Scott's Blog

THE CALM DURING THE STORM IS DEAD

2012-01-14T15:43:00.000-05:00

I started writing on this blog in December of 2006. I was really, really bad at writing back then. I just went back to try and read some of my first posts and was kind of repulsed. Hopefully I'm a little better now, and if I am, writing here has been a large contributor to that.

I've had a lot of fun writing this blog, and sharing it with my friends and family. It's time to put it to sleep, though. This will be my last post here. The reason for this is not because I'm stopping blogging — I don't think I'll ever stop blogging, actually, even if I fail as a journalist and writer and end up living out my years as a murse or postal worker. I'm just moving to a different website, where I can provide a more comprehensive area for my blogging and other online writing. I hope you'll continue to read me there, at http://scottmuska.wordpress.com/. One cool thing about the wordpress format is you can subscribe to my blogs via email, if any of you would like to do that.

Thanks again for reading. Keep fighting the good fight.

XOXO,

Scott

Gearing up for 2012

2011-12-29T17:50:00.003-05:00

Wintertime in a resort town is a desolate time, and desolate times call for introspective measures. Tonight, I’ve been sitting around thinking about the year that’s coming up. I’ve realized a frightening amount of what will happen will most likely be completely out of my control (like if the world ends). Other stuff will be at least partially out of my control (like if I’m groping a woman and screaming “World Motherfucking Champions” from atop a tall building at the precise moment the world ends, if/when it does). Some of the stuff, however, will be completely in my control (like how many times I high five or daps random strangers or sign businesslike emails with “XOXO” before the world ends). I want to take control of the things I can; I think that will help me better cope with the other things that might dissatisfy me or throw me for a loop. So, I made a list of some things I'd like to do/accomplish, in an effort to take the power back, or to at least better myself.

Here are some of them:

—Stop worrying so much about the future. I’ve been a worrier my entire life. I worry about things that are plausible, and things that are so unlikely they’re just ridiculous to worry about. For instance: I spend a lot of time worrying about how I will react to or withstand a hostile alien invasion, but I spend almost no time worrying about falling in the shower and injuring myself when I live alone. I try not to worry, because it’s often a waste of time, but every time I tell myself this, I find myself getting all worried again about the same thing or something else about 15 minutes later. If I spent half the amount of time writing that I spend worrying about not writing adequate things often enough, I probably would have something pretty shitty that equals out to the approximate length of War and Peace. If I substituted writing time for the amount of time I spend looking at porn and combined that with writing during the time I spend worrying, I would be a literary force worth noticing. Or maybe Stephenie Meyer’s heir apparent. It could go either way, but the point I'm trying to make is I won't know until I stop worrying so much and address my burgeoning pornography addiction.

—Make out with a woman in a movie theater. People my age don't seem to do that anymore, because we have homes where parents don't live. But I want to do it. It'll make me feel young in a romantic sense, which is something I've been wanting to feel for the last week, ever since I got the feeling like I was out of place because I didn't get engaged this month. Thanks a lot, Facebook.

—Be more of a man. I’ve never put much of a prize on extreme masculinity, because I feel like in this day and age it’s becoming less and less rampant and maybe even less necessary in most cases. I don’t need to hunt, because I can shop. I don’t need to start a fire, because my apartment has an HVAC system and a television I can use to put on that fake fire channel. I don’t need to camp because, like I said, I have an apartment and pretty much anywhere I go will have hotels or friends with an open couch. The extent of my manliness is I read "The Art of Manliness" newsletter, wear flannel and have chest hair. Still, though, just because I don’t need to do these things doesn’t mean learning how and embracing them on occasion wouldn’t enhance my life in some ways. I don’t need the iPod I’m listening to right now, but I think ingesting music adds to my quality of life and overall well-being. The same could, and probably does, apply to chopping firewood or making your own jerky.

—Quit getting drunk and watching YouTube videos until the wee hours of the morning. I’m not going to quit getting drunk, but the video thing. I always come home and do this shit, when I could be getting some sleep or doing something more productive than watching The National perform “Terrible Love” live for the 958,000th time. It's not like I need to rediscover that Matt Berninger drinks a lot of white wine, and watching these things repetitively is not going to make me any more or less emo than I already am. Staying up until the sun rises when you’re drinking can be cool in the right circumstances, but when you’re sitting staring aimlessly at a computer is not one of them.

—Do more random things I think will be fun, and I want to do them for no real reason. I want to yell “Clear Eyes, Full Hearts,” at a bar or gathering of people and then overzealously connect with anyone and everyone who yells “Can’t Lose!” back. I want to hang up the phone without saying goodbye to people, and then tell them that’s how they do it in the movies whenever they call back all pissed off. At 4:58 p.m. on Fridays, I want to queue up “Born to Run” on my work computer and sprint out of the office as it plays.

—Meet and spend some time with some of the people I sort of know, but don’t know In Real Life. Since I’m so far away from the vast majority of my friends and family, I spend more time alone. I also spend more time entrenched in the technological world than I otherwise would. These two things are certainly related. I've also been lucky enough to meet some people who have wanted to talk to me about things I've written online, and then we gChat and Tweet at each other and become pals on Facebook, so that I'll know when it is their birthday and can creepily browse through their photographs and interests. I value these people, and want to make more of a proactive effort to be around them. I need to get away from the computer and go out and actually do things, like high five a girl and then go to a Zumba class with her. (I told a girl I know, but not IRL, that if we ever met by chance at a gym that I would do those things.)

—Walk up to a random girl in a bar who I have never met and I will talk to her...USING ONLY PROPER NOUNS AND LYRICS FROM NELLY SONGS.

—Run 13.1 miles, because I've forgotten what it's like to physically exhaust myself while doing something I really don't even like in the first place. Apparently, doing only what you want when you want outside of the workplace is not the healthiest way to live, especially if your favorite things to do include eating as much as you possibly can.

—Light a cigarette for Sloane Crosley.

—More than anything else, I'd like to stop dwelling so much on the past. There are things in my past I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about. These are usually things I wish I could get back in one sense or another, but they are things I cannot reacquire. In some cases, they're things I look nostalgically back on that, if I was being truly honest with myself, I wouldn't want to reacquire anyway.

—Start writing a book.

A Facebook status sparked a defense of dudes

2011-08-30T21:48:00.000-05:00

There's a rumor going around that says boys are stronger then girls [sic]! Oh Please! Can you carry a 7lb baby in your stomach for 9mths [sic]? Can you cook, clean and talk on the phone @ the same time? Can you burn your forehead with a curling iron and not complain? Can you walk all day in 5" heels? Can you cry all night then wake up the next morning like everything is okay? Remember guys, women are only helpless until their nail polish dries :) Put this on your wall if you are PROUD of being a WOMAN!!!

I first saw the above passage a few nights ago on Facebook. A girl who is my virtual friend who I’m pretty sure I don’t even know in real life posted it as her status. Since then, I’ve seen it a couple more times, posted by other girls who I don’t think I really know (instead of writing this I should be cleaning up my friends queue, I guess). On any given day, I see probably at least 20 absurd statuses that make me shake my head with perplexion, but that’s usually the only action I take. I realize I often put up statuses that probably spur a similar reaction from many others, so I try not to be too judgmental.

But I couldn’t let this one go by. Before I go any further, I have to say that I love women, and I do respect them. Many of my closest friends are girls, and I am all about gender equality. I make lots of chauvinistic jokes, usually about how women shouldn’t leave the kitchen, but those are simply in jest. I don’t really mean that. Women need to leave the kitchen for myriad reasons, like to run the sweeper throughout the entire house or to drive cars so automobile insurance has a reason to exist. (Those were also jokes.) I also often comment that I hate women, but I only say this out of spite for a few who have slighted me. I know it’s not fair to generalize, and the fact that I do makes me a douchebag.

When I watch episodes of Mad Men, I’m always astounded at how women were treated mere decades ago, and I’m glad things aren’t the way they were back then. There’s no doubt in my mind that I would be a completely different person that I am right now if my Mom had been like any of those women, and I’m certain my personality would be different in a negative way. The only thing I wish had kept its force from the era in which that show takes place is the commonplace acceptance of drinking hard liquor all day long while at work.

