, and figure out how we can prevent future occurrences of Papa Joe?

- Speaking of Jessica Simpson, to me she is the epitome of the sheltered girl who fires off like a loose cannon once she gets a taste of the good life. She was a virgin when she married her husband, and three scant years later there are rumors of her love of whiskey, cocaine use, and sexual rendezvous with Johnny "Why Is This Guy A Movie Star Again?" Knoxville. If they can't make it work, there's no hope for any of us. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: We're doomed.

- I was watching a recent episode of the once-intriguing but now-excrutiating Alias yesterday. As they began working Jennifer Garner's pregnancy into the script, there is a scene where her character, Sidney, is speaking with her fiancee, Michael, about said pregnancy. Because he's got some secret to hide, he pulls the old, tired "How can we bring a child into this world?" cliche. I've never quite understood this. Don't we as humans, despite all of our issues and hang-ups, generally continue to evolve as a species? Isn't that what time, technology, innovation and education do for us? Would it be better to bring a child into the world during the Jim Crow Era? Or maybe in the 1620's, when single women were being burned alive by religious zealots who thought it was weird that they were single women? Or perhaps even during those lazy, hazy, crazy days of the Bubonic plague? The further back you go, the shittier things were in general, so there are no "Good Ol' Days". And yes, things are still pretty fucked up and aren't getting exponentially better in the near future. So maybe the writers of this show can craft something a little more plausible and have the guy say, "sorry, hon - a baby will just cramp my style." Keep it real.

- Did I mention that the White Sox won this evening?

- I final shoutout goes to acquitted ex-footballer O.J. Simpson, who Us Weekly happily reports spent the 10th anniversary of his acquittal signing autographs at a horror-themed comic book convention. Run, Juice, run!

At Long Last

2005-09-28T15:17:00.000-05:00

I'm eighteen and I like it!

From "Eighteen" by Alice Cooper

My God - I never thought this day would arrive. All the days, months, years of waiting, pining, hoping, and the day of days is finally here! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to report, that today, September 28, 2005, Hilary Duff turns 18-years-old.

As some of my nine readers who have been reading my crap for a while may remember, I first expressed my wildly inappropriate crush on Ms. Duff back in late-2002, when The Lizzie McGuire Movie was released by those fiends at Disney - seeing as I never watched the Disney Channel, I had never heard of this character (nor the fact that she was a Junior High student), nor had I any awareness of the cute-as-pie actress that graced the McGuire billboards on Chicago's Western Avenue. One day, while driving with Michelle, I pointed to the billboard and stated that I thought that the actress, whom I had come to learn was named Hilary Duff, was quite cute. As she recoiled in horror, Michelle barked, "Jason, she's fifteen!!!" My world came crashing down - I was only 28 at the time, but I had already morphed into a vile, dispicable old masher. I felt sick beyond words.

During the next three years, as I sought a wholesome outlet for my mad thoughts, I continually alluded to this unnatural crush in my writings, partly to ridicule myslef, and partly because, well, I thought she was cute! But soon (strike that - IMMEDIATELY) after I learned of her true age, I declared my crush officially dead - when I read that blurb in Us Weekly where Ms. Duff discussed her general disinterest in dating older men (even though I believe that her current boyfriend is 28 - cruel fate, why do you mock me?), I knew I had made the right decision. Plus, having a wife tends to put the kibash on your dating life, so naturally that played a part.

However, today represents the dawning of a new day - Hilary is 18 now, and therefore is considered "legal" in states outside of Georgia and Alabama. Sadly though, her transformation into one of the many overexposed starlet/musician/fashion moguls that continue to haunt the L.A. landscape has turned me off of her intoxicating persona - now that I am legally (although still creepily) able to resume my crush, I find myself unwilling to do so. This is indeed a bittersweet day, as it has been circled in red on my calendar for three years running. However, I thought it an appropriate opportunity to relive some of my favorite Hilary Duff references of the past few years. Please enjoy - and welcome to adulthood, Hilary!

• Damn you, Hollywood! How can you put out ads for The Lizzie McGuire Movie without first telling me that Hilary Duff is only 15?!?!?! Oh, the humanity! (It’s the slowest web page ever, even slower than Hilary’s excruciatingly slow crawl to age 18: www.Hilaryduff.com). Lucky for me, I cannot be jailed for signing up for Hilary’s mailing list, complete with hot news, special offers and more! I will be sure to bring you all the breaking Hilary news, once I have screened it for content of course.

• Another great thing about those loveable programmers over at Fox – immediately following American Juniors, a show featuring fresh-faced children performing wholesome bubblegum tunes for pre-teens all over America, is the warm and fuzzy Paradise Hotel. I mean, no sooner have we faded to black on Ryan Seacrest telling us to tune in to see which 11-year-old will become the next Hilary Duff (had to sneak that one in there – she’ll be 18 some day…) then we see hot scenes featuring sexy shirtless males flexing their abdominal muscles in yet another bizarre mating ritual while playing Musical Sluts with gorgeous ladies in slinky bikinis while the “Parental Discretion – Strong Sexual Content” disclaimer is thrown in our faces. Having been an 11-year-old myself, I can tell you that this stern warning would have sent me immediately to my parents to ask their permission (thereby forcing them to use their discretion) to watch these sexy singles frolic about in all of their sexiness.

• (Talking about DeGrassi: The Next Generation): It’s strange that I get so entertained when I hear cracking male and falsetto female adolescent voices speak with that cute Canadian accent. And there are so many faces from the past! In those collective 7 minutes, I saw Joey Jeremiah (complete with shaved head) and epilepsy-sufferer Caitlin console some poor young soul whose father had died. In addition, I sat jaw agape as I watched Snake, he of the gay basketball-playing brother, and now a balding, heavier teacher, console Emma, the daughter of Spike (whom my brother Greg harbored an unnatural, Hilary Duff-esque crush on back in the early ‘90s), regarding the fact that her father Shane, the acid-head who jumped off a bridge, was now back from the nuthouse or wherever for a visit.

• Welcome to Disney MGM Studios! Enjoy the many exhibits and shows! Observe the plentiful advertisements for Disney films and quality ABC-produced television entertainment! On a wholly unrelated topic, were you aware that Disney owns ABC? No? Well, go to Disney MGM Studios and they’ll cram that fact so far down your throat that you’ll shit it out in a scant 20 minutes. Posters for According to Jim, The George Lopez Show, NYPD Blue, Alias, My Wife and Kids, The Practice – if it’s on ABC, it’s on a wall somewhere in this theme park. More ABC/Disney fun: Drew Carey is featured in a horrible sound demonstration show, Ellen “Alan” Degeneres is in the Energy exhibit in EPCOT (with Bill Nye the Science Guy, no less), song and dance funnyman Wayne Brady was on hand to film his variety Christmas special (a formula that never gets old) and I spotted an ad for former Disney Channel wonder Hilary Duff‘s new album Metamorphosis on the back lot tour (sorry, old habits die hard).

• (Talking about The Ashlee Simpson Show): In the episode I was lucky enough to witness, a scene where Ashleeeeeeee talks about how she doesn’t want to be compared to teen celebrity sensation Hilary Duff was brilliantly followed up by a scene of Ashleeeee and her friends at lunch (probably at a hot celeb hangout frequented by big sis Jessica!) being approached by a young fan who mentioned to Ashleeeeee that her favorite singer was Hilary Duff. Meow! I’m sure there are even bigger things to come from Ashleeeeee Simpson – keep your eyes peeled for her appearance in a Cinemax B-grade soft porn flick sometime around 2009.

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

• I am coming to you LIVE from flight 160 with service from San Francisco to Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport and, wouldn’t you know it, we’re only scheduled to be 40 minutes late! I love landing at 12:45 AM, don’t you? I wonder if that captain will break his arm patting himself on the back as he tells us about United’s #1 on-time rating? Until I get the answer to that question, maybe I’ll enjoy my fourth-consecutive viewing of Bringing Down the House, which does a wonderful job of rehashing the good old days of the Jim Crow Laws. However, before I could relive the madcap stereotypical humor (oh look, an old lady is smoking pot and getting the munchies!), I must sit on the tarmac in an un-air-conditioned plane and flip through the thrilling articles of Hemispheres (which actually had a fine “Perfect 3 Days” vacation article featuring The Great City of Chicago – the activities and accommodations they suggested would probably only run you about $1,500 for the weekend). Much to my delight, while perusing the musical selections, I come to realize that channel 12 the in-flight entertainment network is featuring songs from the film Lizzie McGuire, which stars, you guessed it, my former unnatural crush Hilary Duff! Well, apparently Ms. Duff dabbles in both acting and singing, so as the crack staff at SFO struggled to fix the plane’s hydraulic system, I took a listen to her latest smash hit tune entitled Why Not. A sampling:

Why not (why not)
Take a crazy chance?
Why not (why not)
Do a crazy dance?

Maybe the title should have been Why Try and Come Up With Clever Rhymes. There were also lines about wearing yellow when you want to wear gold and discussing how you can’t get to heaven, or even L.A., without desire or some crap. It made my head spin, and it was almost enough to make me stop wishing that I were 15 again. Almost.

Until next time...

Broom Corn: Nothing Else Compares

2005-09-13T17:17:00.000-05:00

It makes me very proud to report to the nine of you that I am now World Famous.

For what has to be the last 11 years or so, my good friend O’Hal has been lobbying me in an effort to convince me to march with the World Famous Lawn Rangers. For the uneducated, the following is the briefest of brief history lessons regarding the Lawn Rangers:

Twenty Five years ago, a handful (13) of Arcola area citizens decided it was time to be part of Arcola’s (IL) Famous Broom Corn Festival Parade, instead of hecklers and observers. They took a talent inventory and came to the conclusion that pushing mowers and twirling brooms was probably the best they could do. But they did it with gusto. Soon after, invitations to appear in other festival parades poured in and the Rangers went on tour. The rest is history.

Over 1,000 individuals have marched with the Rangers, drawing their members from ages 21 to 80 and from all walks of life. These lost souls come together bound only by a sense of humor and the great bond of “fellership”. Their ranks include their team press agent, noted Pulitzer Prize winning columnist, Dave Barry. Ranger Dave has appeared in 5 parades, written 5 columns featuring the Rangers, and sponsored a TV production starring himself and the Rangers. In addition to Ranger Dave’s fine work, the Rangers have appeared in specials by Bob Wallace of CBS Chicago, the Coors house video magazine, a production by Arcola’s own Van King for PM Magazine, and many local TV specials. The area press has also been kind to us with multiple fine stories on the adventures of the Rangers, as well as nice work by Ranger columnist, Tom Kacich.

Ranger Co-Founder Pat Monahan says it best “Never have so many done so much with so little”

But this short history does little justice to the phenomenon – it is one that I can now say must be experienced to be fully appreciated. As mentioned, O’Hal rode me good and hard the last decade or so about joining the ranks of the Rangers. “Are you coming to Arcola this year?” “The St. Patrick’s Day parade (downtown Chicago) should be a blast, maybe you should march.” “It’s Broom Corn time again.” “You won’t regret it.” Given that he is the son of one of the founding members and has marched in at least 40 parades, I truly believed that this was an experience not to be missed. Yet I always found some excuse why I could not participate; to be frank, these excuses were indeed like assholes – they all stunk. But for one reason or another I missed parade after parade after parade – and now I realized I missed out on a lot more than that.

As recently as this summer, O’Hal worked Arcola into the conversation again. “J, Broom Corn time is almost upon us – what say you?” Now, given that Michelle is expecting the spawn of my seed in November, this has given me much cause to reevaluate my priorities in life. After much soul-searching, I decided that, since I am not Hindu, I had to apply the “you only live once” corollary to this situation. So when O’Hal brought the subject up one fateful evening, I committed to marching in Broom Corn without haste. In almost an instant, I had convinced my brother Greg that it was imperative for him to join me on this quest for drunken madness. So it is with this spirit that I open the door and invite you to experience Amazing Arcola’s Broom Corn Festival 2005 with the World Famous Lawn Rangers:

• The first thing you must know about being a Lawn Ranger is the required gear: At minimum you are expected to sport a Lone Ranger mask, a hat (typically of the Western variety) and a lawn mower decorated in a manner that best suits your personality. If you choose to go nude after that, more power to you. Having secured a mower from my brother-in-law and being a big fan of Halloween, I chose a fake tombstone and pumpkin bucket filled with candy. I also make a trip to buy our masks at Party City, which was a depressing affair as Air Supply’s “Air that I breathe” boomed through the speakers, which of course made me wish that every bit of oxygen around me was sucked out of the building, causing me to die and sparing me from further exposure to Air Supply.

• Friday was spent trading emails and barbs with O’Hal in great anticipation of the good times to come. At one point we speculated whether the Amish Rake Fights would live up to their lofty expectations.

• On Saturday morning I arrive at Greg’s around 8:30. He has decorated his manual mower (the only one in the parade incidentally) with a sticker expressing his pride in being a Union member, as well as various flags saluting our heritage. We set out for adventure around 9:00, fueled my adrenaline and far too much coffee.

• As Arcola lies approximately 45 minutes south of Champaign, we head toward I-57. Ah, I-57 – it’s been much too long, old friend.

• Hunger strikes around 10:30 and we stop at the Gilman/Chatsworth exit for some McDonald’s. I am to the point where I only allow myself to indulge in this vice on road/plane trips. After dropping the kids off at the pool (thank you, coffee), I walk up to the register the instant the breakfast menu flips over to lunch, leaving Greg and I to order identical two cheeseburger meals. It should come as little surprise that shortly after passing Champaign, Greg experiences the always-mysterious Insta-Shit phenomenon. We stop at the Rest Area (whose stalls are strangely devoid of any calls for trucker love, I might add) so Greg can unload. I pop a couple of tablets of Pepto and we’re back on our way.

• After three easy hours of highway hypnosis, we arrive in Arcola, IL. Greg and I are lucky enough to have secured a room at the lovely Arcola Inn. Given the check-in procedure and general disinterest of our Indian clerk, Greg keenly notes that this is just the kind of place where a fugitive from justice could lam out for a few days with great ease. We instantly picture empty food containers, liquor bottles, and Juliette Lewis curled in the corner next to a broken coke mirror.

• Shortly thereafter we meet up with veteran Rangers John “Shak” Akalitis and O’Hal (and their ladies Jenny and Ann, respectively). The ladies go to freshen up while we four marchers get mentally prepared for the task that lies ahead.

• Around 12:30, as temperatures approach 90, we make our way to the Ranger tent, graciously hosted by Arcola resident Terrible Ted. We’re among the first to arrive and immediately head for the multiple kegs & bbq spread.

• While Greg and I have brought our own mowers, I am amazed at the array of mowers that are available to the general public. So creative, so unique, so much time on people’s hands. Shak and O’Hal quickly lay claim to their mowers, meaning the hardest part of the day is now complete.

• I am honored to meet the patriarch of the Rangers, Mr. Pat Monahan, as well as reacquaint w/John O’Halloran Sr. (AKA the Candyman). Given their status with the Rangers as well as the event we are about to participate in, this is the equivalent of hanging out with George Halas and Curly Lambeau at a Bear-Packer game.

• There happens to be a documentary being filmed about the Rangers. I start to feel that I am in the presence of greatness.

• Tom “Shakes” Powers arrives (another long-standing Ranger veteran), as does Jon “Nacho Man” Bruner, his wife Jen and their 8-month-old son Sam. Our clique for the day is hereby complete.

• It’s amazing how good cold beer tastes in the 90+ heat. I decide not to chance it with the bbq spread given the precariousness of my intestinal situation after ingesting my quarterly McDonald’s meal.

• Our picnic area is becoming quite full with Rangers and some family and friends. Later I will learn that 93 stout men marched with the Rangers that day.

• The festivities truly begin as we gear up for the march with the various “Ranger Reports” (i.e. excuses for hilarious vulgarity). Father Tourette leads us in benediction (“Goddammit, it’s great to be here!”) and several hilarious altar boy jokes. I quietly thank my parents for attending a parish free of child molesters.

• Next we have what can best be described as a cornucopia of dick and butt jokes. The donation to the gism bank. The guy who moons the crowd to music. The Champaign Ranger contingent, whose “report” consisted of holding out big, fake dicks and singing Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-Ling”. I assume by ding-a-ling, they meant penis. There was one brave gent who, I believe on an alcohol-fueled whim, decided to show the group how he could stick his testicles outside of his pants and pull them back in without touching them. Yes, the women and children were warned of the nature of the humor, but come on. On the upside, when I ran into him later and said “Hey, great trick with your balls” he seemed genuinely ashamed. Probably wasn’t such a good idea after all.

• Finally, the moment of truth – the parade. Now I must say that O’Hal had been warning me of the rigors of Ranger Rookie Camp, where I would learn my maneuvers and be subjected to brutal, humiliating hazing. Yet here we were marching two-wide towards the parade route (Greg being my partner) with nary a lesson to be had or insult to be absorbed. Thankfully, Shak and Bruner, who are marching ahead of us, give us a “here’s all you need to know” lesson – we learn to “Walk the Dog” (turn your mower toward the curb and move in a circle, followed by two sweeps of the broom) and do the “Cross and Toss” (man on the left crosses under the man on the right, brooms are tossed to your partner, followed by two sweeps of the broom). We are now sufficiently trained.

• Greg and I have our rookie mistakes (dropped brooms; walked the dog when we should have crossed and tossed), but we soon get in the flow.

• The crowd loves us – we get cheered every time we complete a maneuver. It helps that we bribe the crowd with candy and Mardi Gras beads (however, seeing as there are Amish in this community, we require no lewd “payment” for said beads).

• Downtown Arcola is strikingly similar to Main St USA at Disney – I make note of the various food stands along the route (pork chop on a stick; walleye sandwich) that we will no doubt hit later that night. My mouth waters, yet I remain on task like a dutiful Rookie.

• After about 40 minutes walking, crossing, tossing and sweating through the streets of Arcola, we have completed our journey – Greg and I have successfully completed our first Ranger march. O’Hal beams with bride as we head back to tent for more beer, more food and some unbelievably refreshing dips of our heads into a cooler full of ice water.

• One of the Champaign Rangers passes out on the lawn, and another one of his contingent jumps on top of him and they pretend to engage in coitus. Our clique sits in stunned horror.

• After bleeding the kegs dry, we head back to the hotel for some R&R before the evening’s events. A catnap, a few beers and cold shower later we are all ready for some more action. On to downtown Arcola!

• The pork chop on a stick proves to be everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more. Ditto the walleye sandwich that Greg inhales (Shak eats two). The others have opted for gyros, so I grab one of them for myself – great move on my part, I must say.

• Shakes, Greg and I go ahead to the beer tent – we secure our beer mugs for the evening (mine is from Broom Corn ’97) and ready ourselves for some crappy keg beer poured from dirty tap lines.

• We fill up on beer, meet up with the rest of the group in the tent and listen to the smooth sounds of Captain Rat and the Blind Ribbits. They fit your typical small town festival band stereotype: they played lots of cheesy-yet-fun oldies covers and talked to the crowd and amongst each other way more than they actually sang.

• The beers are going down like nobody’s business, which could spell trouble. I quickly forget to heed the warnings about the perils of drinking crappy keg beer from dirty tap lines.

• I quickly forget a lot more as we all grow exceedingly inebriated by the minute.

• The last photo I snapped is time stamped at 11:02 PM. Two hours magically pass, and at 1:00 AM, Arcola veteran Shakes escorts Arcola novices Greg and J back to the Arcola Inn. Greg passes out immediately upon entering the room. For all intents and purposes, I have already passed out on the walk back.

• At 4:30 I wake up and take out my contacts. Greg wakes up shortly thereafter and places his contacts directly into the sink.

• At 7:30, I understand why I’ve been warned against drinking keg beer out of dirty tap lines. I coax one more hour of sleep out of my pounding head.

• We wake up, stumble about, shower, and head north about 9:00 or so, leaving behind one of the best times we’ve ever had.

With that, all I can say is – Broom Corn 2006!!!!

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 8

2005-09-09T12:42:00.000-05:00

The Greatest

College life brings with it an abundance of leisure time. The typical college freshmen spends approximately 3-4 hours in class per day and another 2-3 doing homework and studying, leaving them with plenty of time on their hands to do important things like eat healthy meals, exercise regularly, get involved with student government, and volunteer in the community. After all is said and done, this typical college freshman might even have a few hours left over that week to meet some friends for a pizza, some soda, and some meaningful conversation about the exciting future that lies ahead.

Of course, I was not your typical college freshman. And given that this was the vision of college as described to myself and others by my high school guidance counselor, I suspect that those that fit the mold were far outnumbered by misfits like yours truly. Let’s break it down, shall we?

• Class: That depends – what’s the attendance policy again?

• Homework and studying: Sorry, I’m in the middle of a game of Nintendo Wrestling - when you’ve got an epic match on your hands like The Amazon vs. King Korn Karn, who has time for studying?

• Healthy meals: Unless you’d consider Matt the Cook's specialty meal of crab legs and shitty cheese pizza healthy, then no.

• Exercise: Do 200 forced pushups after midnight on a weeknight count?

• Extracurricular activities: Huh?

• Pizza and soda: Well, yes lots of pizza, and if by soda you mean beer, then yes on that one.

• Meaningful conversation: Sure, we had some of those – “Who’s packing that bowl?” “What time are we going out?” “Don’t take my fucking seat.” “Are we seriously out of pot already?”

Yes, the world was our oyster; the problem was that no one had the gumption to shuck that son of a bitch.

As one can plainly see, my friends and I often found ourselves with oodles of leisure time on our hands during the Lost Semester. Most of us had an affinity for skipping class, none of us were training for a triathlon, and we all enjoyed a good evening of not studying. However, as strange as this may sound, there were those times when merely sitting around, getting stoned and watching two of our friends play each other in Super Tecmo Bowl while listening to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here just didn’t meet our demanding entertainment requirements. Sure, we had the TV to fall back on, but being that this was 1993 there were only 35 channels or so that we could tune to for a satisfactory diversion (I know, it’s almost inconceivable), and most of it was crap (some things never change). Thankfully, Room 23 was equipped with a fully functional VCR, so on those evenings when regular TV and video games weren’t doing it for us we could pop in a movie and have something other than actual schoolwork to focus on, at least for a few hours.

The trouble was that while one of us Room 23 dwellers had the foresight to bring a VCR to school with us, we neglected to also make sure we had plenty of movies and/or other shows we’d actually want to watch in tow – what’s the sense in that, right? That meant that if we decided to gather together for a viewing, we’d need to find something worth watching before settling in. However, this concept required a sharp mind and some critical thinking, and given that our brains were all rendered a tad cloudy by the constant pot smoking we did, it should come as no surprise to the reader that one fine evening, when the mood to be entertained struck (i.e. we were all pretty fried), my friends and I were left sitting around Room 23 with absolutely nothing to watch. A clear-thinking group of people would likely have come up with a logical plan like, “let’s go ask someone else in the house if they have anything to watch” or “why don’t we decide what we want to watch and have a few of us go to the video store and rent it?” Again, we failed in this department.

I’m not sure whose brilliant idea this was, but we finally decided that we would select one individual (using the “Who Gets the Green Hit?” methodology) who would then be responsible for walking 7 blocks (one way) by themselves to campus video store That’s Rentertainment to pick out a movie that the whole group could enjoy. The tension mounted as we prepared to assign this unpleasant task out to the group – who would be the pariah of the herd, forced into the cold, dark night to forage for entertainment? Would the selection meet the lofty standards of this discerning group of individuals? Would the person selected be so stoned that they’d forget the way to the video store? Needless to say, I was nervous. We all threw out our odds or evens and tallied up the total. Then, CS started at a previously agreed upon point and counted off around the room. Who would be saddled with this most perilous assignment? The anxiety in the room was palatable. After what seemed like an eternity, the final count passed me, passed CS, passed Reggie, passed Phelps, passed Pops...and landed squarely on Sadahara.

As the rest of the group let out a collective sigh, Sadahara, taking his medicine like a man, shook off the cobwebs, pulled himself up, collected a few bucks from the group and set out on his journey. It seems strange to this day that not one of us volunteered to go with Sadahara – I guess being stoned in a warm house/comfortable seat will do that to you. As we waited for whatever treasure of a film Sadahara selected for us, it was business as usual in Room 23 – Nintendo, tunes, Aquapipe, some food. I think half of us were somewhat confused when Sadahara came back to the room what seemed like 2 hours later – either he had agonized long and hard over just which movie to pick up for us or our concept of time was distorted by the mind-altering substances. But no matter – it was movie time. I’m not sure what each one of us was expecting, but I can sure as hell guarantee you that none of us guessed that we would soon bear witness to...The Greatest.

Given recent developments in our contemporary world of entertainment, I suspect that many of the nine of you reading this right now have heard of the Will Smith vehicle Ali, in which the rapper-turned-actor portrays Muhammad Ali, depicting his struggles, the rise of his boxing career, the demons he battled throughout his life, and so on. And I’m sure you also realize that in 1977, Muhammad Ali starred as himself in the biopic (or is it “autobiopic”?) The Greatest. Oh, you didn’t know this? Well, neither did any of us until Sadahara strolled back into the room and proudly announced that this was indeed his selection. Now if it were me, I would have been extremely conservative and gone for something I knew would be well-received – perhaps The Running Man, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, Richard Dawson, Jim Brown and Jesse “The Body” Ventura at their collective best. But Sadahara was too brash, too bold for such a safe choice. He would only be satisfied if he came back with a movie that would knock our socks off, if only because of the sheer absurdity of it.

Absurdity does not adequately describe this film. It starts out with a younger actor (who most certainly is not Muhammad Ali) as the young Cassius Clay – one scene that stands out in my mind to this day is when Clay is working at a country club, gets called boy, and dodges the punches of some old white guy he dares to try and punch him as he bears a scowl that emanates 400 years of anger and oppression. Powerful and bold. Soon, Cassius has grown up, earned gold in Rome and is ready to begin his pro career – or so I think, as I had zoned out for a few minutes there. At this point, Ali steps in to portray himself – I’ve always loved when actors or personalities play themselves; it’s such a stretch. Anyway, we see Ali chasing after some white woman – a prostitute I believe – and as he is following her into a seedy motel, a black man in a plain black suit implores Ali to forget the white she-devil and instead join him at a meeting. For some reason, Ali lets the piece of tail go on her way and he follows this black man, much like a rat following the Pied Piper, into a small meeting hall, where none other than Malcolm X is speaking. Who plays Malcolm X? Why of course, it’s James Earl Jones! Ali sits with the focused, determined look of a man who’s trying not to overact, and he absorbs all of Malcolm X’s words about white folks not being all that great and such. He then basically stands up and says “now I am Muhammad Ali.”

At this point we are approximately 45 minutes into the movie, and to be honest, I don’t recall seeing one boxing scene as of yet. As you can imagine, the lot of us have grown impatient at watching The Greatest play The Greatest, and some of the group begins to unleash on Sadahara.

“What the hell is this shit?”

“This is all you could come up with?”

“Was ever single other movie out?”

Of course, nobody was taking into consideration the fact that Sadahara had just done a 14 block round trip by himself so that the rest of us could sit on our stoned asses and be entertained, so naturally he was a little miffed. “Fuck you guys – go pick the movie your damn selves next time!” As he stormed from the room to the group’s catcalls, I couldn’t help but wonder how Ali fared from that point on – naturally we had stopped the movie and never got through the rest of it (I’m fairly confident that we also incurred a late fee due to our general laziness). Did he remain loyal to the teachings of Malcolm X? Did he ever bed that white hooker? Did he ever actually box? So many unanswered questions, so little desire to find answers. Our That’s Rentertainment experiment having failed miserably, it was back to the status quo of tunes and Tecmo, and I suspect that the lot of us couldn’t have cared less. That was the thing about leisure time during the Lost Semester – it doesn’t matter what you did with it, just as long as there was plenty of it to waste.

Until next time...

News and Notes - September 1, 2005

2005-08-31T17:51:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-25T13:32:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-16T13:13:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-11T17:15:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-09T12:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-08T13:40:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-01T12:50:00.000-05:00

• 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…

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 5

2005-07-21T13:58:00.000-05:00

Caps

Before I kick off volume 5, let’s recap some of the highlights from the first four volumes of the Tales, shall we?

• “Don’t set your class schedule when stoned.”

• “For starters, we were the three bona fide stoners in our pledge class – the guys who would attend a line up at midnight and hang around afterwards so we could pull tubes with our already-initiated friends.”

• “Do you prefer a bowl, a hitter, the Aquapipe, or the purple ‘Clown Boy’ bong?”

• “I’m guessing the fact that there was a bowl, bong and joint simultaneously circulating around the room played a factor in my decision – just a hunch”

• “When you’re a 19-year-old reefer addict, it is crucial that you know exactly where your next bag is coming from and that it’s available whenever you need it.”

• “He even stayed cool with me after I asked him flat out if I could get an eighth off of him right in front of a girl he liked that had no idea he dealt or was even involved in any of that shit”

• “I only took one, maybe two hits. Before I could say ‘chasing the dragon’, my entire body had melted into the couch – I felt as though only my eyes and brain remained, hovering above the muck, if only because I could still watch Columbo on TV, and can clearly remember the phrase, ‘wow, I’m fucked up’ floating through my mind over and over again.”

Up until this point, I have tried to paint a picture of what my life was like in that fateful spring of 1993 – how I got to U of I and the MPB house, where I lived, who I associate with, how I cheated in class – important contextual information, no doubt. However, after re-reading the tales I’ve told in volumes 1 through 4, I came to the scary realization that I come across as nothing more than a lazy, mentally unstable druggie, with an insatiable appetite for any illicit substance that can help me melt away reality – and this is even before bringing up any of my experiences with hallucinogens! Yes, I admit, I was heavily into mind expansion, especially of the marijuana variety – however, this was not my only interest during my Lost Semester. Being the deep, complex young man that I was at age 19, there were definitely other things that piqued my interest, motivated me, and made me tick. I refer, of course, to alcohol.

Ah, alcohol – the most socially acceptable of all drugs! Get drunk, be stupid, vomit, get into fights, commit date rape, wrap your car around a flagpole – it’s all part of the great rite of passage! (Note: the first three are me; the last three most certainly are not). Because my nine readers know exactly where I stand on the whole pot vs. alcohol debate and the direct correlation that exists between the level of social/legal acceptability and the level of overall harm inflicted on self and others in each case, I won’t bore you with my politics on this subject. What I will say is that while not my preferred drug of choice during the Lost Semester, alcohol certainly played a prominent role. First and foremost, the entire social scene on campus revolved heavily around where the alcohol was being served – bars, house parties, apartment parties, fraternity after-hours – if the booze was flowing, the party was hopping. Therefore, if you weren’t hip to the booze, you just weren’t hip. Secondly, there were those times when Stems and Seeds gave us the unfortunate news that the well was dry so come back another day (hopefully we found this out via phone so as to save us the trek across campus, but I digress). So as you can see, as a 19-year-old male in desperate need of social interaction and inebriation, alcohol served a critical role in successfully fulfilling both sides of this equation.

However, I’m not giving you the whole picture, am I? While I cite the Social Interaction component of the equation as a crucial reason to fall off of a wagon I was never on to begin with, I must be honest here – as a college freshman, I was quite intimidated by the prospect of the whole social scene, especially the prospect of being in packed bars with an ability to enter yet not personally purchase alcohol. Number one, I detest large crowds, where bumping, pushing and other forms of physical displacement that I can’t stand were commonplace, causing my blood pressure to rise in the process. Add alcohol into the mix and one wrong look can easily hurl some sloped-fore-headed Neanderthal into a violent rage (doubly annoying when you consider that his frat “brothers” were ready to back up his pissed-off ass). Now I am not a big person – I like to think I can handle myself in a sticky situation, but realistically, if any shit were to go down I’d like end up on the business end of an ass whooping. Number two, as I’ve mentioned before, while I know that I had skills somewhere deep down inside of me that would help me score some needed interaction with the opposite sex, the fact that I had been a near-daily pot user since April 1992 had caused me to crawl back inside of my shell a bit, leaving me with dangerously-low levels of the self-confidence that was crucial in wooing the ladies (being a freshman only added to the misery – call it the Cherry-on-Top Syndrome). The third, and possibly most crucial factor to consider, was Caps.

Without harping on the subject too much (as I know at least one of my nine readers hates my inside stories/jokes), Caps was probably the most important thing you could learn at the MPB house. Now I will say that MPB had a reputation on campus as big drinkers – part of the reason I suspect this to be true is Caps. Simply, Caps is a drinking game whose sole purpose is to use some otherwise-useless skills to force your opponent to drink. A brief outline of the rules:

• The game is played with two teams of two, each seated 7 ½ feet apart (all of our rooms at the MPB house seemed to be tailor made for this activity)
• You are to be seated facing sideways so that if you extended your throwing hand, you would be pointing directly at the opponent across from you.
• In between you and your partner were two plastic beer cups, filled half-way with water (sitting “balls behind the line” was the general rule).
• The object of the game is to toss beer bottle caps into the cups sitting in between your opponents across the way. Every time your team landed 5 caps, the other team members each had to finish half of their beer.
• Games were played to 20 and, like ping pong, you had to win by two. Therefore, by the end of each regular game (which lasted approximately 10-20 minutes depending on skill level), you were through 2 beers.
• You puke, you lose (unless of course you vomit on your partner – then the fun can continue).