Just because I dig females doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and let them trample all over me and say they’re better than me for reasons that are, for the most part, purely subjective. So, I’ve prepared a rebuttal to this Facebook status, which is split up into segments and can be viewed right here:

There’s a rumor going around that says boys are strong THAN girls!
--If we’re speaking of physical strength here, then you should know it’s been pretty much proven that men are stronger than women. This is just a genetic thing. Sure, there are exceptions, like Chyna, Marion Jones and this chick who used to work out at the gym I went to in college. And all of these cases are pretty much moot, since I’m almost certain all three have used performance enhancing substances.

Oh Please! Can you carry a 7lb baby in your stomach for 9 MONTHS?
--No, no I can’t, because it is physically impossible. If you’re wondering if I can carry around an extra seven pounds in my abdominal region for nine months, then the answer is yes. In fact, I’ve been doing just that for longer than nine months, like since my sophomore year of college. And I don’t even have back problems yet. Some women constantly use the pain experienced during giving birth as a reason they should be a borderline martyr. I am aware it’s not a walk in the park at all, but there are upsides. You get to eat as much of anything you want that isn’t sushi or alcohol-infused, for one thing.

I have it on good authority that the birthing part hurts like hell, but there’s no way to tell if it’s the most painful thing in the world. Guys don’t know, because not one of us has ever actually done it. I do know, however, that my Mom scared the piss out of me a week before I got my tonsils out at age 21 by saying two of the women she works with (they’re nurses, too) had gone through that experience at the same age, and had also later experienced childbirth. Both told her that the tonsil removal was a more painful experience. I acknowledge that these opinions may be skewed, because it’s not out of the question that a woman might remember less of the pain from having a kid after she ends up with a beautiful baby, whereas getting your tonsils out just leaves you on the couch for two weeks in a constant state of trepidation because you think the stitches might burst and you could die choking on your own blood.

Can you cook, clean and talk on the phone @ the same time?
--It’s called multitasking. Any child of this generation can probably do this simply because, thanks to an overexposure to technology, we’ve learned to do a bunch of different things all at once. Right now, I’m writing this, drinking wine, periodically text messaging and watching a baseball game on television. I can cook, clean and talk on the phone, so I think if I really wanted to I could do all three at the same time. I’ve cooked and talked on the phone plenty of times, but I’ve never added cleaning into the equation. There are two reasons for this: A) It doesn’t make a lot of sense to clean while cooking. It’s a fool’s errand, because once you’re done cooking you’re going to have to clean all of the utensils you used anyway. You may as well do it all at once, maybe even after you eat so you’re better sustained for the cleansing. And B) It’s blatantly irresponsible to leave things cooking in the kitchen to go clean other parts of the house. You know who taught me that? Women like my Mom and my eighth grade Home Economics teacher. This is only acceptable if we’re talking about crock pot use, which is kind of not the same concept as actively cooking. It’s like Han Solo putting the Millenium Falcon on autopilot and going to the back of the ship to bang Princess Leia, then telling all of his friends later at the Mos Eisley Cantina that he made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs while he was making love to a woman of royal cloth.

Also, is it really necessary to write an @ instead of "at"? It's just one more letter, and if you're dedicated enough to cook, clean and talk on the phone at the same time, you can at least take the time to tap one more key.

Can you burn your forehead with a curling iron and not complain?
--If I ever found myself in a scenario where I was using a curling iron (you never know, my hair’s getting kind of long), I’d make sure I knew how to use it properly first, and would take extra care not to burn my forehead or anywhere else with it. Especially not my neck, because then everyone would be slapping me on the back when they saw what they thought was a hickey that I really got one night when I was playing dress-up alone in my apartment. I know lots of girls who have made that mistake, but they don’t often complain about it; they usually don’t say anything about it until you ask them about the mysterious mark on their body, because they are embarrassed they burnt themselves with a tool that’s supposed to make them more aesthetically pleasing. When Tara Reid had botched liposuction surgery, she wasn’t running around lifting up her shirt and being like, “Son of a bitch, they really fucked up that cosmetic surgery,” because things like that are just something you generally don’t want to draw attention to.

Can you walk all day in 5" heels?
--I’ve never tried this, but challenge accepted. I’ll let you know the next time I play dress-up. I stand taller than six feet, and since I assume the reason for wearing heels is to make yourself seem taller, I really wouldn’t ever have a reason to rock them unless I was going on a date with Brooke Shields. If you’re a woman and you’re reading this, you should know it’s not really a deal breaker if you don’t wear high heels. I mean, if we get to know each other well enough, I’m eventually going to be around you when you don’t have them on, and will know your true height. If you think you’re with a guy who is going to break things off with you because you’re three inches shorter than when you’re wearing some shoes that seem pretty uncomfortable, then maybe you should burn him with a curling iron while he sleeps.

But to answer the question: Yes, I think I could.

Can you cry all night then wake up the next morning like everything is okay?
--Yes. I’ve done it. Contrary to popular belief, crying is not something only females do. Neither is rallying to a point where you can completely hide that something is very wrong in your life. It’s called having a gameface, and gamefaces are unisex just like that pair of canary yellow Ray Ban wayfarers I bought earlier this summer.

Remember guys, women are only helpless until their nail polish dries :)
--If this is truly the only time women are helpless, whoever originated this diatribe has done a great disservice to the female population. You just put out in public the best time for a serial killer to break into your house and murder you.

Put this on your wall if you are PROUD of being a WOMAN!!!
--You can probably display your pride in other ways. I suppose I’m happy I’m a man, but not particularly proud of it, just like I’m not particularly proud I have Irish ancestry. None of us have even the slightest control over those type of things, so how can you be proud of something you had no hand in accomplishing?

Me, Myself and Irene

2011-08-26T22:04:00.000-05:00

A lot of wild things have happened this week. My work desk shook for 15 seconds Tuesday afternoon from an East Coast earthquake. My Mom got a BlackBerry. Jada Pinkett Smith apparently had sex with Marc Anthony.

And now, on top of all of that action, Ocean City has had a mandatory evacuation for the first time since 1985, in preparation for Hurricane Irene.

I’m still here, though, in my apartment about 100 yards away from the shoreline. I’m staying to cover the impending natural disaster for the local papers, because covering Ocean City for the local media group is my job. The opportunity to ride out a hurricane on this peninsula was a pretty difficult one to turn down. Just a few weeks ago, my uncle and I were talking about how we’d always wanted to weather a hurricane-level storm. I said that shit was on my bucket list, but you know what? So is making out with a cute Asian girl and high-fiving Ryan Gosling. Can you guess which of those three is the one I am the least adamant about actually experiencing? (It’s the hurricane one.) Serves me right for being that annoying ass dude who always puts up Facebook statuses telling everyone he loves thunderstorms, and for naming my blog “The Calm During the Storm.” We will see how calm I am tomorrow when I’m experiencing floods and wind speeds higher than 100 mph. I’m probably going to piss my pants more than once.

Everyone was supposed to be out of town by 5 p.m., and most were. I woke up from a nap a couple hours after that, and ventured outside to see the sunset and to feel out the vibe of a town that is almost completely deserted. It was the first time since I moved here almost six months ago that I’ve heard crickets. I really wasn’t aware they even inhabited Ocean City, I suppose because they’re typically drowned out by the noise generated by the 250,000 or so people in town during the summer months. Tonight, though, people had gotten the hell out of Dodge, an expression I've heard at least 85 times since Thursday morning. (I had no idea what it meant until I Googled it.) It's kind of a shame, because it was one of the most beautiful evenings of the summer so far.

If you ever want to know what it feels like to be alone, go stand in the middle of a six-lane highway in an evacuated town. I took a few pictures with my phone, then I turned around and walked out to the beach, which looked completely normal except for some waves of the rougher-than-average variety. I took some more pictures, and didn’t know what to do, so I did what I would do on a normal evening: I drank some scotch and I made dinner. A 20 ounce steak my neighbor had given me before she evacuated. She was cleaning out her freezer and hooked me up. Honestly, I don’t really eat red meat that often anymore -- I've got the cholesterol of a 60-year-old fat guy -- but I felt like I needed to amp up my impression of myself as a manly man. Also, my normal dietary principles are out the window until the storm is over and I have electricity back. Last night I bought Vienna Sausages and Cheese Whiz, and I didn't buy those products to look at them.