I will tell you that as far as drinking games go, this may be the most anti-social one I’ve ever played. You have four dudes sitting in a room, usually with music blaring, refusing to socialize with anyone not involved in that particular game, throwing bottle caps and rushing to finish beers so that the game could continue. The drunker people got, the more anti-social (and generally bitter) they would become as they a) tried to concentrate extra-hard on hitting their shots, and b) swore profusely as each subsequent throw become more off target than the last. A typical “let’s play before we go out” session typically was played in Best-of-7 format, meaning the losing squad had 8 beers in them before heading out to the bar, or passing out, whichever came first. So as one can clearly see, I could be as anti-social as I wanted, get shit-faced, and not feel that weird about it. Life was good.

Capping (the verb form of the noun Caps) was not just a fun way to get wasted in the MPB house – it was a religion, a way of life. Like any fraternity, we had elected officials (President; VP; Secretary; Sergeant at Arms) and appointed officials (Pledge Trainer; Kitchen Manager). Yet we also had an appointed office titled “Caps Chairman” – this lucky person would be responsible for scheduling tournaments, ranking players/room combos in the house, and the like. Caps Tournaments were a big deal around our parts – we had multiple games running in our cavernous basement, the décor of which resembled an inmate’s room at a sanitarium – stark, white, and sterile – which created an even playing field for all involved. There were even those brave souls who would dedicate an entire evening for purposes of playing a game to 100 – if you do the math, that’s 10 beers in one game, and even the biggest drinkers would be rendered blotto and likely piss themselves after one of these epic battles.

For the most part however, Caps was a casual affair, something to be done prior to actually going out and socializing with people you didn’t live with. On any given evening you could find one or two guys roaming the halls, poking their heads into each room and posing the simple question: “Cappin’?” During the Lost Semester, more often than not that guy was Goof. Goof was a last-semester senior with great grades and a job in his back pocket – therefore his schedule was rife with opportunities for heavy drinking with no fear of repercussion. Goof was the kind of guy who really could rub people he didn’t know the wrong way – he was very boisterous, crass, and in-your-face. During my pledge semester, many of my good friends told me that Goof was a dick and liked to fuck with pledges and hated freshmen and all that good stuff – that feedback made sense to me seeing as Goof served as Sergeant for many of these guys and busted their balls on a daily basis. However, early on in my pledge semester, Goof was assigned as my big brother for the week, and he took me out, got me blitzed, and then took me to his girlfriend’s apartment and demanded that she make us food. Needless to say I liked him right away. I realized that under the obnoxious attitude that people saw, Goof was just a good dude who liked to party.

This is why it came to no surprise to me that one fine Monday evening, just as CS and I aborted our efforts to salvage any usable resin from the utensils in our paraphernalia cabinet, Goof poked his head into Room 23:

“Cappin’?”

CS was having none of it, but seeing as I had designs on getting some sort of fucked up that night, I popped right up. “Sure, why not?” (Has anyone noticed a common theme about me yet?). Goof had his roommate ready to play, so I set out to find a partner in crime. I finally was able to coerce Reggie Taco to jump onboard and our foursome was set. I gave Goof $5, with which he secured my standard 12-pack of Keystone Light. It was then off to Goof’s room (18) for a couple of nice games of Caps.

As established before, I wasn’t what you would call completely lucid when setting my class schedule for the Lost Semester – along with my five Friday discussion sections, it seemed that every day I had a class that began at 9:00 or earlier. As subsequent semesters rolled around I became much savvier about picking and choosing my class times, but we’re talking about 19-year-old J here – there was nothing savvy about me in those days, so I was left to be a victim of my own foolishness. That being said, I am confident that I had one of my patented 8:30/9:00 classes to attend that Tuesday morning, so when we settled in to play at about 9:30 I told myself that I’d only play two, maybe three games, and call it a night. As they say, famous last words. After the first two games, which Reggie and I no doubt lost, I saw that it was getting late (call it 10:00) started to collect my remaining beers and thank everyone for the competition.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Goof demanded.

“Uh, I have class early tomorrow – I, um, only wanted to play a few games.”

“Sit your ass down, you’re not done yet!”

“Uh, OK.”

Spineless and at a loss for words – my equivalent of Flounder’s “fat, drunk and stupid” in Animal House. So, being the dutiful sponge that I was, I plopped right back down and prepared for the next game. It must be noted here that there were guys in the house who were downright fanatical about honing their Caps skills – there were a handful of guys who jockeyed hard to be in the Top 5 of the rankings because it served as a status symbol in their otherwise empty lives. I was certainly not one of these people. In fact, I’ll take it a step further and say that save for some streaky out-of-my-ass play, I was downright terrible. I can recall one tournament in my four years in college where my teammate and I advanced past the first round. Something to keep in mind is that there were no fewer than four tournaments a semester with at least 20-25 teams per tournament – a poor track record to say the least. On this particular Monday evening, I can honestly say that I played as true to my form as is humanly possible. I couldn’t hit the wide side of a barn, let alone two 8-oz plastic cups. And given that Goof was one of those fanatical players, we were getting destroyed with a quickness that led to extreme drunkenness in a very short period of time. Thank God for Reggie Taco – he at least kept us in each game and made the evening somewhat interesting. But with my dead weight on his back, we had no hope.

It should come to no surprise to anyone that by 11:45 we had played seven games, which resulted in the completion of my 12-pack of Key Light plus another beer – a baker’s dozen in a little over two hours. Therefore, I was about as piss drunk as I’ve ever been on a weeknight before or since. Finally, after losing the series 6-1 (I think I had one of those out-of-my ass games at one point), I stood up, wobbled quite a bit, and staggered out of Room 18 to make the approximately 35 yard walk down the hall to my room. After a five minute pit stop at the urinal, I arrived at Room 23 and crashed through the door, yearning only for my cubby hole in which I could merrily pass out. CS and Miser both took one look at me and started to laugh their asses off. “Fmyruck yoooo gzyaz,” I mumbled as I dove headfirst into my bed, almost cracking my forehead open on the loft in the process. Somehow I was coherent enough to remember that I had to set my alarm for class the next day. So I tested it out to make sure it was loud and that it was set. Then I tested it again. Then I decided I better test it again. And again. And one more time for good measure. Last time, one more test, OK we’re good. I finally drifted off to my drunken dreamland as CS and Miser continued to mock me (deservedly so), without caring the least bit whether that alarm would actually go off the next day.

So as you can see, not only did I have my insatiable appetite for outlawed substances – I was also hip to alcohol’s socially-acceptable scene, and as anyone can clearly see this did wonders for my social life during the Lost Semester. Let this be a lesson to all you kids out there – remember to broaden your horizons and try lots of different things. You’ll sleep better in the end.

Until next time…

News and Notes - July 19, 2005

2005-07-19T17:25:00.000-05:00

• Cuba Gooding Jr., meet Jamie Foxx. We all remember Mr. Gooding Jr. for his deranged Oscar acceptance speech after he won Best Supporting Actor for his role in Jerry Maguire, and then for his subsequent descent into obscurity as he starred in such “films” as Rat Race, Snow Dogs and Boat Trip, undoubtedly cashing in on his instant celebrity in the process. Now, Mr. Foxx, who was excellent as blind crooner Ray Charles in Ray, is starring in the summer’s hottest new action hit Stealth about a bunch of people who fly really fucking awesome fighter plans. Believe me, I know people who will likely get a hard-on during this movie because of the sheer kick-assedness of the planes involved (note that I said “know”, not “associate with”). Soon after this movie tanks and appears on Blockbuster Video’s shelves inside of 2 months, Mr. Foxx will star in Miami Vice, the latest in the seemingly never-ending series of movies based on old TV shows that really weren’t that good in the first place (Bewitched, The Honeymooners, Dukes of Hazard). Welcome back to obscurity, Jamie – we’ve saved you a lovely seat by the fire.

• Yes, you read right – I think that Dukes of Hazard might be one of the stupidest shows to ever grace our fair airwaves. Seriously, I’d rather watch the six existing episodes of The Ropers than suffer through the trials of two inbred scofflaws that spend way too much time vying for the attention of their cousin. I have always wondered what the fascination was with this show, save for the car, which still wasn’t as cool as Starsky and Hutch’s car. And given that the movie version features Johnny Knoxville (he should really just stick to jackassing), Sean William “I Channel Stiffler into Every Role I Play” Scott, Jessica “Can You Say Overexposed?” Simpson, and Burt “I Don’t Need to See the Script – Just Cut Me a Check” Reynolds, I now have reinstated my hatred for the entire concept with renewed vigor. Only Willie Nelson’s involvement keeps me on this side of the brink of insanity – thank you, Redheaded Stranger!

• My friend from college Marty Casey is a contestant on the latest in the never-ending string of new reality show concepts, CBS’s Rock Star: INXS. The premise is simple: 15 aspiring rock stars audition for you, the viewing public, to replace autoerotic asphyxiation victim Michael Hutchence as the front man of INXS. Hosts David Navarro (who calls Marty "Holmes" in one episode - priceless) and Brooke Burke tantalize these hopefuls with the prospect of playing giant stadiums with hundreds of thousands of screaming fans as video footage of INXS concerts play in the background (however, I suspect that this footage is circa 1989, so I’m not quite sure just how tantalized anyone should really be at this prospect). One of the existing members of INXS, complete with the requisite bad hair, lame sunglasses and perma-tan one would expect from an aging rocker, says that playing with INXS is “the most fun you can have with your pants on!” (The camera then cut to my friend Marty as he let out a belly-laugh at this horrendous joke – don’t sell your soul to Aussie rock and roll, my friend!). In reality, the best possible thing for Marty would be to finish second because a) he would get maximum exposure, while b) not having to actually front a bunch of has-beens. Good luck, Marty! Readers, please go to cbs.com and vote for Marty early and often – after all, that’s the Chicago way!

• My other new summertime TV addiction will no doubt be ABC’s Brat Camp – a show about troubled teens who get duped by their parents into attending a two month camp whose sole purpose is to whip their punk asses into shape. Maybe it’s their living conditions (outdoors in Oregon in November, eating nothing but pintos, rice and oats), perhaps it’s the vague descriptions they assign to each teen (i.e. “Angry Punk”; “Compulsive Liar”, “Self-Destructive Drug User”; “Tried to Stab Twin”), or it might be the back-to-nature names adopted by the granola camp counselors (i.e. “Little Big Bear”; “Mountain Wind”; “Mother Raven”; “Glacier”), but whatever it is, I’m hooked. Now, Michelle points out that I shouldn’t laugh at these rapscallions and their problems – she notes that this could happen to any parent, including us approximately 13-15 years from now. I, of course, counter with the argument that if our kids have gotten that out of control, it means that I likely had my entire frontal lobe removed 10 years prior. We agree to disagree sometimes.

• (Note: the following blurb was written last week – more to come after Bush announces his nominee) Hey, remember the last few times I’ve babbled about the Supreme Court’s latest blunders, pointing out that Sandra Day O’Connor is often the only voice of reason? Well wouldn’t you know it, she’s decided to step down! And during the George W. Bush Administration, no less! So that means with Rehnquist likely to step down, W gets not one, but two Supreme Court nominees, one of which may be Alberto “The Geneva Convention Sure is Quaint” Gonzalez! Of course, he may not get the nod because many Republicans feel that he’s too soft on abortion and other controversial issues. At this point, if you saw me and decided to bash my skull in with a piano leg, I probably wouldn’t be that upset about it.

• After receiving my 3,297th credit card solicitation of July that said all I had to do was sign my name and I’d get a $15k credit line, I thought to myself, “why would some poor, unsuspecting corporation voluntarily give me $15,000 without having any real assurance that I’d every pay it back?” Don’t these people realize that I would likely spend this money on video games and hashish? I thought these companies to be complete fools. Then some information from the Motley Fool came to my attention:

o Total consumer credit card debt: $1.7 trillion
o Average credit card debt per American: $8500
o Total finance charges paid by Americans in 2001: $50 billion

Fifty billion dollars??? We paid $50 billion just to sit on an outstanding balance and buy shit we really couldn’t afford??? Now, I don’t claim to be innocent here – I’ve had my share of debt at one point or another (knock on wood – it’s gone). But seriously, with these kinds of numbers, you’d be an idiot not to offer people ridiculous amounts of cash they can’t ever possibly pay back. You want a new flat screen DLP TV? Charge it! How about a vacation to Bali? Charge it! Running low on cash at the riverboat casino? Charge it! Can’t make rent? Charge it! Just pay us crazy amounts of money to keep charging it and we’re all good! Apparently it’s the American way. Now, excuse me while I go peruse Visa’s websites for job openings.

Until next time...

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 4

2005-07-15T13:47:00.000-05:00

The Nevada House

It is said that every junkie needs their fix. Alcoholics may find themselves bellied up at some seedy bar where the number of remaining teeth in a female barfly’s mouth outnumbers the musical selections in the jukebox. The insatiable appetite of the sex fiend might lead them to grope unsuspecting women on a crowded subway. The gambling addict can often be seen on Fridays cashing in his paycheck at the riverboat casino cashiering booth so that he can lose that month’s rent money rolling them bones. The denizen of a crack house might whore themselves to a deviant john in hopes of scoring that next trip to outer space. And back in early 1993, you may have seen the tenants of the MPB house’s Room 23 and their friends trudging out of Champaign, into Urbana, from campus’s western limits to its eastern edge, in the hopes of securing the goods needed for that evening’s Buy a Bag-Smoke a Bag (BABSAB) session – a journey that took them all the way to the Nevada House.

Ah, Nevada House – they put the “supply” in “Supply and Demand Economics”. When you’re a 19-year-old reefer addict, it is crucial that you know exactly where your next bag is coming from and that it’s available whenever you need it. Such was the case with Nevada House – given that there were multiple gentlemen residing there who could take care of whatever you needed, whenever you needed it, it was a haven for the likes of me and my wacked-out friends. OK, I’m exaggerating here – we were by no means the shaking, blue-lipped, bug-eyed junkie freaks you’re likely picturing in your mind right now – we were (and still are) all normal guys who happened to partake in the pleasures of herb (quite a bit, I might add) and maybe one or two other things that weren’t available “over the counter”. It’s all about experimenting with what God gave us, man.

Our two main hosts at Nevada House – let’s call them Stems and Seeds – were also from the MPB house, yet they were a bit older than the rest of us and had become “Out of Housers” during their Junior year, which earned them the scorn of several more “upstanding” members of our house who believed that moving out and not showing up to chapter meetings was the fraternity life equivalent of kicking a pregnant woman in the belly. But I digress. Stems and Seeds were good guys – to the best of my knowledge they were both enrolled in a full slate of classes, just like real students. Yet instead of delivering pizzas, working at the bookstore, or even holding down the most uber-cool of all jobs – bartending – they earned their disposable income through less “desirable” (and I don’t doubt more profitable) means. And when they decided to move out of the house prior to my arrival on campus, they obviously did not choose a location based on its proximity to MPB, leaving their rather large client base with quite a haul if they ever hoped to score. When you look at a map of campus, you’ll note that it’s in the shape of a rectangle, with the larger distance stretching from north to south. Thankfully this was not the route to Nevada House – instead it was a straight shot east from the MPB house, which sat on the western edge of campus. Not that it was a hop, skip and a jump to clear its width – this is a school with 35,000 students overall, and you need a lot of space to fit in all those aspiring engineers and accountants. I keep telling myself it could have been worse – they could have lived in the upper northeast corner, away from all of our class buildings, which would have added significant time to our commute. Of course, we would have made the commute regardless, but that’s beside the point.

Keep in mind that we are in the days before cell phones and email were used on a widespread basis – “hooking up” required quite a bit of effort and some impeccable timing. Seeing as none of us had a car on campus, you can imagine that there was a lot of planning that went into organizing our trips to Nevada House. Instead of utilizing our brainpower to solve problems in our classes, we instead focused our efforts on devising a complex Just-in-Time inventory system whereby we painstakingly analyzed the amount of pot left in each bag, how many people had bought in to the existing bag, how stoned we felt like getting (usually very much so), how many people wanted in on future purchases, and how soon we would want to get stoned again (usually very soon). We took all of these factors into serious consideration when determining when we would place the call to Stems and/or Seeds, how much money we needed to collect from everyone (to this day, my mom wonders how a poor college student ever had money to buy pot – what can I say, my parents are hip), who would be making the trek to Nevada House and when we anticipated the next session could start. It was a logistical nightmare – we could have invented the fucking Internet and had a campus built in our honor had we focused this much energy on something worthwhile, but damn if that pot didn’t make the music sound better and the food taste better – no regrets here!

All in all, we were good about splitting the scoring responsibilities – I myself made more than my fair share of trips to Nevada House. Actually entering Nevada House wasn’t as much of a culture shock as one might suspect – it was not a filthy den of inequity (save for maybe the requisite dishes piling up in the kitchen sink, and possibly Stems’ bedroom), but a rather well kept living space by college male standards. There were several good parties thrown there, and people of all types hung out on a consistent basis. But being a second semester freshman and given that Stems and Seeds were a few years older, I really never had a chance to get to know or hang out with any of the other guys they lived with – in fact, there’s no way I could pick any of them out of a lineup if my life depended on it. So while I did spend a bit of time over there in regular social situations (one of which will be a future subject of these writings), my main purpose for venturing into Urbana, aside from those rare instances when I attended my classes, was for purposes of obtaining the fuel for my mind-altering experimentation.

Nevada House was not only the hub of my supply chain – it is also the location that bore witness to my one and only experience with narcotics of any kind. One day after class (because who studies after class?), I popped into Nevada House, likely in the hopes of securing some green, and found Stems hanging out on the couch packing a glass bowl. “Hey J, have a seat and check this out” – it’s worth noting that Stems was a very cool, friendly guy, regardless of whether or not you happened to be patronizing his little entrepreneurship at that particular moment. He even stayed cool with me after I asked him flat out if I could get an eighth off of him right in front of a girl he liked that had no idea he dealt or was even involved in any of that shit (smooth move #127 of many on my part that semester), and I trusted that he wouldn’t ask me to try anything he didn’t think I could handle. So of course I plopped myself right down on the couch, ready to sample whatever pine tree/skunk/potpourri-smelling, $120-per-quarter (a lot back then), one-hit-shit he had come across (hey, I’m open-minded and willing to try new things – that’s a good trait, right?). Instead, as I sit down, Stems hands me a glass pipe containing a black, gooey substance I had never seen before.

“What is this stuff?” I ask. “Hash oil?”

“No, it’s opium!”

Wow – to quote J. Peterman: “Opium. Shanghai Sally. Yam Yam.” Up until this point, I had only read about opium; specifically how the British started a war over it in order to keep the Chinese people addicted to it because it was netting them a ton of cash. But here it was right in front of me, ready for my consumption. This was a narcotic, a physically addictive substance that had claimed millions of souls throughout history, sitting in my impressionable hands. So, being the stupid 19-year-old that I was, my natural response was, “sure, what the hell.”

What the hell, indeed. If memory serves me correctly (and given the circumstances, this is questionable), I only took one, maybe two hits. Before I could say “chasing the dragon”, my entire body had melted into the couch – I felt as though only my eyes and brain remained, hovering above the muck, if only because I could still watch Columbo on TV, and can clearly remember the phrase, “wow, I’m fucked up” floating through my mind over and over again. I’m not sure how long I stayed sitting there, but after a while Stems went to the kitchen and brought us out a couple of Cokes (no, not coke – never have, never will). I must have really responded the combo sugar-caffeine rush because shortly after drinking it, I became alert enough to realize that I was slouched deep into the Nevada House couch, darkness was approaching, I was hungry, very high, and had a long fucking walk to get back home. So I scooped myself up off the couch, thanked Stems wholeheartedly for guaranteeing that I would get no studying done that evening, and set out for the long journey home with a pleasant disposition and a clear understanding of how Samuel Taylor Coleridge got his inspiration to write his opium-induced poem Kubla Khan. I recall the walk home to be one of my favorites ever from the Nevada House – not the first, certainly not the last, but definitely the most serene. I never came across opium after that, and even if I had I likely would have passed on trying it again, but I will say this: I understand why those millions of souls throughout history kept coming back for more.

As you can probably guess, Nevada House played a central role in our pursuit of good times all throughout the Lost Semester – to this day it was the best reason I had for venturing into Urbana outside of attending my graduation. If it were closer to where I lived I might be a little chubbier and a bit softer in the head, so as you can see it was all for the best.

Until next time…

Tales from Beyond the Lost Semester - Volume 1

2005-07-05T13:09:00.000-05:00

As my nine readers probably know by now, Tales from the Lost Semester has quickly become a runaway smash hit within the blog community. Thousands of emails pour into newsandnotes@hotmail.com on a daily basis from crazed fans begging to be placed on the distribution list (sign up now!) of this fabulous blog, while several book publishers have entered into a bidding war for the rights to these hilarious, true-to-life tales of bad grades and good bud, certain that they have the makings of the next classic American novel.

Were any of this actually true, I might be sitting pretty right now with a fat commission check for my next three books, invitations to sit on numerous panels discussing the horrors of fraternity hazing and the medicinal benefits of marijuana, and the adoration of doting fans from sea to shining sea. However, this being reality, we all know that this isn’t the case. I know of perhaps five people who regularly comment on this site, leading me to believe that my readership lies somewhere south of the nine I constantly brag about. To date, I have received two emails asking to be put on the distribution list. And while my pipe dream is to someday author a book about these experiences, I feel that my current portfolio couldn’t get me past the reception desk at any reputable publisher. As I like to say, “Woe is me.” The truth is, I don’t need to waste time whining about all this crap – there are stories to be told and laughs to be had! That being said, over this past glorious holiday weekend during which America turned 229, loyal reader Mary voiced the following concern regarding Tales from the Lost Semester, specifically Volume 3:

“While your story about Hell Week was good, I was extremely disappointed that you didn’t fold in your initial encounter with your dorky roommate.”

Despite my best efforts to convince her that I had a very specific agenda for the Tales – that they were to represent the best stories from the actual Lost Semester – Mary’s point was that there was so much else out there that needed to be told. Whether for contextual purposes, or merely to provide cheap laughs, stories like this Roommate Summit deserved to be put down in writing and preserved as a guideline to future generations of when you should consider an emergency roommate switch. It is with this in mind that I introduce my new series: Tales from Beyond the Lost Semester.

OK, I realize that I’ve got several balls in the air, and that I may be biting off way more than I can chew here. My primary goal is to get through the 20+ volumes of Tales from the Lost Semester that I had mapped out in my head before committing myself to any additional efforts. However, to Mary’s point there are just some stories outside the confines of the Lost Semester that should, no, MUST be told. Whether they lead up to the Lost Semester or serve as a byproduct of it, there is some value in each in every one – mainly the fact that getting them off my chest helps me along with the healing process. Therefore, allow me to kick off this new sub-series with the often-told, never tedious story of…

Big Tim

As told in Volume 3 of Tales from the Lost Semester, despite my best efforts to sabotage my future and my social life, I was able to gain attendance into a great school (Illinois), as well as secure housing at a dorm that would be able to provide me with a normal social life (Hopkins Hall). During the summer of ’92, as I flagged traffic and shoveled asphalt on my way to unimagined riches, I received about 476 pieces of correspondence from the U of I regarding the upcoming semester. One of these bits of information was a letter that contained the name and home address of the individual who was to be my roommate – Tim Barker (not his real last name). Tim hailed from south suburban Chicagoland, an area I knew little to nothing about given my west suburban upbringing, my dad’s company’s tendency to bid jobs in the city and north/west/northwest suburbs, and my perceived lack of necessity to ever visit the intersection of LaGrange Rd and 143rd Street. However, I thought myself to be quite open-minded and tried my best to mentally prepare myself for any number of possibilities – how different from me can this guy really be, I wondered. This is a question that would not remain unanswered for long.

Once I got Tim’s name in the mail, I thought it would be logical to look him up, call him, see what kind of hand I’d been dealt and figure out who would bring what to create the ultimate dorm room experience. Much to my pleasant surprise, I received a phone call one July evening from none other than Tim Barker himself! “Great,” I thought, “let’s get this shit figured out.” We started the conversation by exchanging general pleasantries, finding out what each other’s majors would be (his was Engineering), determining what our musical tastes were (his were ghastly – mostly Bon Jovi, Styx and other crap of the like), and hashing out who would bring what to campus (I volunteered my boom box stereo, and Tim said he had a TV for us, albeit a bit worn down by his own admission, but a TV nonetheless).

After settling most of what we needed to settle, we kept talking in the hopes of finding out exactly what we were both getting in a roommate. The important thing you must know about Tim is that the sound of his voice is very…I don’t know…‘strange’ might be the best word. It’s nearly impossible to describe in writing, but imagine if you will the sound of someone whispering, but at normal volume with a deep underlying voice and perpetual out-of-breath undertones (seriously, if you’ve heard me do the impersonation before, you know exactly what I’m talking about – if not, ask me the next time you see me and I’ll lay it on you). At any rate, it is like no voice I have ever heard prior or since – bonechilling to say the least.

As we began to delve further into what made us click, I slowly began to realize that Tim was not someone I would have been very likely to hang out with had we attended the same school: He didn’t play sports (except for badminton), we liked completely different types of music (I mean, I like Styx’s “Blue Collar Man”, but anything past that is a stretch), he liked to work in really lame jokes and laugh at his own work in the progress (I laugh at my own jokes too, but hey, I’m funny) – we just didn’t seem to be clicking. At one point, we had the following exchange:

Tim: Do you like to play cards?

J: Well, to tell you the truth, the only card games I’ve ever played are drinking games.

Tim: Oh, well, I’ve never had a beer in my life.

My immediate reaction was, “Oh shit, major red flag – a roommate that does not party.” After hyperventilating for a couple of minutes, I soon snapped back to reality and convinced myself that there were indeed people in this world, normal people, who didn’t have their first experience with alcohol in a suburban park when they were 13 years old. That being said, I tried as hard as I possibly could to keep an open mind, to find some common ground, to really give this guy a chance. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

Tim: Hey Jason, can I ask you a question?

J: (growing nervous) Uh, sure…

Tim: Do you like to hang mobiles from ceiling?

J: (after approximately 14 seconds of silence) E...e...excuse me?

Tim: Do you like to hang mobiles from ceiling?

At this point, I could practically hear his devilish smile through the phone, as if he were chomping at the bit prior to revealing the grandest of punchlines known to mankind. Stunned beyond the point of reason, I meekly offer my response:

J: Um, no…but if you want to bring yours down, that’s cool…

Tim: Well (the sound of his smile was louder than a Bon Jovi encore at this point), that might be a problem for me because…I’m six-foot-six.

And there it was. Not only was I moving away from home for the first time ever to go live with a non-drinking Engineering student with poor taste in music and a horrific sense of humor – he also had 13 fucking inches on me. So much for backasswards luck, eh J?

From that point the call quickly wrapped up, mainly because I had to get off the phone before I either started to laugh hysterically or sob uncontrollably. Needless to say, Tim and I had zero more conversations until our historic first meeting when my dad dropped me off at school in late-August (of course, Dad was as cordial as can be when meeting Tim, and on his way out he seemed to have this grin on his face that said, “boy, you’re in for some fun!”). Given that we spent the entire Pre-Lost Semester together, you can bet your ass that I have a few more tales to share regarding the phenomenon that is, was and always shall be…Big Tim.

Until next time…

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 3

2005-07-01T14:27:00.000-05:00

The Most Fun You’ll Never Want to Have Again

Everyone who has ever left the comforts of home to accept the Herculean challenge of making that first move out on their own understands what a frightening proposition this can be. For example, my brother Greg moved out of my dad and stepmom’s house when he was 19 (among other reasons, over a dispute as to whether he had the authority to hang Christmas lights in his room) – he didn’t go away to college, he moved to the South Side of Chicago, two blocks away from County lockup, which is much scarier of a situation than that of my own. For you see, I led what many would call a charmed life in my 18th year – assistant captain of the hockey team, good group of friends, steady supply of booze and pot, and admission into the great University of Illinois. Granted I initially chose Illinois not for the quality of its business program, but rather because of the three schools to which I applied and was accepted (U of I, Wisconsin, Michigan State), it was the cheapest. Way to plan for the future, big guy!

At any rate, as has happened to me so many times in my charmed life, I fell ass-backwards into a great situation. There was just one problem – Illinois was a BIG place, and I didn’t know much of anything about it. The only time I had seen campus was during my freshman orientation weekend – yes, you read that correctly, I made what was at the time the biggest decision of my young life sight unseen, with no testimonials as to what life was like in Champaign-Urbana. To make matters even more hilarious, I decided to apply to live in a dorm that as it turns out is the housing equivalent of committing social suicide due to its horrendous location on campus – only through intervention of my high school Physics teacher did I learn that the “Six Pack” of dorms was the place where all the “cool” kids lived, so I logically switched gears and requested housing in the Six Pack, because as everyone knows, high school Physics teachers know all there is to know about being cool. Young, dumb and full of…vigor – that was J in ’92.

Backasswards luck being my forte, the Six Pack did indeed turn out to be the place to be. And being the outgoing, supercool guy I am, I soon made plenty of friends on my dorm floor – many fine young men who had the same affinity for inebriation, game shows and skipping class that I had. We got busted drinking, inflicted damage to the floor lounge, wrote on my roommate after he passed out when he decided to play the Century Club (100 shots of beer in 100 minutes) the first time he ever drank, played Nintendo, smoked joints, set off fire alarms and had a blast doing it all. However, even though the 4th floor Hopkins Hall crew and I had a great time together, within hours of arriving on campus we all began to feel the inevitable pull of the omnipresent force that hangs over the University of Illinois: The Greek System.

When you arrive on the U of I campus as a freshmen male, as long as you demonstrate some semblance of social skills and you are not hideously ugly, you have a good shot and receiving offers to join any number of fraternities. If you do decide to take the plunge and join the Greek System, it is critical that you are aware that joining certain houses could hurl you into the downward spiral of a four year sausage fest – being that fraternities outnumbered sororities almost 2-to-1, if you had any math skills whatsoever (as I proved I did with my solid first semester C in Calculus) you’d figure out that there were some dudes who were being left out in the cold when social function time came around. Given that we’ve established how little I knew about Illinois when I arrived as a freshman, there was an obvious danger of me falling into this trap and being placed in a situation from which there was no escape – a situation that would be fatal to my chances of “scoring” with members of the fairer sex, something that, while I know I had raw ability in, I still seemed to lack the true, polished prowess to accomplish with regularity. This is where it’s good to have a friend who figured it out before you, someone whose head was in the right place and wanted the same good things for you. And that’s where Dirk comes in.

Approximately 24 hours after arriving on campus, I received a call from Dirk – he and I had known each other for quite some time through the wonderful institution that is Elmhurst YMCA Hockey. We played together through grade school, junior high and finally high school, where Dirk was a year ahead of me. Upon graduating, Dirk headed down to Champaign and hooked up with what would become my fraternity – for purposes of this series, they will be know as the MPB house (not the real initials, but whatever). So Dirk calls me and invites me to the MPB house to meet some of the dudes, have beers, whatever. The first plus in the whole situation was that the house was about a 4 minute walk from my dorm – nothing like pure convenience for a lazy college freshman. The second plus? The minute I walked into Dirk’s room, he handed me a beer and began the process of introducing me around. After meeting some cool gents, I ended up in Room 8 where I would at once meet the group that would become the key players in my college experience: Ox, Big O, Sadahara, Mayo, CS, Reggie Taco, Silky – they were all there and ready to welcome me with open arms (I later learned that this is what’s called being “rushed” by a fraternity, an appropriate term given some of the persistent behavior I observed from other houses). Upon walking into Room 8 and hanging out with this motley crew, I had an epiphany – my search for a fraternity was over before it had even started. I’m guessing the fact that there was a bowl, bong and joint simultaneously circulating around the room played a factor in my decision – just a hunch.

But I’m not here to regale (i.e. bore) you with the details of my pledge semester – that’s a set of stories for another blog series. All you need to know is that it involved a lot of cleaning, a lot of push ups, a lot of drinking, a lot of smoking and not much class work. However, now you know how I happened upon my fraternity – I didn’t have to endure the full onslaught of the Rush process, I didn’t have to jump through hoops or work to get a bid to join up. I was just in from the start, which was nice considering that I had plenty of other things to occupy my mind at that time. For purposes of this story, the end of pledgeship leads us to the beginning – the “Alpha”, if you will – of the Lost Semester: the madness that is know simply as “Hell Week”, the details of which we were sworn to secrecy over – but who gives a shit about that, right? You want to know the sordid, creepy details, right? You want to marvel at the stupid shit I was willing to put myself through, right? Right, indeed.