Now, I wait. That’s the worst part, for sure. This is one of those things you just want to come as quickly as possible, so you can get it over with. I can now empathize with those vapid women who get engaged to Hugh Hefner and have to have sex with him. I’m scared, that’s for sure. I’m not going to deny that, but I think I’m more anxious than anything.

I wonder what it’ll be like when it’s over, what it might look like if I walk outside on Sunday morning when the worst of the storm has passed. It could be the wildest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m also interested in what I’ll hear, though. To my knowledge, crickets can’t really withstand a hurricane. They might get blown away, and then what? What do you say when you walk outside and it’s so quiet you don’t even hear crickets?

If you run, they will yell

2011-06-15T20:33:00.001-05:00

If you’re ever having one of those days where you’re feeling like you’re extremely sexually irresistible to women and are also very smart, go for a jaunt in some running shorts in an area densely populated by a younger crowd. You will be called a “faggot” and “Forrest Gump” an average of like 35 times each.

These two seem to be the go-to “jokes” for anyone trying to poke fun at a guy who is wearing short shorts in an effort to avoid chafing while he exercises. Sometimes, you don’t even have to have the shorts on. People will just yell, “Run Forrest, Run!” and then cackle like one of those hyenas from “Lion King” with those other kids they’ve become friends with during their five-year tenure together at George Lopez’s School for Kids Who Can’t Joke Good (and Can’t Do Other Things Good, Either).

I don’t hate people who are both unfunny and unoriginal. I just hate the ones who aren’t quiet about it. I feel the same way about girls who like professional sports. “Forrest Gump” came out in 1994, when we were in kindergarten. Isn’t it time for someone to come up with a new joke to make about a person who’s out running?

And faggot? Really? You can use the “South Park” defense in reference to that word if you want, or you say whatever else about what the word means at present, but I’m pretty sure no one would say it means, “Hey, you, I resent you for trying to maintain cardiovascular health while also doing something that will make you svelte and in turn make more girls want to examine your penis while I sit here on this bench doing nothing!”

You know who else sat on a bench? Forrest Gump, that’s who, and for a longer and more significant portion of that movie than he spent running across the country. Insult debunked.

Another thing that bothers me about this is people never yell these things at you if they’re alone. My brother Kevin (who is an avid runner with a much worse temper than myself) and I were talking about this the other day. We came to the conclusion that people only say things in groups because they’re frightened they might get their teeth knocked in by someone wearing grape smugglers. (I can say with confidence I probably would not do this, but Kev definitely would. He told me a story about two chicks who yelled at him when he was running in State College recently, and he took exception to it. He’s been taking this shit for like four years now, so he’s kind of fed up, and so he ran over to them and called them the c-word that rhymes with the second-best ketchup brand on the market.)

We also decided it was kind of like making fun of a learning disabled kid, because people generally only do that when they’re in a group of people. Probably because their friends laugh or something, which I guess means they’re probably learning disabled too, because that shit’s really not funny at all.

We said it was “kind of” like making fun of a learning disabled kid because it is never OK under any circumstances to make fun of someone with an undeserved disability, whereas it is certainly OK to make fun of runners. All I want is for someone to come up with something new and clever to yell at me while they fly by in a Honda Civic with a spoiler. (I’d call these people “Paul Walker,” but know when a joke is played out.)

There was a glimmer of hope for me today when I was nearing the end of my run. A car zoomed past me and a guy screamed, “Fuck your shorts!” at the top of his lungs. “Well,” I thought to myself, “that wasn’t really funny or anything, but at least he’s trying out fresh material. You’re not going to always get it right on the first day.”

About 20 yards down the road, he leaned half his body out of the car, turned around and screamed, “FAGGGGGOOOTTTTTTTT!”

So, back to the drawing board, I guess.

Good thing he couldn’t hear the Lilith Fair playlist I had blasting through my headphones.

LeBron gives two

2011-06-10T00:02:00.000-05:00

LeBron James gives two fucks. Separate ones, actually. He gives a fuck about winning, but it’s becoming more and more apparent (judging by his finals performance) that he also gives a fuck about the thing he led us all to believe he didn’t give a fuck about last summer.

I remember when he first made “The Decision.” I remember the ensuing days, when he seemed to genuinely not care about the uproar his choice had caused, which got more media coverage than lots of other, more worthy stuff (that I guess I’m feeding into by writing about him yet again — I hate myself). I remember a point during the season, when the Miami Heat were in a slump and he started Tweeting stuff about how his team was something similar to the armed forces. (If he’s really into comparing the two, then I’ll go with it: Some dudes from the armed forces recently stepped up and performed in what had to have been one of the most pressure-filled and important portions of their careers by offing Osama Bin Laden. James didn’t even reach double figures in an NBA Finals game.)

During all of that, I was under the impression that James’s arrogance prevented him from either realizing that everyone hated him, or from really caring.

I guess I believed that James sincerely wanted to win, more than anything. He still keeps saying so, especially when he plays a shitty game, and I think maybe he likes to think he believes that, too. There’s something stopping him from taking the measures he needs to in order to do the winning part, though.

It’s not like the dude isn’t good. He had a triple-double last night, something almost everyone in the United States has never done in their lives on any competitive level. But lots of pro players, like Jason Kidd, achieve that kind of stat line on the regular (or at least used to). The thing is, when it really mattered, James was getting outplayed by J.J. Barea, a dude who comes off the bench for the Dallas Mavericks and isn’t even a full head taller than Danny DeVito. James has shrunk away during pivotal competitive moments numerous times before last night, something Bill Simmons calls the “LeBrondown.”

He just doesn’t seem to have “IT.” At least not right now. You know what I mean. He doesn’t have that intangible thing that puts him at the top, like when you have a conversation with someone after a fizzled relationship and say he or she just didn’t have “IT.” I mean, talking in a hoops sense, obviously. I guess you can call it a killer instinct, but that only works for the basketball part of that analogy.

Michael Jordan had “IT.” Larry Bird had “IT,” and DIrk Nowitzki also seems to have “IT,” and I hope we’ll get to see him take “IT” all the way to a championship (that’s the altar in the aforementioned analogy).

I’m not saying James doesn’t have what I’m talking about, it’s just that he’s not displaying it right now. I think it’s because he’s distracted. Maybe getting to the highest possible stage the NBA allows has made him realize just how many people hate the shit out of him, and how many people want to see him fail.

Think about it: Nobody likes him except for genuine Heat fans, people who bet on the Heat and those fucking idiots who always post Facebook statuses about how awesome LeBron James is because they just decided to pick some guy who is supposed to be the most-skilled player and have decided to stick with his inadequacy with even more Facebook statuses just because they can’t admit they’re wrong. It’s like if someone decided Michael Phelps was his or her favorite swimmer because he’s supposed to be the best, but then stood beside him after they realized he was a really good swimmer during qualifiers and then blew fucking goats during the Olympics.

At least the only player I post statuses about is Brian Cardinal.

I guess I can’t really empathize with James, because although I’m a douche bag, I am not internationally known for being one. Also, I’ve never been touted as one of the greatest ballplayers to ever live. But I think his problem might be like anybody else’s when they realize their actions have made most reasonable people detest them (if hating an athlete for something sports-related can legitimately be called reasonable). It has to become difficult to go about your daily activities adequately once you really face the way people think about you, you know?

You might be able to function for a while, like the regular season if you’re James, or during middle school if you’re a playground bully. But once you get to a point where it matters more — like when you’re alone at your parents’ house eating Cheetos, beating off and watching George Lopez reruns on a Friday night, or you’re on the verge of capturing a championship the majority of the population will be disgusted to see you win — you tend to look at yourself objectively a little bit. This makes you realize your actions and the fallout from them have had implications that are probably going to affect the way people look at you for a pretty long time, if not forever.