During pledge semester, Hell Week was the event that dare not speak its name – I think the active members were terrified of driving off its potential members, lest they lose the new influx of housing and membership payments that were so desperately needed. Oh, that and the loss of all that brotherhood. Sure, we pledges all knew that hazing, while “officially” banned, was alive and well within the walls of the MPB house, but I don’t think any of us had a clue as to just how deep it went. At any rate, Hell Week really didn’t come up as a topic of conversation until the last line up of pledge semester. At this time, we were given detailed instructions of what to bring, what to wear, when to show up, etc. We were also given the tasks of developing “skits” for presentation during the week – the sole purpose of these skits was to dig up dirt on actives and rip them to shreds, and in turn, these scorned actives would implore the Sergeant at Arms to come down on us even harder. Ah, brotherhood!

Throughout the circles of the MPB house, Hell Week was constantly described as “the most fun you’ll never want to have again” – I don’t know about the fun part, but they flat out nailed the never again thing. The group I was to go through Hell Week with showed up a week before classes started in January – some houses held their Hell Week during the first week of class, but MPB was too smart for that as they knew that meant we had a chance to eat, sleep, shit and/or shower without their permission. The first few hours of my Hell Week Experience (beginning at noon on a Wednesday) were spent blindfolded and sitting Indian-style in our basement as classical music blared from oversized speakers and the occasional random individual walked through banging pots and pans as loudly as they could. Nothing says “eternal bond of friendship and brotherhood” like fucking with a bunch of blindfolded fools. After we were sufficiently rattled, the 15 of us who were submitting ourselves to this shit (among them CS, Pops and Mayo) were lined up and given the ground rules, which I now will share with you in the hopes that you begin to understand why I’m such a freak:

• The clothes you are wearing are the clothes you will wear all week – white T-shirt, jeans, gym shoes, white sailor cap (patience – explanation to follow…)
• No sleeping, unless we say you can
• No eating, unless we say you can
• No showering…period
• Sailor hat etiquette: In the basement, you wear it inside out, floppy style. On the first floor, you keep it in your back pocket (don’t want any nosy neighbors peering in wondering why a bunch of filthy zombies are wearing sailor hats). On the second and third floors, you wear them the conventional way. Fucked up shit.
• When you hear the extremely fucking loud siren, you get your ass to the basement and line up.
• When in the basement, you must walk backwards while bending down to grab your ankles (ah, homoeroticism!)
• When in the basement, line up in order of GPA (since we didn’t have our report cards, no fewer than 6 of us lied about our grades, giving us what appeared to be better positioning).
• Everyone sleeps and eats in the chapter room, which was about the size of your average living room. Imagine having 15 unshowered dudes in the same room, eating, sleeping, farting – it gave me great insight into Third World living, I can assure you.

Ah, brotherhood!

So now that the ground rules are set, what are we going to do to occupy our time? Well, the majority of our time was spent doing special fix-it project around the house, performing extreme cleaning to undo what had been done when all the actives trashed the house prior to leaving for the semester, shoveling snow and other odd jobs. Other times, we would be lined up, yelled at, and forced to perform acts of (no, not beastiality) rote memorization and recitation. Yes, you heard right – a vast majority of our time during Hell Week was used for the purposes of committing useless, meaningless phrases, poems and songs to memory and having the Sergeant come up with new and creative ways for us to recite them. Please don’t ask me to repeat them (they’re really lame) or how I actually still remember any of them, for I haven’t a clue. However, when you take 15 sleep-deprived 18 and 19-year-olds and ask them to recite these ridiculously obscure phrases, with each and every screw up leading to push ups, sit ups, wall sits, or some other form of physical exertion, the result is a maddening experiment in just how far you can push someone before they a) pass out, b) shit themselves, or c) fly off the handle. In addition to these fun times, we also were thrust into scavenger hunts, performing our skits and other mindless time-wasting, brotherhood building activities.

Now, had my state of mind been remotely lucid, I probably would have wondered why I was putting myself through this shit and thought about getting the hell out – my father-in-law pledged a fraternity his freshman year in college (back in the late ‘50s no less, when the REALLY fucked with you), and upon assignment of his first humiliating task (which I believe was to strip, get a drink of water in the basement, walk on all fours up to the third floor, and spit the water on a fire, and repeat until it went out), he performed one pass, picked up his shit and got the hell out of there. However, I had a lot invested at this point, my good friends were going through the same shit, and I was too tired, smelly and hungry to walk out into the cold by myself – in essence I was trapped. As a window to my madness, I’ll tell you that during the week, we were required to keep a journal describing our Hell Week experiences – being a mindless lackey I diligently kept my journal, pouring out the deepest, darkest thoughts that were rambling through my head at the time. A few years after graduation, I found the journal, read it, became extremely disturbed by what I read, and tore it to pieces – as a result, I am sad to report that I will not be able to provide you with verbatim quotes of what was running through my head, but rest assured – I was mentally broken down.

As we got deeper and deeper into the throngs of Hell Week, we were assigned more tasks, given more things to memorize, and fucked with more times than I care to admit. Later in the stages of the game, our Sergeant announced that one of the neophytes had to volunteer to serve as “Fuckface” for the remainder of the ordeal. For the most part, none of us had a fucking clue what this meant – however, having friends on the inside helped yours truly, as Sadahara had pulled me aside earlier in the week and told me, “J, I’m not messing with you here – when they ask for volunteers to be Fuckface, do yourself a favor and volunteer!” Given the fact that we developed a good friendship (despite the oh-so-awkward active-pledge dynamic), I put my trust in what he had to say, and when the call was made for volunteers to be Fuckface, I was the only one to step forward…

Man, was I ever glad I did. Turns out that being Fuckface meant that you no longer had to listen to anything that the Sergeant said. You didn’t have to line up or clean the house. You got to eat, sleep, shower, and shit whenever you felt like it. You could come in during line ups and ridicule whoever you wanted, and they couldn’t do a damn thing about it. There was just one problem – I was so frazzled, so warped by the whole experience that I actually felt guilty over my new title! I felt like I was letting everyone else down by being Fuckface. I was an absolute fucking mess, man. Sure, I showered (it felt GREAT). And yes, I ate a ton that afternoon. And of course I took a nice, fat nap. But I still wasn’t right in the head over letting down my “brothers”. Maybe that’s why I thought that if I were to strip down to nothing but my skivvies and ride a bike through the basement, this act of hilarity would generate goodwill and a few laughs among my peers – my God, did I just type that or think it? Yes, it’s true, I could not escape the peer pressure inflicted on me the by the numerous actives that convinced me this would be the most hilarious and meaningful thing I could do. Looking back, if they would have convinced me that squatting in the basement and taking a dump in our Sergeant’s bowl of rice were the way to get laughs, I probably would have done it. And yes, it’s a wonder I can even look at myself in the mirror any more. Needless to say, my fellow mates were all so frazzled at that point that they were paralyzed with the inability to laugh. Either that or it just wasn’t that funny.

They say all good things come to an end, and MPB Hell Week was no exception. The bullshit described above spanned from Wednesday afternoon until Sunday evening, which was the night of our one final all night brotherhood building session. This exercise in camaraderie and friendship involved, among other things, flooding our weight room, kneeling for hours on a concrete floor, reciting a phrase about how great the MPB house was about 600 times, getting warm and cold water dumped on you, and participating in fun events like Alka Seltzer races (two Hell Week participants kneeled in front of each other, filled their mouths with water, put a tablet of Alka Seltzer in there and “competed” to see who could go the longest without spitting – needless to say, I spit mine out immediately because, well, the concept was retarded). After going through these motions the entire night, we were furloughed for a few hours and required to come back for one more day of “initiation”, which was really nothing more than a day of even more homoeroticism (i.e. wearing a toga and blindfold), sitting in our community showers (as they ran, of course), listening to horrible music played at full blast (i.e. Madonna’s Like a Prayer was played about 4,000 times) and learning obscure fraternity secrets. On a completely unrelated, totally coincidental note, I now own nothing with my fraternity letters on it and severed all ties with my fraternal organization (save for my remaining friends). Odd how these things work out, isn’t it?

The final tally: Six days, five nights, eight meals, seven total hours of sleep, hundreds of push-ups, thousands of recitations, several laughs, and one mentally broken down freshman. After it was all over, I went out with Dirk and Mayo for what turned out to be the best fucking cheeseburger ever, came home and ordered a pizza, got stoned and celebrated my first night ever in Room 23 with a solid 14 hours of shut-eye.

I hope the nine of you realize that I am risking life and limb by sharing my Hell Week escapades – there are probably several nimrods out there from the MPB house who would blow their fucking stack if they heard that someone was giving away deep, dark fraternity secrets. To those people I say: Piss off. It was 13 years ago, the house is dead so there’s no one to tip off, and looking back, we went through some of the lamest, gayest shit just to prove we could be friends with everyone who had gone through it before us, which of course made it essential that everyone else after them go through it as well. What a crock of shit. The good thing is that there is a very excellent chance that anyone who would be offended by the release of these secrets will never, ever come across this blog – I want readers, but not that badly…

All that being said, I regret nothing – even though Hell Week traumatized me for the remainder of the Lost Semester, this experience is one I would never give back, one I’ll always remember, and remains the most fun I’ll never want to have again.

Until next time…

Summertime Blues

2005-06-28T17:13:00.000-05:00

When one of your main outlets in life is writing about what’s on television, not for fame, not for money, but for the purpose of sharing it with nine of the greatest preferred readers an aspiring writer could ever hope for, the summer can be a dark, desolate time. Oh sure, I should be at the beach, at a baseball game, or doing something else outside in the fucking sweltering soupy mass of shit that is summer weather. But being the semi-hermit that I purport myself to be, I often prefer to tuck myself away in my home, blinds drawn, air conditioner at full blast, and enjoy some mind-numbingly poor television. Yes, the networks are in reruns during most of the summer, save for the new crop of reality-based dogs that they’ve marched out:

• Dancing with the Stars: Not to dwell on this since I’ve covered it before, but I’m not sure I could come up with a less interesting concept than watching washed up pseudo-celebrities demonstrating newly acquired ballroom dancing skills in front of the post-Saget, post-Fuentes host of America’s Funniest Home Videos, three judges you’ve never heard of and an audience of people with what seems to be a ridiculous amount of free time on their hands, even if you were to rip off my fingernails and dip my hands in bleach, only allowing me to take them out when I came up with a less interesting concept. How’s that for hyperbole?

• I Want to Be a Hilton: Or, as I like to say, I want to piss on the legacy that my family has created in order to get rich and gain acceptance into a family with two members whose only claim to fame is that they are rich Hiltons. Oh, and performing fellatio on tape, but who am I to judge?

• The Scholar: With the success of their Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, ABC just can’t pass up an opportunity to tug at our collective heart strings. What better way than to take a bunch of kids who want to go to college and fuck with their minds by dangling a scholarship in front of their faces while making them demonstrate their prowess in such critical areas as oral examinations and school spirit? As Principal Skinner told the children of Springfield Elementary as they prepared to accompany their parents to work: “This is your chance to apply your knowledge of gym and fractions to the real world!”

• Hell’s Kitchen: Hey look, it’s another show where an insufferable prick puts a bunch of spineless shits with no sense of self-worth through complete misery in hopes of winning a vaguely ambiguous contest! And it’s on Fox, no less! What will they think of next?

As you can see, there’s oh-so-much to choose from that I hardly know what to do with myself. Do I watch Evander Holyfield do the waltz? Do I cringe as seemingly normal people vie for a chance to be part of the Hilton clan? Or watch some pimply-faced nerdlingers compete for the right to become clear-faced nerdlinger college graduates free of charge? Or watch some Australian asshole shove plates of spaghetti into the chest of one of his young charges? So much quality entertainment, so little time.

That’s why I haven’t touched any of this shit with a ten foot pole – I can honestly say that I’ve watched a grand total of 11 minutes of all of these shows combined, and 8 of those minutes were spent seething with rage at the fact that fucking Trista is still on fucking TV!!! But the summer has not been a total loss when it comes to quality television programming. Take, for example, MTV’s True Life. Now, I know what the nine of you are thinking right now: “Who wrote this blog piece and what have they done with our good friend J?” No, it’s still me, folks – and to prove it, here’s a little sidebar rant that could only come my twisted mind:

I am sick and fucking tired of all the jocksniffing sports talkers on local radio, national radio, national TV and even online harping about what a weak division the White Sox play in (for those of you who couldn’t give a shit, it’s the AL Central), yet these same folks are just as quick to shove their noses straight up the ass of the AL East, simply because this division houses America’s “darlings” the Boston Red Sox, and America’s favorite enemy, the New York Yankees. Yet if one were to compare each division from the bottom up, one might see an interesting trend:

• Royals-Devil Rays: Everyone says the Sox and the Twins have the best chance of making the playoffs because they get to beat up on the Royals. But last I checked I wasn’t even sure if the Devil Rays had any major league players on their roster. Granted they can beat the Yankees, but the Royals have a World Series Championship, and in my mind that gives them the edge. So, if one truly wanted to argue about the absolute futility of a division’s bottom feeder, I would look no further than the team with the ugliest uniforms, stadium and city in America.

• Tigers-Blue Jays: The Battle of Windsor, Ontario. As of the writing of this mad rambling, the Tigers stood ½ game better than the Blue Jays, whose entire 1993 squad got a blanket gonorrhea wish from yours truly. Joe Carter and Dave Stewart can rot in hell for all I care.

• Indians-Yankees: In theory, the Yankees are the deeper, more loaded team. In theory, Communism works.

• Twins-Orioles: These teams are separated by a percentage point in the standings, but who would you rather face with the game on the line: Torii Hunter or head case Sammy Sosa? Yeah, me too…

• White Sox-Red Sox: Yes, they’re the defending champs. Yes, they are really heating up. Yes, they put themselves at risk of countless barbs from homophobic fans across the nation with their recent appearance on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Yes, every bandwagon jumper within reasonable distance has become a member of the severely jingoistic Red Sox Nation. Still, it’s tough to argue against the BEST RECORD IN THE MAJOR LEAGUES.

So there you have it – don’t even get me started on the other divisions. It’s time to stop this irrational prejudice against the AL Central – wake up, America!

Where was I? Oh, right – True Life on MTV. Basically, this is a chance to peer inside the life of someone who’s got shit a lot worse than you do, which as we all know makes us feel superior, high-and-mighty, above others, and all that other healthy stuff. Each episode is framed from the mind of the individuals it focuses on (typically someone ranging in age from 16-26 – Generation Y, I presume), and this frame is typically summed up with one simple sentence – for example, the episodes I have watched are as follows:

• I am on a diet.
• I am poor.
• I moved back in with my parents.
• I am obese.

Yikes – they should have just grouped them together and called the show “I wish someone would bash my skull in and end my misery.” But for all the times I’ve criticized MTV in the past, I have to say that this is a fascinating show. “I’m on a diet” featured stories ranging from a high school wrestler – you know, the freakish kind who runs 7 hours a day in a silver jumpsuit and eats 4 grains of rice in order to make weight – to a 250 lb girl who had admittedly “let myself go a bit” and wanted to lose some weight before heading off to Cancun with her friends, and then just about died on the spot when her nutritionist told her it might be a good idea if she stopped eating potato chips. No shit, you mean putting more saturated fat into my 250 lb frame WON’T help me lose weight? I’m FLAB-ergasted! (I’ll be here all week).

“I am poor” was much more depressing, as we watched a couple with a collective credit score of about 2 apply for a new apartment and almost shit themselves with excitement when the landlord didn’t require a full month’s rent as a security deposit, as well as a girl who planned to go back to high school as soon as she got a car to get there with, but she needed to work in order to buy a car, but she needed a car to get to most of the places she could work, and she got fired from the one place she could work without having a car (a bar waitress job) because she decided to show up on her night off and smoke pot in the bar. And yes, she was from the South.

The only thing I took from “I moved back in with my parents” was that, God willing and even though I love them to death, I hope I never have to move back in with my parents. Maybe it was watching the one kid who had quit his job at the bagel shop because it interfered with an art show compete with his father in a Beer Hunt on Easter Sunday. Now I may be wrong, but I believe the South was somehow involved once again.