James is like Rachel Berry, from “Glee.” He is probably one of the best in his realm at what he does, and he’ll have you believe that all he wants to do is win. He wants you to believe this is paramount to him, and he tries to convince himself of the same. But his arrogant and unattractive personality has landed him in a place where people really dislike him, to the point they don’t really want to see him succeed. And I think it’s starting to get to him. He’s shrinking from the limelight when it matters the most, and he has taken a step back to let Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh (who should’ve stayed with the Raptors, because he looks more like a dinosaur than Shawn Kemp’s coke-addled ass made him resemble a Supersonic), like how Rachel gave up solos for Mercedes, even though she knew deep down she was the most talented member of the glee club.

If James doesn’t do something very impressive to help the Heat win the next two games, I think the team’s failure will be something that weighs on him hardcore, and maybe for the rest of his career. Depending on if he decides to do some actual work in the offseason that will allow him to come back as some dude with a legitimate chip on his shoulder who wants to annihilate teams and will stop at nothing until he does so and wins. I’m not sure if he has that in him, just like I’m not sure Rachel Berry has it in her to bounce back from that devastating Nationals loss from the season two finale.

Michael Jordan gave a fuck, and that fuck was winning championships, whatever it cost him. It may be unfair to compare James and Jordan, because Jordan was an unmatched competitive robot, but I think the two faced similar circumstances in that they both were subject to some very high expectations. (Kobe Bryant fits into this mold, as well, but more on the Jordan side of the spectrum.)

If James really cares so much about winning, he has to shake off the thought that so many people despise him. That’s what a lot of successful and awful people have done in the past. People aren’t going to start liking him again just because his team lost the series. People probably aren’t going to start liking him ever again, and he needs to accept that. He cannot give two fucks.

LeBron James made his bed, and he has to sleep in it. I guess he has to decide if he wants to sleep in that bed alone, or with a trophy.

Noodz

2011-06-08T12:10:00.004-05:00

If you reach a point in your life where you're coaching a porn star in anything more than how to win back their father's respect and admiration, it's probably safe to say you made a wrong turn somewhere along the way. It's even worse if you're coaching them to lie about something, because I'd bet a few bucks most porn stars have lied at least once or twice about their profession, by calling themselves actresses or performers or something. If you're coaching a porn star to lie in an effort to prevent yourself from getting into some serious type of deep shit, well then you're probably already at least wading in it.

Anthony Weiner allegedly found himself in that last position recently, when people started finding out he was apparently writing sexually-charged emails to former porn star Ginger Lee that may or may not have included pictures of his dick, like the ones he seems to enjoy taking with his cell phone and sending to women who are not his wife. Weiner gave Lee some pointers on how to address questions about the scandal, and also offered the assistance of his public relations team. Because his team's plate wasn't full enough after their boss accidentally posted a picture of an outline of his junk to Twitter.

Weiner is apparently just like Brett Favre and myriad other famous dudes who don't seem to realize that most people -- especially famous and/or wealthy ones -- really need to use a dick picture to get laid. Especially not when they're sending them to a former porn star or Playmate, respectively. (Those women have probably seen dicks before. Lots of them, like enough to form a pipe organ made out of cocks with their mind's eye.) How anyone can honestly think a straight-up picture of their dong is really going to get them very far with a woman is completely beyond me. To the point I'm not going to even try it, and I'll try almost anything to get laid.

But, if you want to snap pictures of your dick, that's fine. More power to you. It's not like I'm going to tell you to stop, or for girls to not send them my way if they ever have the urge. Especially if you're sending to receive (which, in Weiner's case with the porn star, is kind of unnecessary, since I've seen Ginger Lee in the buff more times than I can count on both hands, which I may or may not have used in the process of said visual encounters). You should know, though, there's a really strong chance it's going to go terribly wrong at some point. Especially if you're a public figure. Something fun and provocative becomes immediate ammunition for the person on the receiving end as soon as you fuck them over. The likeness of your dick can go viral in seconds, and let me tell you something you probably already know deep down: Dicks aren't the coolest looking things in the world, and everyone can find something wrong with yours if they look hard enough. And they will. A couple of weeks ago, I was for some reason having a discussion about the appearance of penises with a few female friends. Apparently, women look for things beyond size, like an even coloration and shit like that, just like dudes scrutinize nipples, even though they're all inherently similar with the obvious exception of size and also coloration. A noticeable exclusion to this is Greg Oden, of course. If I was carrying that thing (link is obviously not suitable for work or the male self esteem) around I'd be taking pictures with it every time I was done walking around for the night and could untape it from my thigh. Conceivably, the only negative comment you can make about that thing is it's too large, which will at least get you the consolation prize of daps from your friends and a backup career having sex on camera after you suffer that final work-related injury and all the managers in your industry decide you're not worth hiring.

In fact, shame on anyone who has ever sent a dick picture after having seen Oden's. That's like sending people your high school basketball highlight clips and telling them you are the most clutch shooter to ever live after watching videos of Steve Kerr and Reggie Miller straight killing it. If Oden's monster was a jersey, it'd be retired.

But anyway. How do I know taking dick pictures is a bad news idea? I'm glad I can say I didn't come to this conclusion from experience, because I'm not that stupid. I know this because I'm a guy, and I know a lot of other guys. Pretty much all of us have at some time in our amateur dating careers garnered some scantily-clad or naked photographs of significant others. Most of them I know have kept them to themselves, at least until they've had their hearts shattered and have come to hate the person. Then, they're basically at the tipping point where one more wrong move, like taking the dog you shared or banging one of the football players at your college, and those pictures are going out to at least 42 percent of every single person he knows who is male and has an email address or a cell phone.

Thing is, too, that these photographs never get deleted. We keep them. They are insurance and a warped form of nostalgia we keep on our phones and computers and back up on our external hard drives. So that way, if the laptop crashes, at least you'll be able to retain the pictures of boobs and files of music you've accrued through the years, both of which you've come by under shady circumstances.

A few weeks ago, I was messing with my friend and told him I was going to have sex with his ex-girlfriend. Ten minutes later, I checked my email and found about a dozen lewd pictures of her. The subject line simply read "incentive." If I wanted to, I could send those to anybody I wanted.

Doesn't that freak you out a little bit? It probably should, right? Even if you do have a really nice body, you probably don't want it sent to a bunch of leering male 20-somethings. I haven't sent these photos to anybody, because I don't really have a desire to or anything to gain from doing so. Also, I barely know this girl. If we'd been dating and she cheated on me or rebounded with someone like Sean Penn, it would probably be a different story. (Ball is in your court, Ryan Reynolds.) If she was a celebrity, however, like Blake Lively or Vanessa Hudgens, both of whom like to get naked and take pictures of themselves like they're in the raunchy sorority on the celebrity campus, it'd be different. If, say, Penn Badgley sent me some Lively stills she took with the assistance of a fucking mirror, I'd sell those to someone immediately. I mean, why not, if you can profit financially from it? I'd justify doing something like that because anyone who is a well-known public figure who sends naked pictures via cell phone should have it in their mind as a forgone conclusion that it will end up somewhere millions of people are going to see it. It's absurd these people spend a huge chunk of their lives dodging paparazzi, but will take a solo picture of their jugs and send it to someone else.

(This should be addressed: In Lively and Hudgens cases, along with others, it's been hinted at that the release of nude photographs are a sort of guerrilla marketing campaign to promote their upcoming movie. I don't think this really works, because now that I've seen Lively naked, I might actually have a lessened desire to go see "The Green Lantern." As far as I know, she doesn't even get naked in it, so it's kind of like giving the milk away and wondering why fewer people are trying to buy the cow. I'll probably still see it, though, because, you know: Reynolds's abs.)

I've heard love defined a lot of ways before. I hear people talk about unconditional love all the time, something I've never experienced before, romantically speaking. I think maybe in this day and age, when you're seemingly nothing 'til you're Facebook official, and people are so used to being connected at all times that they can't wait to see someone so they have to jerk it to cell phone pictures instead of using the spank bank, sexting may be the best way to tell if someone truly loves you.

Snap a picture of your genitals, and send that picture to your alleged love one. If he or she sets it free to the masses, then the two of you just weren't meant to be. If it stays between you for eternity (or until his or her college email account is unexpectedly deleted or Blackberry gets water damaged), then you must have something legitimate going.

But, at the same time, they might show it to everyone clandestinely, and you'll never, ever know about it. Unless you get famous and they sell them.

But ignorance is bliss and love is blind, I guess.

Notes from the Coast: Part 1

2011-06-03T00:35:00.001-05:00

When I was born in 1987, Cougars did not exist. The Baltimore Ravens didn’t, either.

Things change.

I started my evening telling myself I was going to stay in. My friend Phil convinced me not to with two text messages. The first asked if I wanted to drink a little bit, and the second said there would be Jungle Juice at his apartment. At 23, I guess by societal norms I should be opposed to the Juice. I should be going to wine bars where I talk to people about how their steady relationship is going while I eat cubes of cheese and talk about work and stuff.

But yesterday was the fifth anniversary of the day I graduated from high school, and that made me feel old. There’s a gray spot in my beard, and I can’t even grow a fucking respectable beard yet. So, in the interest of youth and pure enjoyment, I went to his place. Also, for the drinking.

We played some drinking games, which made me feel young even if it didn’t restore pigment to my stubble. It was fun, but I had to hold back. I had work in the morning, so I told Phil and his friends I had to head home. I’d taken my bike there, but was unable to pilot it home. Nobody wants a BUI (or a David Bowie, as I have just now decided to call it), so I caught a bus.

While I waited at a bus stop, a group of four women had an in-depth discussion with me about the merits of owning and using a vibrator, and also about how their respective boyfriends didn’t accept their desire to pleasure themselves with the aforementioned device, despite the fact most dudes have been rubbing out at least once daily since the day they discovered they were able to. (I told ‘em to keep making themselves happy. If I had a package of double-A’s, I would’ve given it to them.)

Eventually, two ladies who were standing on the edge of 50 (years old, not the highway) joined us at the stop. We all boarded the bus, and some dude in a Hurley tank top said something to them about being Cougars as they Rosa Parks’d it to some open seats in the rear of the vehicle. They did not enjoy being called Cougars. At all. (Kind of like how I don’t enjoy being called a faggot every time I try to go for a run in short shorts. It’s Forrest or nothing, dickheads.) There were multiple threats to slap the dude (who it should be noted was using hair gel) in his “ugly ass Dego mouth.” My people. I just sat in my seat and nodded my approval. For some reason, they dug my silence, and took it as an opportunity to ask me what a Cougar really was. They knew of Courtney Cox, her show, and the typical definition of a Cougar, which is an attractive older woman looking to sleep with younger men. I initially said it was a four-legged predator that could be either tan or midnight black, but they did not buy it. They were smaaat Cougaas, as Steve Irwin would’ve said before wrestling them into submission. Goddammit I miss him.

“Well, I guess a Cougar is just an attractive older woman who is looking to get her last kicks in before menopause,” I said. “You know, with a younger guy.” One of the girls sitting next to me took that opportunity to ask me something really trivial, God bless her soul. It did not work.

“What do you know about menopause?” Pseudo-Cougar 1 said.

“Who says we’re looking for ‘kicks’?” said Pseudo-Cougar 2, before I could say one word.

***(NOTE: If these women fell under the definition of Cougar that I hold so dear, the definition I pray every night to have sex with, then my penis is the size of Greg fucking Oden’s. In Layman’s terms: They were what TLC would call “damn unpretty,” and at one point I was actually upset they were upset that some dude had called them Cougars in the first place, but arrogance is an unrequited affliction.)

Since I was Juicing, I was pretending I had testicles of a normal size and stature. I said, “A lot, actually,” and “Nobody said that.”

“You said that,” said Pseudo-Cougar 2, and I nodded like a foreigner who didn’t comprehend what two crazy ass women were saying on a public bus.

“I could wear my husband out, and he’s 47,” Pseudo-Cougar 1 said, and I stared blankly at her. In my opinion, if you can’t wear a 47-year-old man out during sex without him finishing, then he’s either a porn star, impotent, or you do not have the physical prowess to be dubbed a Cougar in the first place.

The group of girls who had been sitting near me and laughing at these women departed. I was alone on a bus full of people, like the total opposite of Straylight Run’s “Existentialism on Prom Night” video. I stayed on the bus until a few minutes later, when we hit the stop that, as fate would have it, was the end of the road for these two women and myself.

“Oh, you two are staying around here?” I said, immediately upset that I’d not gotten off the bus and fucking ran for it without saying a fucking thing. I should’ve just sprinted toward the scent of turkey bacon.

“Yep, at Castle in the Sand,” one of them said, before they started across the street toward a bar. I was happy they were leaving, because I was heading home anyway, a few streets up, and was glad not to have to have any more stupid ass conversations with middle-aged women.(Ask my Mom. I always beg out in favor of reading books, which is why I never get my dick wet.)

“GO RAVENNNNNNNNNNSSSSSSS” one of them screamed from halfway across the street. In that moment, I thought that while neither of those women was the best looking in the state, they also weren’t as ugly as Ed Reed and his incessant pit stains (Google it). They also weren’t referring to my man Edgar Alan Poe. I shook my head and said drunkenly to myself, “Nevermore.”

It dawned on me then that I’d written a newspaper article days before about a Ravens pride parade that is slated to take place in my adopted city this Saturday. I also remembered that the Castle in the Sand Hotel was the host of this gathering of Ravens fans.

An idea formed.

I strolled over to the hotel and saw myriad Ravens fanfare paraphernalia. There were purple and black flags all over the place, and even a smattering of purple and black Christmas lights, like these people had bruised Santa and were prepared to parade maniacally about it. (I respected the sentiment, since I’m a born and bred Steelers fan and the team’s star QB1 knows a thing or two about bruising. Allegedly.)

I immediately called my friend, Josh, and told him I had an idea about an antic I thought would be cool to write about. He endorsed it, and I went after it.

I snagged a Ravens flag from some weird tailgating tour bus that was parked in the hotel parking lot. There were decals all over it professing the Ravens as World Champions. They were starting to peel off with time. I draped this blanket over myself. I went incognito, and began jogging around the various hotel floors where older men were smoking cigars and their wives were smoking Virginia Slims.

I can’t tell you now how many cans of Natty Boh I was handed during my 20 minute stint around the Castle in the Sand. I can’t tell you how many shots I was given of all varieties, from Sambuca to Crown Royal to, believe it or not, Banker’s Club (I told that dude I was an accountant, which is funny because Bankers is in the name! Ha!). Everybody was so friendly, and after each and every one, I revealed that I was a Steelers fan. Every single one laughed, except one. It was my third-to-last conquest, and he was really pissed he’d parted ways with a can of beer worth less than the amount of money necessary to make a 20-minute call on 10-10-220.

This guy called me a “sandwich loving dickhead,” because apparently Baltimore’s finest don’t dig sammies. I turned around and shot him my “Scott Look,” which is the look my parents and friends tell me I used to shoot off when I didn’t agree with a referee’s call in high school.

“Dude,” I said, “I’m just having a little bit of fun. You’re here on a Thursday night, just trying to have fun for the weekend. Have fun, too.”

He called me a dickhead again, which is fine with me, because I’m never going to frown about being the first into a vagina. Someone or something has to shine a light up there, because those things are mad confusing.

I tried not to chuckle, but it didn’t work. At all.

“What’re yewwww laughin’ at?” he said.

“You,” I practically yelled, poised to fucking sprint for it. This man didn’t seem like he was fucking around. I started to walk away, hastily.

He told me he’d come after me, if he wasn’t “so worn out.”

I made myself stop laughing, and decided to extend a pseudo-olive branch.

“I understand,” I said. “I’m sorry. How old are you?”

“Forty-eight almost,” he said.

“Sounds about right,” I said.

Scott gets a pedicure, sustains injury

2011-05-13T16:26:00.008-05:00

One night just after I’d turned 18, my Mom, the nurse, was examining my foot while I sat on the floor in our living room. I don’t exactly remember what it was she was checking out, but I think it was either an ingrown toenail or some form of a blister.