Finally, “I am obese” featured morbidly obese people who, for example couldn’t fit in a regulation size school desk. In fact, one featured lady was in such trouble (500+ lbs) that all she could really do was sit on her couch and eat. It didn’t help that her husband (a saint of a man) began the process of cooking her dinner by filling a deep frying pan with about three quarters of a bottle of Wesson oil, but hey, at least he knew enough to watch out for those pesky carbs when he went shopping! And the campaign of misinformation continues.

What did I learn from this MTV experience? I learned that there are a lot of people who are worse off than me. I learned that MTV’s commercial breaks are longer than each segment of their half-hour shows. I learned that there is a tampon out there that’s both comfortable and absorbent. And I learned that the Real World has become nothing more than an excuse to throw a bunch of young, sexed up people together in the hopes they will have sex. Hats off to you, Generation Y – thanks to you, the future is a dark, desolate place!

Until next time...

Seize This, Honkus

2005-06-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

No friends, I write to you today not about the great film that is History of the World Part I, specifically the delightful scene where the uncircumcised Gregory Hines tries to pass himself off as Jewish so he won’t get sent to the lions. Rather, I refer to yet another blow to the common man. Sadly, it is now official that the Supreme Court has dropped the ball twice in the same month. First, it was the buzzkilling dick move of shooting down medical marijuana. Now CNN.com is reporting that the no-so-high court has ruled in a 5-4 decision that “local governments may seize people’s homes or businesses – even against their will – for private economic development.” The case stems from complaints issued by New London, CT residents who were challenging that municipality’s right to seize their riverfront homes in order to build a hotel, health club and offices.

In this humble madman’s twisted mind, this means that, as long as you are able to exert a significant amount of influence in local government, you can basically bully those who don’t have the resources or knowledge necessary to fight your assertion that what you’re doing is for the “benefits of the community, including – but by no means limited to – new jobs and increased tax revenue,” as misguided Justice Paul Stevens blathered on in his majority opinion, out of their property so that you and your golf buddies can pad the coffers with a few extra dollars. Justices Scalia, O’Connor, Rehnquist and Thomas stood on the dissenting side (the latter three also the dissenters in the medical marijuana case). This makes me want to marry O’Connor, cure Rehnquist’s cancer, and overlook the fact that Thomas once put one of his pubic hairs on a Coke can as he sexually harassed his secretary. But sadly, they were not to be the victors in this case.

Well, this being America I can’t just stand by and let this get me down – I should “capitalize” on this new opportunity, shouldn’t I? I should play with the hand that’s dealt and make the best of it. That is why I am announcing my grand plans for a hotel/resort/shopping area in my hometown of Elmhurst, IL. Hey, since the Supreme Court didn’t specify that the community in question had to be depressed, why not go straight for an affluent suburb? I figure I could gather up some political influence, gather some capital and buy up every damn house in Mexicali Valley, the neighborhood of working class Hispanic, Greek and Eastern European families near my old neighborhood. That’ll work perfect, seeing as I’ll need maids for my hotels, managers to run my restaurants and folks to clean my office building!

I can see it now – my future employees and their families weeping at the front doors of their former homes as I lead a ribbon cutting ceremony from atop a bulldozer – how proud my investors and the local politicians whose pockets I’ve greased will be as they see new jobs and tax revenue popping up right before their eyes! And maybe they’ll use that tax revenue to subsidize housing for the folks they’ve misplaced – or maybe not. Hey, the Supreme Court says that those local politicians know what’s best for their constituency, so let them figure it out!

My resort will be awesome! I’m also planning on putting in a theme park that will feature people who have been uprooted and forced out throughout history – we’ll have Jewland, Kurdland, Palestineland, Serbland – it’ll be fun for the whole family! There’ll also be the Rockin’ Rumblin’ Refugee Camp, which is a place where the kiddies can run around in search of a new home for their family! Won’t that be exciting? And just like Six Flags has the loveable Looney Toons characters, my theme park will have its own cast of miscreants running about: Big Banker Bob (the overfed financier of the project), Mayor Valiant (the brave politician who exerted his clout in city council to force the other councilman to vote for approval of the plan), Dirk the Developer (who, like the beloved Bob the Builder, likes to bulldoze things – for example, people’s homes that were taken by brute force and clout money), and Ronnie the Refugee (that homeless scamp who’s always causing trouble by speaking up at city council meetings, squatting on his property and other silly home-saving measures). Yes folks, it’ll be fun for the whole family.

So after thinking it through, I think this property seizure thing might not be such a bad thing after all – as long as there’s money to be made, it’s gotta be good!

Until next time…

Off the Deep End...

2005-06-22T17:01:00.000-05:00

...and into a full-page newspaper advertisement near you, it's Chicago's favorite son, severely misguided, heavily-medicated, grunge rocker extraordinaire - Billy Corgan!

Yes, folks, those of us here in The Greatest City in the World got a real treat yesterday when we opened our Chicago Tribunes to find a full page ad from BC himself touting the release of his new CD, excuse me, solo album "TheFutureEmbrace". Is it one word? Is it three? Whatever it is, I now have the urge to embrace the future. Or is it to look forward to a future embrace - I'm not sure.

Hey, it's easy to get lost when you step inside the mind of Mr. Corgan. A while back I begged you to go read his insane ramblings (not to be confused with these mad ramblings) at mySpace.com/BillyCorgan - oh what fun you'll have! Now, as if exposing himself as a disturbed young man on a sparsely-read website (I know it seems like I'm referring to myself again, but rest assured I am not), Bill feels the need to try and reach the readership of the Tribune in an effort to scream, "Look at me! Hug me! Love me!" Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose.

Let's break down the ad, shall we? Bill tells us that the day of said ad is "a special day in my life" because he has a solo album coming out. I seem to recall when Paul McCartney took out a full-page ad in the London Daily Mail about how special a day it was when he released "McCartney" - OK, that never happened. Neither did Sir Paul waiting 5 years after his first band's break up to put out more music, but I digress. Bill is excited because his "very first solo album" was coming out - not to be confused with his very first diary or his very first wet dream - special times, each and every one.

He then tells us that his album's "embers bear witness to [Chicago's] unique soul" - which of course tells me it has overtones of corrupt government, racial strife and shitty sports teams. Bill then goes on a wonderful "look where I get to go" name dropping rant about his return from Europe, and his future plans to travel to such exotic locales as Japan, Australia, New Zealand and Atlanta! Bring me back a souvenir, if you please!

Next, we are informed that "'TheFutureEmbrace' is an album of hope, and represents fully my desire to make music to stand and fight for." I guess that's better than making music you'd want to stand up and fight against, such as anything by Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp or The Eagles. Given that he's also writing his life story online (see aforementioned website), it's evident that "this truly has been a creative time for me, with many new revelations". One can only sit and wonder what majestic hallucinations Paxil might bring to all of us!

As he begins talking about his decision to reunite Smashing Pumpkins (fans of 1994 rejoice!), he gives his reasoning for the reunion plans: "What I have been really trying to do is find that same kid again, the one who believed he could change the world with a song." I believe that's already been done, Bill - that 1971 Coke song changed the world into a hellish utopia where non-drug-using hippies hold hands and drink toxic liquids on mountain tops.

Seeing as Bill "naively tried to start a new band," the only cure seemed to be to "move back home to heal what was broken in me" (read: his brain) "and to my surprise I found what I was looking for." After announcing that his plan is to revive the Pumpkins (I still can't believe James Iha would even be available!), Bill pours his heart out: "I want my band back, and my songs, and my dreams." Well, as reader Jeremy points out: "I would like the $12.50 I paid for Siamese Dream back." Sadly, we can't always get what we want, not even our dreams. Sniff.

Per Bill's closing, "there is so much work to do, and as always, so little time!" That being said, I better get back to doing something more important than reading money-wasting ads placed by mentally disturbed malcontents.

"Rock on, and may God bless you!" Or, to put it another way...

Until next time...

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 2

2005-06-15T16:47:00.000-05:00

Where the Happy People Meet…

College is full of important decisions: Keystone Light or Special Export? Study or party? Dorm food or Free Flow? Kam’s or Bub’s? Bong or bowl? However important these decisions were to me during the Lost Semester, none was more important than solving the following two-part riddle:

Should I stay in the dorms with my freakishly tall douchebag of a roommate, or should I move into the fraternity house? And, if I should choose to move into the house, who will I live with?

These are two of the major questions I was asking myself during first semester as I earned a D in Psychology 101 – do I move from the partial freedom of the dorms, where I have started to make some good friends who don’t happen to be in the same fraternity as me? Or do I dive deep into the anarchy that is a fraternity house – a place where the booze flows and the doobage is plentiful; a place where slack lurks around every corner; a place that remains a vile, filthy den of inequity, at least until the next pledge class arrives to be handed their shit duties? Well, given my roommate situation, and given the fact that I was busted in the dorms in week 2 of my college experience with 6 other guys in a room with 4 open beers and had to attend an alcohol counseling class as a result, this decision became rather easy (at worst, I figured I’d get in trouble at the house for having 7 people in a room and not having more than 4 beers).

The second part of this equation also seemed pretty easy. There were several good guys in my pledge class, yet only a few who were willing to make the leap to fraternity house living right away – most of my fellow pledgemates were too interested in remaining at Forbes Hall in U of I’s glorious Six Pack of dorms (where I hailed from – 469 Hopkins, aw yeah) to see if they could break the all time dorm floor record for dollars in damage inflicted during a school year – and two of those making the leap stood out as the logical choices for my roommates: CS, who you might remember as the B student from the Paper Writing Scandal, and a fine young South Sider we will call “Pops”.

For starters, we were the three bona fide stoners in our pledge class – the guys who would attend a line up at midnight (for the uninitiated – that’s where the “sergeant at arms” “lines up” the “pledges” in order to “haze” them by making them do push ups and wall sits while other “actives” look on to laugh at/yell at/ridicule you – so as you can see, there’s a real allure to joining a fraternity) and hang around afterwards so we could pull tubes with our already-initiated friends. We set the bar quite “high” for the ’96 pledge class, and we lived up to our reputations like champs. Naturally, our initial reaction was to have the three of us go in on a room together – we all had the same interests (dope, baseball, booze) and even though it was a 2:1 Sox Fan-Cubs Fan ratio, we felt that it was a match made in heaven! However, late in Semester One, we got word that our good friend (we’ll call him “Silky”) was going on, ahem, academically-imposed hiatus for a semester, leaving a spot open in another room with two sophomores: Sadahara and The Big O. Seeing as Pops was good friends pre-college with Big O, he stepped right into the open slot, which left just me and CS, with room for one more. Enter the wild card – the Miser.

(Sidenote: The Miser was not a cheapskate. Sadahara is not a Japanese guy. The Big O refers not to an orgasm. As I mentioned, I need to leave a little bit to the imagination here – those who know the stories and the people will know exactly who I’m referring to – those who don’t know can either a) do some hardcore research to find out who I’m talking about, or b) let it read like fiction and not give a shit who’s who and what’s what. Some semblance of secrecy must be maintained – YITBOS).

Where was I? Ah yes, our good friend Miser. This is a guy who had the distinct honor of making it through pledgeship by doing the absolute minimum required (which of course led him to be admired by dorks like me who always showed up for weekend work duties). In fact, when CS and I lived with him, he was a lowly neophyte – not a pledge, but not yet fully initiated – more on this another time. He was laid back, easygoing, and liked to party just as much as we did. Did I also mention that he was also a black belt in Tae Kwon Do? Yeah, that’s not a bad guy to have on your side. Rumor has it he had a death cry and everything, but no matter how hard CS and I tried, we never did get the full experience with that (probably a good thing). So now that we had determined who we were all going to live with, the next step became finding a vacant room we could take over. The way it worked in our house was that you “bought” your room from the dudes who lived there before you – each room’s price was set at $500, and you could do whatever the hell you wanted with your room once you bought it. So CS, Miser and I scoured the house for open rooms, finally cutting a deal with two super-seniors who were moving out of…Room 23.

Room 23 – just typing it makes me feel a bit inebriated. Now before revealing any of the happenings that occurred within the hallowed halls of Room 23, I must first paint you the image of the place that served as my bedroom, arcade, hash den and general freak out haven, for only then can I truly take you back there with me. The number one thing you need to know is that Room 23 was officially known as the place “where the happy people meet” – we were happy, alright. Given what went on in there, if you walked in uptight, you were sure as hell to walk out a lot more serene, I can tell you that. Now, close your eyes (opening them only to read each paragraph, of course) and let me bring you there…

As you walk in the door (think Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley), a closet appears to your right, and a pseudo-closet with no walls and a dresser wedged in the corner on your left. Clothes crowd the closet racks and litter the floor. Walk through the entry way, and to your immediate left sits a shoddy entertainment center holding the ever-important stereo. The room is slightly bigger than your average second bedroom – let’s call it 18x18. Directly at the back of the room is a wooden loft, going about halfway up the 10 foot ceiling. First and foremost, this is our sleeping quarters. On top of this loft is bed one, a simple twin mattress (Miser). Under the loft to the left sits a nice, comfy waterbed (somehow snagged by the wily CS). To the right, you find a ratty black love seat, our TV with the divot in the top where the incense cone burned through and a taped-on, cut-out graphic from a Wheat Thins box that states: “Baked, Not Fried!”, as well as the glorious cabinet that contained everything a 19-year-old stoner could ever possibly need. Finally, as you peer into the dark recesses underneath the loft, behind the ratty loveseat, sealed off by the big, comfy waterbed, you see a dark, dank, desolate cave containing a mattress with the bare minimum in sleeping amenities (yours truly). A bagger’s delight if there ever was one. Throw in a few posters, a possible tapestry, an Arizona Cardinals lamp (which I once burned CS with – by ACCIDENT), and a Nintendo, and you’re there, man.

Proper seating for one of our multiple party sessions is of paramount importance in Room 23 – if you don’t have one of 3 select seats, you’ve immediately dropped to the second tier. Also, let me assure you there was no preferential seating treatment for the residents of the room – save for CS, who always seems to nab the waterbed/armchair pillow seat, which is the equivalent of the King’s throne (slick bastard!). In the cutthroat world of Room 23 seating, you had better damn well know the phrase “tic-tac”. A seemingly innocent play on words, its mere utterance ensures that your seat is not thrown back to the vultures on the edge of the waterbed, on the loft, or on the floor, provided you returned in a reasonable period of time. The other two rock star seats are naturally the love seat combo, all but guaranteeing its inhabitants the first game of Nintendo should the general populace agree that there doesn’t seem to be jack shit on TV.

As for TV, while it is always on for visual stimulus or Nintendo playing purposes, the primary mode of entertainment in Room 23 is naturally the music – provided you can find something in my shoebox of CDs (probably numbering around 25 at the time) or in CS’s killer record collection – yes, the turntable is fully functional here in Room 23, and thank goodness, because most of our standbys reside on vinyl. If you happen to be one of the curious folk wandering by Room 23 at any given time, aside from the sweet smells emitting from under the door crack, you will likely hear anything from Abbey Road by the Beatles, to the Grateful Dead’s One From the Vault (much to Sadahara’s sheer pleasure, there is a LOT of Dead to be heard here), to Paul’s Boutique, to the Shaft soundtrack, all the way to Disneyland Records’ Scary Haunted House Sound Effects (what am I saying, I’m not even Chinese! – and yes, I’ll ease up on the inside jokes).

Should you decide to pop in and indulge in the pleasures of the happy person’s meeting place, you’ll no doubt be hungry – well, just pick up the phone and call in a Late Night Special – the medium, one-topping pizza that CS and I made our meal at least three nights a week. Or feel free to stagger in late night looking for a little something to enhance the flavor of that La Bamba burrito you’re about to enjoy. Of course, if the Kitchen Manager passes out drunk or is struggling with a near heart attack because he just ingested 14 ephedrine, you could always steal his key and head down to the kitchen where all kinds of cereal, grade B lunchmeat and canned food goodness awaits you!

Now to the important part. Go ahead and open up that little cabinet of tricks. Maui, wow-wee, what do we have here? Being an experienced craftsman, I’m sure you can appreciate the fine set of tools you see before you. Do you prefer a bowl, a hitter, the Aquapipe, or the purple “Clown Boy” bong (which actually made it’s home up in Room 7 with Pops, Sadahara and Big O, but still took several field trips down to 23)? Take your pick, pick a pack, and go to town. We have an honored ritual here in Room 23 – B.A.B.S.A.B. That is to say, purchase a sandwich sack of goodness and work as a team with your good friends to ensure that it doesn’t last past the end of the evening. There, we’re all ready to go – but who starts it all off? Who gets the coveted Green Hit? And which way will the fun move along? Well, friend, in a place like Room 23, you can bet that there’s a lot of thought that goes into something like this. Here’s the basic process:

• Someone in the room (again, usually Room 23 alpha male CS) assigns a person to serve as starting point.