Before she bothered to examine the injury, the thing that actually mattered, she decided to have a fit over how disgusting my feet were. They were very calloused from the abuse they were constantly taking from me lumbering around playing too much basketball and not sitting still reading enough. There was also a section on the arch of my left foot where an entire layer of skin had painfully ripped off, for reasons I’ve never figured out.

“You should get a pedicure,” she said, and I laughed, because, well, I thought she was joking. Dudes don’t get pedicures. She wasn’t joking, at all. And, when my Mom gets a notion, she immediately develops tunnel vision and can talk about nothing else. For the next few months, she would continuously mention in passing how nasty my feet were, and she’d then try to sell me on the merits of getting a pedicure.

“It feels awesome, really” she’d say. “And your feet are so smooth when they’re finished.”

I’d refuse, time and again. Not because I was that worried about doing something effeminate, but because it’d be pointless. I was in the middle of basketball season, so getting my feet smoothed out would’ve been like shaving my legs or something. Sooner rather than later, they’d just be back to normal, which is to say: ugly. Also, I could not have given a fuck less about the aesthetics of my feet. Long as they were there and functioning, I was golden, because then I could keep playing basketball. This was important, because at the time I loved basketball, and also because I suspect it was at least a contributing factor to why females would talk to me. In that order.

After the season, I relented. I told Mom I’d go with her one time, and never again. So she would shut the fuck up. Back then, I used the same approach to haircuts. I figured I wouldn’t like it, and so I’d have no desire to do it again.

She took me to a salon, where she still always goes to hang out with her friend, Marlowe. They shoot the shit together much like men are supposed to do in barber shops. There’s a good chance I know more about the intricacies of Marlowe’s daughter’s life via my Mom than I do about my own younger sister’s. I am okay with this, because ignorance is bliss. Also, my sister is a saint, and so there’s nothing I need to know...

I don’t remember much about the pedicure, to be honest. I’ll admit, it was enjoyable after I got past the ticklish feeling I had initially when a woman was fucking around with my feet — for the first five minutes or so, I was unable to read the Glamour magazine I’d picked up from a coffee table in the waiting area on my way to the pedi-seat. I left thinking I wouldn’t rule out ever getting one again; I figured someday a girlfriend or fiancee or wife might want to go get one as a bonding exercise, and I’d acquiesce without much fuss. This would surely buy me a guys’ night or something. I did decide it wasn’t something I would pay to have done, and it also wasn’t as great as having a woman wash your hair for you. But, then again, neither is sex. For me, the hair washing usually lasts longer, so.

What I’m saying is, the pedicure itself wasn’t a bad experience. The after-effect, however, was.

The next morning, I woke up and got in the shower. I started shampooing my mop and probably singing Fall Out Boy or some shit. The first time I attempted to move, I was bending over to grab some face wash. I took one step, slipped, and almost went headfirst into the faucet. Luckily, though (I guess), my foot kept sliding forward until it rammed into the end of the tub and my torso shot back and my body tried to gain balance. A flash of pain shot through my groin.

For the next few days, I hobbled around like I’d just been snipped, smelling of Ben Gay, all because I got a pedicure. My feet were too smooth to gain any traction in the shower, something my Mom had warned me about but I had not thought of because I can’t think about fucking anything at 7 a.m. When I was able to run around again, I got blisters where my callouses used to be, and they hurt. Eventually, I had the same rough patches of skin in the same places, and they looked worse than they did when my feet were fresh and unscathed, but they were also part of me. They’re still there today.

There is a reason parts of us get worn, that callouses exist to cover up the soft spots. Once they’re there, leave them there. If some lady buffs them off — whether it’s an Asian at the mall or your Mom’s good friend, or, more likely, a deceitful whore — you’re only going to end up having to build them back up again. It hurts each time, too.

And, sometimes, if you’re really unlucky and don't protect yourself, flashing pains in the groin area may be involved.

***[Thinly veiled public service announcement encouraging condom use in a blog entry about pedicures? Nailed it.]

So long, Michael Scott

2011-05-05T19:38:00.000-05:00

[In reference to the title: That is a “That’s what she said” if you read it in broken English (see: Engrish)]

I’m not going to say I was ever a big Michael Scott fan, because if I did, anyone who I’ve ever talked with for more than five minutes about “The Office” would be able to instantly label me a liar. I’ve loved the show since it first came out, but his character always kind of irritated me. And yes, I know that’s kind of the point, but I just couldn’t get into it. Whenever he would do all of the stupid things he did, I’d get that feeling you get when you feel true embarrassment for someone else,and that’s my most-hated non-deep emotion. (Deep= when you feel legitimate sadness, depression, loneliness, etc.; Non-Deep=when you feel awkward, realize you forgot your lunch AGAIN, have a love interest halt all communication for no reason and without warning, etc.)

So, it might surprise you when I say I cried during Scott’s farewell episode last Thursday. Granted, if you look at me the wrong way, I’ll burst into tears (it’s just the way I am; Mom says I’m sensitive, but I don’t know, because sometimes I’m also a borderline sociopath), but man, I don’t even like the guy. I started crying during the part of the episode when Dwight Schrute reads a letter of recommendation Scott gave him as a parting gift. He started tearing up, so I started tearing up, and before I knew it I was biting my lip like how when any pretty girl does you instantly decide you would go bankrupt if you could make out with her for 10 seconds. I tried to hold back the tears but I was alone in my apartment, so I was like “fuck it, let’s make it rain in here.”

I wasn’t alone in this. Two of my friends -- who will remain unnamed, especially the male one -- told me they were crying at that point, via text message, and shortly after my Mom told me she began crying as well, even though she doesn’t really even watch the show that often. I’d texted her and told her it was a good thing I’d come home to watch it (my family was visiting, staying in a hotel down the street), because as much as I cry in comparison to normal guy standards, I for some reason hate doing it around other people. I'm also this way with singing and masturbating, though one of the two is negotiable. This is one of the reasons I love text messaging: you can connect with people over something without them seeing you do so, while also concentrating on something else entirely. It's a perfect medium of communication for someone who is both a talker and a coward, like I am.

I was able to hold myself together after my brief crying spell, until the scene where Scott and Jim Halpert have their final discussion. It was a beautiful television moment that they made seem very genuine, which I found to be amazing, because who knew Steve Carrell could actually act in a legitimately sappy scene? When Scott and Halpert talked about Scott’s departure that day, a full 24 hours before everyone else at Dunder Mifflin thought he was going to leave, I lost it. I think this was the first time in the entire series I could empathize with Michael Scott. This is something I would do. I hate goodbyes, so I’d at least consider leaving without having to have one big goodbye with all the people I’d grown so close to. I often thought of doing this at the end of college, when I cried while hugging males more often individually than most people worldwide did during the original “Rent” cast’s closing week on Broadway. I couldn’t ultimately do that, though, because my friends knew where I lived, and I was only moving 40 minutes away from our college town, so.

I knew initially I’d cry, just because of my sentimentality. (I’ve just now realized that next time I cry in front of a girl, it’ll seem much less significant if she’s read this. Also, I just wrote “next time” like this always happens. It’s been a while, okay?) I’ll probably cry during the last episode of “Robot Chicken,” just because I don’t like things that end after I’ve become used to having them in my life. I can find melodrama in anything. This is why I hate break-ups, and probably why I don’t date all that often. If you don’t start it, you can’t end it. But, I get attached to television shows, since I spend all those nights watching them instead of trying my damndest to go out and get laid. But, this wasn’t even a series finale (though it may as well be, this show will not go on much longer without Scott, just like X-Files when David Duchovny left), so I found myself wondering why I was so emotionally affected.

Then, it came to me. I don’t like Michael Scott, but I do like what he has contributed to society, and that is the most popular catchphrase to come from a sitcom since “Friends.” I think we can all agree that “That’s what she said” is much more hilarious than “How youuuuu doin’?” Joey Tribbiani can’t even grill Michael Scott’s bacon in the morning.

I’ve laughed at “That’s what she said” jokes more times than I can even accurately estimate, because I suck at math and because I’ve laughed at them lots. They’re great anytime anybody says them (my little brother has even begun to grasp them, and has produced some pretty solid ones despite having almost no understanding of sarcasm), but they’re best when Michael Scott says them. At the end of the show, I cried and laughed simultaneously. I craughed. Because during his last scene on the show forever as a regular cast member, as he took his mic out of his suit, he said, “I can’t wait to get this off my chest.” Then, you could barely make out a “That’s what she said.”

That’s a hell of a lot better than eating onion rings, or simply laying in some dense foliage and closing your eyes. Michael Scott made a hell of an exit.

So, tonight a new episode of “The Office” will be on, without Michael Scott, and I’m sure it’ll be pretty funny. So, I guess I’m already over the emotions I was feeling last Thursday. Like a girl shunning you, his leaving was a non-deep emotion.

I’m happy with the way he left “The Office.”

I don’t think it came too soon.

...That’s what she said.

President Obama's climactic Sunday Funday

2011-05-04T19:03:00.001-05:00

President Barack Obama had one hell of a weekend. Not, like, one of those I-got-hammered-with-my-friends-and-went-to-a-stripclub weekend, either. It was a weekend, in fact, that probably blows pretty much everyone else’s out of the water. And when I write “everyone,” I include myself and Prince William, even though we both had pretty nice weekends. I haven’t talked to the British Slick Willy, but he got married (ehhh...) and is now sharing a bed with the former Kate Middleton (MY MAN!), so I’m estimating his weekend was cool. I got to hang out with most of my family, and spontaneously heard Nas’s seminal classic “Oochie Wally” on Saturday night at a bar, so mine was good. I bet those guys who got drafted by NFL franchises had good ones, too. They at least had me beat -- barely, though. It’s a catchy song (though very, very vulgar).

But then Obama decided to clandestinely give the go-ahead for a military operation that would, if it went as planned, result in the killing or capture of Osama Bin Laden, a guy who I think we can all agree is one of few in history whose death has actually warranted maniacal celebration. After that, he snagged his wife and daughters and jetted to Alabama, where he attempted to comfort some of the victims of the recent devastating tornados that ravaged the area. After that, he stopped in Florida, where he was initially going to watch a NASA launch that was delayed. He still decided to go, though, so he could hang out privately for a few minutes with Rep. Gabrielle Giffords, of Arizona, who was recently shot by a guy who, much like Bin Laden, sucks.

After that, he gave a commencement speech at Miami Wade College (see what I did there?! Ha!) before heading back to Washington, where he dressed up like James Bond for the White House Correspondents’ Association annual black tie dinner. It was here that he busted on Donald Trump and countless others in a stand-up routine that was even supplemented by a clip from "The Lion King," if you can believe it. His time at the podium lasted 18 minutes. He spent the first 16 being hilarious, and then the last two were spent thanking the armed forces, some of whom were at that time gearing up to merck the world's biggest douchebag.

Trump balked at being cut up on so badly, and took to Fox News Sunday morning to lament that he was the butt of so many jokes. "It was almost like, is there anyone else they could talk about?" he asked, which is kind of a peculiar thing for someone to say who had spent the previous weeks talking about pretty much nothing except a piece of paper. (Also it should be noted here that Trump was recently roasted on Comedy Central. By that dude from "Jersey Shore." Voluntarily.)

So, Obama found someone else to talk about. Sunday night, Navy Seals raided the compound where Bin Laden was hiding, and one of them shot him in the head, twice -- leading me to believe he'd seen "Zombieland" and is an advocate of the "double-tap." The timing couldn't have been better for a few reasons. Of course, all of these are very, very insignificant when compared to Bin Laden actually being killed, and I acknowledge that, but still, the timing of it all was pretty cool. Since I’ve always been painfully awful with good timing, it really resonated. (Read: I always used to have to pee sometime in the two minutes before a basketball game I was playing in was to tip off. Also, my life’s romantic relationship experience is best described as something like a kid playing game after game of musical chairs and always losing because he was either in the wrong place at the wrong time or momentarily quit paying attention.)

-The announcement was made toward the end of "Celebrity Apprentice," shortly after every station went to a live news feed. I doubt this was intentional, but it's nice to think it was. I'm sure Trump, in his arrogance, thinks so, anyway. I'm still not sure who got fired that week, but I hope it wasn't Meatloaf.

-The NFL draft was finished.

-Bin Laden was killed at the end of a weekend that started with the aforementioned royal wedding. The U.S. really stole the thunder. I mean, think about it: England's taxpayers just shelled out $39 million to wed two people who have done just about as much as Paris Hilton to become famous. American taxpayers had the notion reinforced that the taxes they're spending to fund the military are at least partially being used to kill terrorists. This was done by killing the most sought after terrorist in the entire world.

I guess it's a good thing Obama hadn't been at the wedding that took place Friday -- he’d not been invited. He may not have been able to green light the military action if he was in England wearing a penguin suit. It seems like something you don’t do over Skype, like breaking up. (You break up through a text message, obviously.) Again, I'm sure the timing of all this wasn't planned for purposes of vanity, but how nice is it to picture Obama sitting in a hot tub early Monday morning, smoking a cigar, chuckling and saying "haters gonna hate" over and over again while he watches the news coverage of what has easily been one of the best moments of his presidency? I like to picture it with a little audio in the background. Some “Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop” by Young Gunz. You’d better tuck your girl, if she hot, fam; ‘Cause I’m pretty sure she’s a Barack fan. When he gets out, he dons a robe and starts to either crip walk or to do this dance.

I wonder what Aaron Sorkin and Oliver Stone are doing. This sequence of events might make a pretty good movie.

***

When I first started writing this, I was hesitant about making Obama the focal point. I realize what happened to Bin Laden is a huge victory, and one that was carried out physically and tactically by the military, who deserve mad props. But, I don't think it's too crazy to boo love on Obama right now a little bit, too. Because he's a symbolic entity. On Team America, the dude is equal parts coach and quarterback, the two who always get the majority of the love and hate. You don't hear much about the guys behind the scenes, unless they screw it up. You don't hear about the linemen all that much until the quarterback gets sacked a bunch of times. That's just the way it is, and it's the same thing on the other side of sanity. Bin Laden was once the Taliban big man on campus. He called the shots, and remained the face of the misguided franchise after they learned to operate without him, while he hid in the mountains. Kind of like how Joe Montana is still kind of the face of the 49ers (terrible analogy). It's vastly important to remember that terrorism is still out there, and may not have lost that much strength with Bin Laden's death, and it's just as important to try and recognize the people in the military and the tough work they're still going to have to do. It’s got to be scary and emotionally taxing, and I’m pretty confident I don’t have the fortitude to do some of the things some of them end up having to do.

But, anyway: What a Sunday Funday, am i right? Kids at Penn State took to the streets and partially destroyed the town, which is how they let America know they're really happy with something. Though I still don't understand the compulsion to destroy things in the place you live to celebrate a positive occurrence, I guess I'm glad they're doing it for something so significant that has not one thing to do with football.

Also: USA! USA! USA! USA!

College basketball is in bad shape

2011-04-05T15:28:00.000-05:00

College basketball is in pretty bad shape.

I've thought so for a while, but watching last night’s national championship really convinced me. I would've been better off staying home and watching YouTube clips of Derek Rose breaking peoples' ankles.

Anyone who watched that game after watching many championships before will probably tell you it was the worst Natty-C they’ve ever seen in their lives. It was 40 minutes of basketball that would’ve been almost painful to watch without the aid of Natty Light. It’s just not what you look for at all from what is theoretically supposed to be the most anticipated and entertaining game of the entire season.