• Everyone in the room plays the Odds or Evens hand game, holding out zero, one or two fingers.

• The total of all displayed fingers is obtained, and, moving clockwise from the starting point, the number is counted off around the room – if it lands on you, then congratulations – you get the Green Hit!

• The individuals on either side of the Green Hitter play a best-of-1 Rock-Paper-Scissors to determine the direction of the pass.

• Should you lose this match, the individual seated immediately next to you will typically let out a sigh of disgust, letting you know just how badly you suck at Rock-Paper-Scissors.

Yes, Room 23 is deeply shrouded in mystery and ritual, much more so than the goofy shit we experienced during our fraternity initiation (more on that another time). While a sizeable number of our “brothers” had the Room 23 experience at one time or another, there was an elite list of regulars who regularly haunted our den: Me, CS, Miser, Sadahara, Big O, Pops, Ox, Mayo, Phelps, Dirk, Silky, Reggie Taco – good men, every one. Again, I prefer the shroud of mystery here – I don’t know who wants to become a politician in their adult life, and I’m not about to ruin any reputations. Those on this list know who they are – and some names are more easily decoded than others, so those outside of the experience may have some luck putting two and two together and figuring it all out. But rest assured: The key players and their critical involvement in my Lost Semester will further materialize as the stories seep from my brain like the incense/marijuana haze from the crack under the door…of Room 23.

Six Random Thoughts for Monday

2005-06-13T12:21:00.000-05:00

1. I had a chance to catch Britney and Kevin: Chaotic this past weekend. All I can say is that if I thought I had reasons to dislike her in the past, watching this poorly edited, unfunny, unintelligent mess of a program blew all the others away. A basic synopsis of the episode I was fortunate enough to see goes like this:

- The majority of the episode is shot using a video camera from Britney Spears' perspective - a Rich White Trash Broad-Cam, if you will. As a result, you constantly get the feeling that you've just staggered off of the old Cajun Cliffhanger ride at Great America.

- Britney has a ton of "hilarious" voices and faces in her repetoire. For instance, she can be normal one minute, talk like a goofy hick the next, and follow that all up by doing a pig-nose into the camera and making strange noises. The staff she has surrounded herself with are constantly in hysterics over these antics, leading me to believe that they are either a) paid extremely well to patronize her, or b) insane.

- The parts of the show that do not involve Britney making us nauseous with her camera work are actual clips from her concerts. Despite the fact that she is dancing furiously and sweating profusely, her voice is mysteriously free of any hint of exasperation, which leads me to conclude that there are millions of teeny-boppers that have duped their parents into spending $100 per ticket to go watch Britney Spears lip-synch and dance for 40 minutes. Ah, Capitalism!

- Britney likes to go around asking her staff ridiculous questions, to which they provide equally ridiculous answers. Example:

Brit: "Hey Big Black Bodyguard, what's your favorite sexual position?"

Big Black Bodyguard: "The bedroom"

Brit: "AWWWWW, that's sweet!"

- Once Britney meets Kevin Federline, they begin having sex three to five times per day, a fact that only comes to light because Britney tells everyone within earshot: "I just had sex three times - I can't get enough!" So much for saving yourself...

This was indeed a chaotic experience - one I shan't be repeating any time soon.

2. Well, the Supreme Court took a dump last week when they shot down medical marijuana. Now I’m not just saying this because I am a known reefer-head. And I’m not saying it simply because of marijuana’s proven medical benefits (although, due to its illegal status, the G has not seen fit to actually do a real in-depth study of its benefits). This is a matter of State’s Rights. If the State of California wants to let people suffering from AIDS, glaucoma and cancer get stoned because it helps ease the physical and mental anguish in their lives, why does the Government need to snuff that relief out like so many cashed bowls? For that matter, why does the Federal Government need to get involved in any way, shape or form on determining the welfare of its populace on such minor matters that are better handled by state legislatures? Don’t they have bigger fish to fry (Iraq; Social Security; medical care for its constituency) than to cling to a policy of demonization that stems from the fact that they didn’t trust Mexicans in the ‘20s? Don’t they realize that a potential marijuana lobby would line their fat ass pockets just as much as the liquor and tobacco industries already do? Hey, at least I can still get Xanax to help me ease my pain. And Valium. And Zoloft. And Oxycontin. And Paxil. And so on, and so on, and so on...

3. I saw Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith yesterday. Story line - really good. Special effects - great. Dialogue - weak. Overall - B+/A-

4. As one of the 17 people in the world who couldn't give two shits about the Red Sox playing the Cubs at Wrigley this past weekend, I must say I was impressed by the Cubs play in the first two games, despite their best efforts to give Saturday's game away. It was also impressive to see just how sheepish Boston fans became after having their team lose the first two games of the series - every Boston fan I saw yesterday seemed to fear making eye contact with anyone who looked like a local. It warmed my heart to see that. Meanwhile, up in first place, the REAL Sox are looking pretty damn good. A quick pointer to any Red Sox "fans" in Chicago: saying "Sox" = White Sox around here - deal with it.

5. If you want to watch extremely spoiled, wildly unlikeable and horribly shrill women prepare for their wedding day by berating their parents, alienating their friends, verbally abusing reception staffers and psychologically castrating their future mates, be sure to tune into Bridezillas on WE - Women's Entertainment (I live with a woman who likes to be entertained, so get the fuck off my back!) on Sunday nights.

6. And finally, I know someone, somewhere out there reads this and possibly forwards it on to others. Please note that if you would like me to put you on a mailing list so you can be updated rather than constantly having to check back, send an email with the account you wish to use to newsandnotes@hotmail.com with something in the subject line to the effect of you want to be put on a mailing list so you can be updated rather than constantly having to check back.

Until next time...

Your Fifteen Minutes Are Up

2005-06-02T12:48:00.000-05:00

In an earlier writing, back when I used to force feed writings to my reader rather than rely on the scarcity that is a hit on this website, I touched briefly on the curious creature that is the Repeat Reality Show "Star". I put the word 'star' in quotes for good reason, for in my mind one does not become a star (i.e. glamorous celebrity) by virtue of having appeared on television. When I was a freshman in high school, some freak in my class gained notoriety by stabbing a couple of burn outs who were mercilessly picking on him. Did the burn out friends of those burn outs become stars because they appeared on ABC 7's 5:00, 6:00 and 10:00 newscasts? I think not!

Now granted, at this point in time (1989) there was no reality television as we know it today - the closest thing we had was watching the wacky Balki Bartokomous and his crazy cousin Larry get in all kinds of madcap situations on ABC's Perfect Strangers and realizing that we could relate to this as reality, given that all of us at one point or another had missed a double date with our sexy neighbors because we and our cousin had somehow gotten rolled up inside of a carpet and therefore couldn't use the phone. But again, I digress. I touched on a few of the repeat offenders in the previously mentioned earlier writing, which of course included Man-Woman-Beast Toni from Fox's equally appalling Paradise Hotel and Love Cruise: The Maiden Voyage. But two (or three, depending on your view) of the more recent offenders are the Rob/Amber two headed monster (or 'Monstah' if you are speaking with Rob's annoying Boston speech impediment) (Survivor, Amazing Race, Utterly Tasteless TV Wedding) and Trista Rehn-Sutter and her Man-Goblin Ryan (Bachelor, Bachelorette, Utterly Tasteless TV Wedding).

Why, oh why, do some people appear on reality TV only to quietly (and appropriately) disappear, while others cling to their vague concepts of "fame" and "stardom" like they are clinging to precious life itself? And why should we as the general public really give a shit what these people are up to long after their appeal has worn off? I guess I will never understand it - being a "star" doesn't seem like it's all it's cracked up to be, but there's Rob and Amber whoring their marriage vows for further cash and exposure. And here comes Trista again, appearing on ABC's Dancing with the Stars, a show that ABC.com describes as "a totally unique and original series that pairs a celebrity with a professional dance partner as they train and then compete in front of a studio audience in a televised dance competition."

My God, what studio exec is going to lose his job over this one? Does anyone really care to see whether Evander "The Real Deal" Holyfield can learn to dance better than John "J. Pederman" O'Hurley? Apparently so, because the show made it to air. Now, thankfully I have not watched a minute of this show, but since I do tune into some of ABC's finer programming (i.e. Lost), I did happen to catch the spots for this train wreck and spotted....Trista! Apparently she has designs on sucking every last ounce of celebrity from the veins of fledgling public interest until it dies a painful and horrible death. In her bio on the show's website, Trista's profession is listed as "Reality Star", which nowadays has all the luster of "Kiddie Rapist" if you ask me (and most people do, of course).

I am really at a loss here as to why Trista can't leave the spotlight. We've seen her in two installments of the Bachelor series, one pretentious TV wedding, and several gratuitous "look at me, please GOD look at me" photo spreads in the pages of the nation's tabloids. Is she still around because people are interested in her? Or are people interested in her because she's still around? Chicken or egg?

Whatever the case is, I pray to God, Yaweh, Allah, Buddah, L. Ron Hubbard, and anyone else that this be her Swan Song. Given the fact that she was probably one of the least likeable people on the original Bachelor, there seems to be no conceivable reason why she should still be hanging around. So I implore you to turn off your TVs when you see her, to not purchase any magazine whose pages she graces, to write your congressman and ask him or her to have a 40-foot high wall built around her house in Vail so that she may never escape. Let us rid ourselves of this repeat reality scourge once and for all. After that, we can take care of Rob and Amber. Thank you.

Follow up note: I received some feedback on Vol. 1 of Tales from the Lost Semester - I think people got the wrong impression of just how much work I put into that paper. When I say I edited the paper, I meant that I took the rough outline and loose draft and actually made it into a paper - it was hard work, trust me, especially for someone whose brain was not firing on all cylinders (sorry, CS, but you know it to be true!)

Until next time...

One Hit Shit

2005-05-31T12:43:00.000-05:00

Greetings to The Nine - I figured I'd offer up my quick thoughts on one topic for today (hence the title of this blurb): The Miss Universe Pageant!

- Tuning into NBC at 8:00 CDT, I am confused by the fact that, despite being billed as a live event, the show is coming to us from Bangkok, Thailand. Curious, I watch as 81 beauties from all over the planet submit thier name, age and country of origin, primarily in heavily broken English.

- I am immediately re-confused when I see that Miss Norway and Miss Netherlands are both brunettes. Sadly, Michelle can offer no good reason why this is the case.

- Our hosts for Miss Universe 2005 are also the hosts of Extra!, or Access Hollywood, or Entertainment Tonight, or whatever: Nancy O'Dell (of Project Runway/Oscar Red Carpet fame) and some tool who is clearly a Ryan Seacrest Wannabe.

- The Quasi-Seacrest confirms that, yes, the show is live from Thailand and it's 8:00 AM local time. Given that the giant auditorium is packed to the rafters with people, I wonder aloud whether the Thai military was ordered to round up citizens to dress up and serve as audience members, lest the brass at NBC (i.e. Donald "Can You Say Overexposed?" Trump) pull their strings in Washington to have sanctions slapped on Thailand faster than you can say "Kim Jong Il".

- "Aren't these 81 ladies lovely? We'll be cutting the field down to 15 after this break."

- After leading the Blackhawks to a 10-1 thrashing of the lowly Calgary Flames (Virtual J: 1 PPG, 1 A), I return to leer at the final 10 ladies strut their stuff in identical white bikinis. Eight of the final 10 are from the Western Hemisphere, including the NAFTA Triumverant of USA, Canada and Mexico. I smell a conspiracy.

- I noticed that during times where there is mass applause heard over the broadcast, most of the people I see are sitting facing forward with their hands in their laps, lending further credence to my Participation by Force theory.

- Quasi-Seacrest interviews sassy Queer Eye fashion icon Carson Kressley on his thoughts, which leads to the following exchange:

Quasi-Seacrest: "So Carson, what do you think of the ladies ability to strut their stuff"

Carson: "Wow, I haven't looked at girls in, like, my whole life, but they're doing great."

QS: "Hey, great. Say Carson, as the only straight guy up there, how am I looking?"

C: "You're looking pretty good, but you're not in the competition!"

QS: "Hey, great. We'll be right back"

It's a good thing I don't keep guns in the house.

- The field of 10 is trimmed to the following five: Canada, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Paraguay. Five Western Hemisphere countries, including four from Latin America. We're in Thailand and they can't even throw a bone to Asia? And no Eastern Europe - who's dominating the mail order bride business, anyway?

- Sadly I do not stick around long enough to see the ending, although my money was on Miss Paraguay.

So there you have it - an insider's quick take on the pageantry of the Miss Universe Pageant. I'm sure fun was had by all, at least after the sun came up.

Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 1

2005-05-19T14:52:00.000-05:00

Greetings, dear readers! First and foremost, I realize that this blog has been so sporadically updated that many of my nine loyal readers may have jumped ship and stopped regularly checking up on the happenings inside my scary, scary mind. This makes me sad, for I know how dearly these nine special individuals (you know who you are) rely on my musings to get them through their otherwise humdrum collective existence. They stare at this majestic web page with their finger forever depressed on the F5-refresh button, screaming at the top of their lungs, “write something, you sick freak!” until they are so exhausted with dismay that their bodily functions go awry and they shit themselves, which for those who have desk jobs can be rather embarrassing as one can imagine.

Recently I asked myself why it is so damn difficult for me to consistently produce quality writings for you, the reader. Seeing as I own a computer at home and am chained directly to one for a minimum of eight hours per day, five days a week, and that in both of these settings I have access to the glorious Internet, you’d think it’d be a no-brainer, a slam dunk, a walk in the park for me to churn out quality goods day in and day out. However, given that I am not paid to be a writer (at least not when the topic turns to poor reality television, celebrity trash, defecating or other pleasant matters), I am forced to spend a majority of my day thinking of things other than how I can creatively insult the participants of The Bachelor or who I wish would become inflicted with gonorrhea at a particular point in time. And when at home, I often find myself doing something productive like (in descending order of importance) spending time with Michelle, exercising, playing Playstation or staring dumbly at the TV, hoping to find more material that I never seem to write about. As you can plainly see, my plate is full.

All that, of course, is a hunk of bullshit – the real reason I lag in my writings is not because of my competing priorities – if I can find time to read Us Weekly, I sure as hell can find time to write about it. However, given the intelligence of you, my nine loyal readers, I highly doubt that I can satiate your appetites with constant updates on Brittney Spears’ rapid descent into irreversible white-trashdom, the tragic saga of Nick and Jessica’s desperate attempt to cling to the spotlight, or Tom Cruise’s sham relationship with Katie Holmes. Not that I ever want to stop writing about these things, of course – it’s just that I grew tired of writing the same old things about the same old material. So what if Charlie O’Connell broke down and cried like a little girl on the live finale of The Bachelor? Who cares about which mentally unstable starlet Brad Pitt happens to be banging? Why should I give a shit, let alone two, about Paris Hilton’s boyfriend named Paris or Nicole Ritchie becoming the latest pseudo-celebrity to adopt the hot new Anorexia Look?

These days it’s all about diversification and I need to keep it fresh. To do so, I have decided to open the vault on a dark and sordid chapter of my past, one that will now serve as the basis for future ramblings. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to…Tales from the Lost Semester! That’s right, in the coming weeks I will regale you with the trials and tribulations of J – Second Semester College Freshman. I realize that some of my readers may be quaking in their boots right now, as they recall the details of their ugly pasts that are certain to surface in these writings. Please rest assured that, where possible, I will change the names to protect the reputations of the not-so-innocent – however, to those of you who are already in the know, there should be some unmistakably fun and/or embarrassing reminiscing going down.

Allow me to set the stage for what’s to come: The year is 1993, and I have just completed my first semester at my fair alma mater, the University of Illinois. My first semester at U of I was an experience to say the least – moving away from home for the first time, pledging a fraternity (which gave me great insight as to why people ridicule fraternities), living in the dorms with a 6’6” douchebag who thought a joke about hanging mobiles from the ceiling was cutting edge (his voice still haunts me), experiencing the joys of being able to drop a class you were earning a D in, building solidly on the foundations of the beer and reefer addictions I developed during senior year in high school – those were magical times.

However, when the clock struck ’93, my life took a turn – not necessarily for the worse, more like for the surreal. The Lost Semester was a time of discovery; a time of missed classes, missed opportunities, frat house living, late night food, 12-packs on Monday nights, vomiting, low self-esteem, high friends, hockey, hallucinogens, jury duty, conflict, poor decisions, bad grades and good times. Oh, and tons and tons of pot. As you can see, the potential for amusing tales is endless! Hopefully this series of yarns will give you some insight as to why I took the slow road to corporate advancement and why I sometimes have to ask you to repeat what you’ve just said to me multiple times over. And just for future reference, The Lost Semester is defined as the period from January 1, 1993 until the beginning of sophomore year classes in September 1993 – take a ‘trip’ back with me, won’t you?

So, since I promoted this piece as a Tale from the Lost Semester, I feel I owe you a teaser story:

The Paper

Myself and two individuals that may or may not have been my roommates (how’s that for avoiding implication!) were all enrolled in Classic Civ 116 – Greek and Roman Society. You know the type of class – all the upperclassmen tell you it’s a blow off, easy A class – a death trap if I ever heard one. It really was probably a fascinating class – the three or four times I attended the lecture were really cool, and I think my discussion section TA was interesting – I really don’t remember because I think I only met him twice. You see, the problem was that when I signed up for the course, I decided to schedule my discussion section for Friday at 1:00 – to go along with the four other discussion sections I scheduled on Friday. Yes you heard right – I scheduled five, count ‘em, FIVE discussions sections on Friday. This is a lesson to you youngsters out there – don’t set your class schedule when stoned. At any rate, I was far too busy on Fridays with other matters (i.e. my Super Tecmo Bowl Blind Draw Best of 27 Tournament against O’Hal, in which he beat me 14 games to 12) to concern myself with class. I was a busy man, you see!

Somehow or another, it came to my attention that there was a paper coming due, on what I have no idea – probably Greek and Roman Society, no? Well, the two fellows who were also enrolled in the class and I used our impaired powers of deduction to figure out that we all had different TA’s for this class. “Hey,” one of us said, “since we all have different TA’s, we can all pitch in, write one paper, and each turn it in as our own!” Sheer brilliance! There’s no way anyone would ever figure it out! So we went about divvying up the duties – Friend One (we’ll call him the Miser) would perform the research, Friend Two (let’s call him CS) would draft the outline and shell of the paper, and yours truly would revise the draft, clean it up and secure three copies for delivery. A master plan if there ever was one! So we went about our business – researching, drafting, writing – and after all was said and done, I thought we had a real masterpiece on our hands (again, I can’t tell you what the paper was about – either the Roman Senate, Greek Theater or Vomitoriums and their place in Roman Upper Class Society). Once the due date arrived, we all turned in our papers and prayed that none of our TA’s were on speaking terms about papers they had read.

After a few more weeks of skipping class I decided that I better go see how I did on that paper, so I put down the Nintendo controller and wandered over to whatever building the class was in (Gregory Hall, perhaps?). The TA had the papers graded and handed them out to the class, eventually getting to me. My grade? C. First things first – I exhaled, thanking God above that it didn’t have a note attached telling me and my cohorts to go see the dean of our respective schools where we would be booted from the sacred soil of Morrill Plots for eternity as the Alma Mater statue covered her face in shame. After my initial feelings of relief had passed, I then started to feel a little bummed – I really thought that sucker was pretty good and deserved a B, but who was I to rock the boat? I figured the grade had as much to do with my class participation as with the quality of the writing, so I let it go.

That evening, as one of the gents who may or may not have been my roommate reached into our little cabinet of tricks to prepare that evening’s “relaxation session”, we began to discuss the fact that none of us had been expelled for turning in the same paper.

“Hey Miser,” I asked. “What did you get on the paper?”

“I got an A – what about you, CS?”

“I got a B”.

“Fuck me!” I cried. “I got a goddamned C!”

Our first instinct was to raise our voices and ask why such an injustice had occurred. But then we started to ask ourselves just who the hell we were going to approach with our concerns. Were we going to confront our TA’s and ask why they saw fit to give the same paper three different grades? Were we going to whine to the professor, who surely would have had our asses kicked out of there faster than you can say “Aquapipe”? Were the TA’s hip to our little game, just waiting for one of us to complain about our grade? We were screwed.

That is to say I was screwed – the Miser and CS got away with an A and B on the paper respectively, while I got stuck with the C. Not that it did me much good, seeing as I ended up failing the class (my only F ever) due to my gross lack of class participation. But at least I kept that Best of 27 series close. Next time, O’Hal, you’re going down.

Until next time...

News and Notes - 05-05-05

2005-05-05T13:07:00.000-05:00

• Hola, Senors e Senoritas! Happy sink-oh-d-my-oh to y’all! We are presented with yet another wonderful situation where an ethnicity’s holiday gets to be hijacked by people who bear no claim to that ethnicity! So with that in mind, be sure to eat lots of chips and salsa, drink tons of Jose Cuervo® brand margaritas, wear sombreros, beat the shit out of piñatas, and get shot by the vigilantes patrolling the Texas border as you try and cross the Rio Grande to a better life! Fiesta!

• My world is collapsing around me. I have lost all faith in humanity. I don’t know who I can trust anymore. Life, as I know it, has lost all meaning. All this because of the scandal that has rocked the set of American Idol – a scandal involving singing lessons, mulattos and deceit, and therefore containing all the key elements of any good scandal. It appears that some guy who got booted off of Idol for not disclosing his shady arrest record (a prerequisite of every Idol season) back in that turbulent spring of 2003 was being coached and manipulated to the point of orgasm (I’m assuming at different times) by Idol judge Paula “I’m Not Crazy as a Shithouse Rat, I Just Act That Way” Abdul. This has all but shattered the integrity of the toughest panel of judges this side of the Supreme Court in what has become an epic contest that more Americans seem to care about than what’s happening at said Supreme Court. Given this information, I don’t see how we, the American People, can trust any of the judges’ opinions of the next pop stars who will soon fall hopelessly into obscurity ever again. I hope 2003 Idol Ruben Studdard enjoys his tainted victory as much as Paula enjoyed the dismissed mulatto’s 'taint.

• One of Michelle’s favorite things to Tivo is the Oprah show. For the most part, when she fires up that sassy southern soul sister and her patented brand of talk therapy, that is my cue to retreat to the other room where I work valiantly to help the Chicago Blackhawks defend their Stanley Cup Championship courtesy of the fantasy world I call PS2’s NHL 2004 (currently, I lead the team with 40 goals and 43 assists – I am a very balanced player). However, I will begrudgingly admit that there are times where the lure of Oprah’s topic is too much for me to ignore – like the sweet song of the siren, it lures me in and implores me to witness what this Nubian princess has to say. While I can do without the self-serving interviews with the likes of Julia Roberts or Ashton Kutcher, I am easily fascinated by couples who are $90,000 in debt, swingers, and seemingly normal people who live in absolute squalor. Well, last night was no exception as the topic of health came up, and approximately 1/3 of the show was devoted to one of my favorite topics: Shitting. Yes, it was a regular dookie fest on Oprah, where I learned some interesting turd-bits about shitting:

o When shit comes out, it should be a) brown, b) shaped like an ‘S’ or a banana, and c) silent.
o The average person farts 14 times per day, a number I usually “blow away” by 9:30 AM.
o Shit is green until it passes through your bowels, where it adopts its preferred brown color.
o Shitting only once every five days is not a good thing.
o Oprah’s shit doesn’t stink.

OK, I made that last one up – you got me. But rest assured – when the topic of shitting comes up on TV, Virtual J will be stuck on 40 goals until further notice.

• White Sox! White Sox! Go, go White Sox! Can you say 20-7? Shove that up your ass, Jeff Brantley and all you other Minnesota Twins kiss asses. Now, let’s keep the line moving for the next, oh, 5 months or so.

• I heard this sentiment on the radio this morning, and I could not agree more: What kind of a “man” has his fiancée disappear on him two days before a 600 guest wedding only to admit to fabricating a story about being kidnapped because she had cold feet…and then takes her back??? Probably the kind of man that watches Oprah. Uh, strike that…

• Last night I had a dream that I went to see a concert at a bar, and when the performer got on stage to sing, he instead pulled out a spoon, lighter, syringe and some heroin and prepared a dose for himself…only to shoot it directly into my foot. I noticed that the expiration date on the needle had passed, so I confronted the bar owner and told him the next time he heard from me, I’d have my attorney with me, and then I stormed out of the bar. On an unrelated topic, I really need to stop eating Indian food so close to bedtime.

• My nine loyal readers out there know how much a terrible commercial drives me absolutely insane. The latest radio spot to catch my ire would be the SBC-Yahoo DSL commercial featuring two losers talking to each other about how they can access Eric Clapton concert footage using their SBC-Yahoo DSL service. “Hey Dorky Friend, did you hear my new ringtone that I got from my SBC-Yahoo DSL service?” “No, Fellow Shithead, I didn’t even know that SBC Yahoo DSL service could produce a ringtone featuring that horrible song ‘Wonderful Tonight’ by Eric Clapton.” “That’s right, I enrolled in my SBC Yahoo DSL service…” and on, and on, and on. Who the fuck talks like this? “Get away from my McDonald’s Chicken Selects!” “Check out the Tivec home wrap on my home, that’s T-I-V-E-C…” I know it’s radio and all, but give me a break – if you want to pound your brand name into my head, don’t try and make me believe that normal people work it into their everyday conversations. I’m not a fucking ape, and will not adopt the same approach.

• Kudos to Burger King, for wisely following up the success of the Enormous Omelet Sandwich with the equally lethal Double Whopper with Cheese! Over 1,000 calories? Check. Almost 70 grams of fat? Check? Deliciousness? It’s in there, baby. Get fat – it’s the American way!

• If anyone wants to take a peek into the disturbing psyche of an insanely rich, manically depressed human being, go to www.billycorgan.com where former Smashing Pumpkins front man Bill Corgan whines incessantly about living in his father’s vermin-ridden shithole of a house, where he regales you with tales of how he has not bathed in 6 weeks in an effort to mock vanity and other lighthearted fare. As the website (as well as my desire not to utterly depress you) asks me not to reproduce the information contained within without written permission, I implore you to go examine this text book case of a problem that could easily go away with 10 rounds of electro-shock therapy and a full frontal lobotomy (thanks to Jeremy for contributing).

Until next time…

Reaping the Rewards

2005-04-22T22:31:00.000-05:00

Due to pricing, scheduling, or some other bizarre circumstance, I’ve found myself occasionally having to fly Delta Airlines a few times over the last few years. Overall, it was a normal experience – for example, the time I wished gonorrhea on the guy in Orlando airport because he was trying to engage the other passengers about how wacky the security set up was (how dare he question convention!), each one of whom stared at him like they wished he would shut his fucking yap (wait, that was just me thinking that). Aside from the wonderful experiences I had utilizing their air travel service, I was also rewarded with a chunk of Delta’s Sky Miles®. Given that I fly Delta about as often as I use tobacco (i.e. extremely rare), I thought little of this at the time. For years I never heard from Delta, save for the occasional credit card solicitation. Lo and behold, many moons later, I received a certificate stating that I had a chunk of SkyMiles® sitting in my account, just itching to be used, along with an order form with a selection of about 75 magazines. “Joy!”, I responded, knowing that soon, I would be the proud recipient of the fruits of my labor with Delta – three new periodicals whose content I ingest will likely not exceed 5% of available content per collective volume and issue (as well as my name on mailing lists of the most whimsical variety!).

Now, I am a simple man – I receive Sports Illustrated, Internal Auditor (Warning: Geek), as well as The Onion and the occasional issue of Us Weekly (I don’t read it, I only buy it for the pictures of people pushing shopping carts and carrying their cell phones, clutches, PDA’s and latte in one hand and a dog leash or a stroller in the other – fascinating creatures!), and that’s about all I can handle (see: currently reading February issue of aforementioned Geek Mag). So I deferred to Michelle and said, “Michelle, my only true love, upon the day I met you, I swore to the heavens that if they sent me my angel, I would give her the very foundation to which I am anchored, as well as the world that was beautiful as she would have ever hoped it might be. That being said, I present you with this choice of magazines, and the choice, my dear…is yours!” After declaring me as protector, provider and lover of all that is glorious in the world and universe that surrounds the love of humanity, she selected a few magazines (dropping 7,500 SkyMiles in the process), dropped the fucker in the mail, and thus initiated the Waiting Game.

Imagine my pleasant surprise a few weeks later when I received a copy of Teen Vogue in the day’s mail – it’s the magazine that teaches girls how to read grown-up Vogue when they grow up. This month’s issue features on the cover my…drumroll…cymbal!! Official Hilary Duff Replacement Until She’s 18 Then All Bets Are Off: Elisha Cuthbert (note: Hilary Duff 18th Birthday Extravaganza – Coming September 2005!). Oh, and she’s pictured with some guy named Chad that she stars with in House of Wax, and the two stars are there to tell Teen Vogue about true love. Well, given the demographic in our household, Michelle and I immediately realized the benefit (or lack thereof) we were going to get from this fine publication. At any rate, it serves as a window into the mind of the 12-14 year-old girl…and it’s fascinating. Among the approximately 207 articles about fashion, there exists a features section, containing a rather alarming piece, about how “the Internet has made almost everything easier, faster, and more intense – including bullying.”

Oooh, catfight! The article begins by regaling us with the tale of an 8th Grader from New York City thought it would be a good idea to make “a provocative, sexy video of herself” and e-mail it to some dude she had a crush on. Shocking as it may be for you to believe, her video was forwarded on and on and on, so much so that I might surmise that one of my nine loyal readers has it in their possession! Who is this wretched boy who would disparage this young girl by showcasing her wares to millions of Internet users across America? The answer is: why did you make the video in the first place, my dear? Where are your parents???? It then goes on to tell us that more than half of 9 to 13 year-olds “have either been cyberbullied or been cyberbullied, or had a close friend that was.” Wow, what are the odds? Given that a vast majority of children aged 9 to 13 are prone to such behavior just because they are ignorant, I imagine the number is truly higher, but that the writers of Teen Vogue relied on the fact that since American students are among the worst in Mathematics they might not understand a fraction or percentage other than 1-in-2. Next comes the macabre yarn about Marissa, a girl who became a target of the cyberbullies after cyberdefending her friend in cyberspace, who told her to kill herself…which of course led her to “cut [her] wrist down to the bone!” Good God. This poor kid ends up having to be a home schooled recluse because she’s getting railed in a chat room. Again, parents? Anywhere? Then there was the e-account of the fistfight that became a kid with a gun that became that kid’s bringing a gun to school tomorrow that became no one came to school the next day. It’s good to know that fear can still run rampant when given the chance.

After this uplifting experience had me wishing I could cut my wrists to the bone, I flipped pages in search of a diversion – some lighthearted fare to take my mind off of the cyberbullies. Friends, look no further than “You’ve Got Male” (that’s a pun, or play on words), featuring pictures of stars who, “get on the fast track with sleek and chic motorcross jackets (ugh…I nearly vomited from the odor of the horrid perfume insert…bleeeech!). Yes, everyone from Model Jamie Dornan to Usher to Jesse McCartney wears motorcross jackets. Keep up the good work, I guess.

Feeling a bit flushed, both from the wretched smells emitting from the magazine as well as the dizzying array of teen fashion model pictorials, I went in search of guidance, preferably that of the astrological sense (astro: of the stars; logical: logical). Here’s what the stars have in store for me in love, life, and fashion:

“Got your flight to Vegas booked? Luck is your copilot this month, and your winning streak is unbeatable. Big risks will pay off on all fronts, including your love life. Plan the party of the season and invite that new flame you’re dreaming about fanning. It’s a non stop brouhaha until the 29th, when you can finally take a well-deserved breather.”

So basically, I should go to Las Vegas with a check from my second mortgage closing and hit the blackjack tables, Asian female dealers be damned, and offer a cocktail waitress $10,000 to spend the week with me, leading to a cocaine and Ritalin-fueled bender that will come crashing to a halt next Friday, when I’m bludgeoned to death by an bouncer at a seedy bordello. Thanks, Teen Vogue Astrology Department!

What did I learn from this whole experience? Well, I learned that Elisha Cuthbert likes to eat out and go to the clubs, but gracefully (she tries to stay as low-key as possible). I learned that you can buy a piece of wicker and two straps of pink leather with the name Kate Spade stamped on it for about $245. I learned that Hollywood is simply full of so-called “hot moms”. I learned that you can get a sunless tan that is as individual as you are. And above all, I learned that I probably have no business reading a magazine with the word “teen” in the title. Now, where’s that issue of Seventeen?

Until Next Time…