Before tipoff, it had the inherent makings of what could be a very good game, if both teams performed as expected. Butler was a noticeable underdog, despite having gone to the championship last year, and UConn seemed to be the athletic goliath you’d expect from a storied Big East team whose coach uses his reputation and myriad recruiting violations to stock up on raw young talent. (Which means virtually nobody was rooting for UConn except actual Huskies fans and those weird people who cheer against the team who beat their favorite team fair and square earlier in the tourney.) You knew going into it that Butler would have to rely on its teamwork, discipline and generally high-percentage field goal shooting, while the Huskies would basically beat the Bulldogs on the boards and in pretty much every athletic aspect of the game while Kemba Walker displayed his ridiculous talents. I thought that if Butler shot well and played their teamwork-based game, they’d have a shot of keeping it close going into the final three or four minutes, when things can go either way and probably favor the team that garnered national championship game experience the season before.

But then Butler shot 18 percent from the field, and with just less than 10 minutes left in the second half, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Since I was pulling for Butler, I was happy at halftime, when they were up three. Since the score was 22-19, however, I was happy in an unimpressed way, like when I wake up on a Saturday morning to find out my friend Ant has slept drunkenly on the couch through the entire evening without pissing himself. The Bulldogs had scored one two-point field goal in an entire half of basketball. As a team. If you'd like some context, Jimmer Fredette, BYU's NCAA player of the year, scored more than 30 points in one half by himself this season. His high for the year? A startling 52 points, which is one point less than UConn scored in their 53-41 victory, and three points less than the amount of wives Brigham Young had (fact).

Still, though, it was just one bad game, right? Every win isn't going to be pretty, championship or not. I accept that. I mean, I'm a Penn State grad, and the win they had over Wisconsin in the Big 10 tournament was potentially even uglier than last night's game. I guess I don't have as much a problem with that as I do the way the paradigm has shifted in the way college basketball seasons play out.

There is quality of play and team chemistry, still, and there are tremendous athletes -- the best their age in the world, in fact -- but in the past few years it has been rare to see the two combined. I lay the blame for this on the NBA as a direct result of its relatively new rule that players have to wait at least one year after graduating high school to declare for the draft. So, unless you're Brandon Jennings' crazy ass, you end up playing college ball for a year, whether you want to or not. I think this results in schools snagging guys who have it in their head that they'll jump for the league immediately after freshman season, which in turn has them focusing more heavily on individual performance than they would if they'd made the decision to go to school for themselves, to grow as players and win a championship. The dudes who decide they want to be at a school because they want to win and think they may stay for more than one year have more of a team-centric mindset, and that promotes chemistry with the other players who are going to be there for at least four years, with no goals in mind except winning a championship.

Think about Carmelo Anthony. James went straight to the NBA, and Anthony chose to go to Syracuse just before the league enacted the rule. The 'Cuse team played well together and won it all. Who knows? If they hadn't, Anthony would've possibly stayed another year. Florida, the last team to repeat, did so with all five starters returning. Four of those five are in the NBA right now. They came back because they were into winning championships; they were a team, not an individual doing everything he could to get through a year and get his draft stock as high as possible.

That, I think, is the reason John Calipari hasn't won any championships with Kentucky or Memphis. He specifically recruits players who are going to stay for one year, which means he essentially starts over every season, and the nation gets to watch some of its most talented players play a style that slightly resembles a pick-up game. They consistently win lots of games, but don't find much success in the tournament. Then, the emotionally unattached group leaves to make lots and lots of money.

On the other side of things, I think this is the reason teams like Butler, Virginia Commonwealth and George Mason have found themselves overachieving in recent years since the NBA one-year rule. There is no way you can tell me those teams are the best in the nation skill-wise. They are, however, a unit that works together, and that prepares them for success in a high-pressure setting like the tournament. Because of this, Cinderella teams have become much less impressive than they used to be, simply because there are fewer good "teams" in the NCAA for them to really upset.

At the end of the day, UConn won, and they did so by starting three freshman and bringing two off the bench (four of the five played more than 20 minutes). But, they only won by 12 when Butler shot so horribly and played awfully altogether. You're really not going to win many games on any level beyond fifth grade recreational playing like they did.

It's ironic, though, that Gordon Hayward led Butler to the Natty-C last season during his junior year, and then opted to leave for the NBA early -- something unprecedented among Butler's players. In the 2010 championship, Hayward scored 12 points, the Huskies' exact margin of victory. Had he played in the game this year, I've no doubt he would've scored more than that.

Charlie Sheen is (kind of) a genius, and he's (kind of) comparable to Lady Gaga.

2011-03-10T19:42:00.001-05:00

There’s a pretty good chance you began reading this because of the title, which is usually a good thing and the object of a title in the first place, but that might not be the case in this particular instance. This time, you saw the title and probably got angry and decided you’d read it just so you could pick it apart and berate me for being an idiot.

I don’t blame you. In light of recent events, it’s a pretty inflammatory title that might seem like nonsense, especially since Lady Gaga is adored so vastly, for one reason or another.

But, if you’re incensed and that’s why you’re reading this, then you’re kind of proving the point I’m trying to make.

Up until a short while ago, you probably would’ve looked at that title, thought nothing of it and then continued looking around for something to read on a topic you cared about. If you were going to read it, it'd be because you were more enamored with Lady Gaga than Sheen. Back then, Charlie Sheen was just some dude who starred on that show your parents might still watch but you gave up on as soon as the half-man’s voice changed (or before, even). I can’t speak for anybody else’s reasoning for opting to just watch “How I Met Your Mother” and then call it a night, but for me it was the redundancy – though I must sadly admit that “HIMYM” is beginning to adopt some of that same redundancy. (Is it redundant to use the word redundancy twice in one sentence? If so, CBS must really be influencing me.) You can only watch a comedy about an aging drunk clad in bowling shirts and loafers who seduces a bunch of women for so many seasons if there’s very rarely any plot progression to speak of.

But then Sheen flew off the fucking handle. And now you care about him.

Charlie Sheen made you care.

The consumption of Sheen coverage is akin to rubber-necking at the scene of a car crash. You want to look away, but for some reason you aren't really able to describe, you can't. And, even though you really, really hope the event won't result in major injuries or death, you're aware either as the final outcome is far from out of the question. We all know it's maybe not the best thing to give Sheen a ton of attention, and for myriad reasons, but we're going to anyway, because his antics are endlessly entertaining.

The thought that he's a genius came to me involuntarily one night last week when I was watching Sheen's interview with Piers Morgan (which was a shame, because Larry King would've tore his shit apart). Sheen was talking all kinds of nonsense and punctuating every other sentence with either "winning," "duh" or something about "tigerblood" or "trolls." It was nothing short of awesome, albeit in an extremely stupid way, and it was television that was exponentially better than anything I'd ever seen on "Two and a half Men."

"This guy is a fucking genius," I thought to myself, much like the thoughts that probably run through his own head constantly, because he only has one setting, and that setting is "go." It was then that I made the decision to relentlessly follow every batshit crazy thing the dude would engage in.

This was also when I started to observe the parallels between Sheen and Lady Gaga.

I should clarify that I don't view Sheen or the lady who’s always talking about monsters as a genius in the traditional Albert Einstein, card-carrying-Mensa-member way, but in that throwaway way the term is now popularly used. Same with Lady Gaga -- though I don’t dispute that both of them are much more intelligent than myself, and may indeed have genius-level IQs. According to Mensa’s website, there are around 110,000 Mensans throughout the world, and judging by Sheen and Lady Gaga’s achievements at young ages, it’s quite possible they could both easily make the cut.

I don’t care about that, though, and you probably don’t, either. I just mean they’re geniuses because they’ve outsmarted us all into paying attention to every single little thing they do, for better or worse. I guess my mode of thinking now is that you have to be some kind of genius to captivate such a broad and vast audience, so fuck it: they’re both geniuses.

A few weeks before all this Sheen activity commenced, I got into an argument with a friend about whether or not Lady Gaga should be considered a genius. The criteria were that she played instruments, wrote her own songs and was unique. Many people attested to me that she was a genius based on these loose qualifications, which I supposed made my older brother, younger sister and Taylor Swift geniuses as well, along with that goofy music teacher whose young students performed at the Academy Awards this year.

The day this argument began was -- coincidentally -- the day of the Grammys, when this chick showed up in a fucking egg. As soon as I saw this, I found a link to a photo online and put it on my friend's Facebook wall, with some snarky comment about how I’d changed my mind, and she truly was a genius. At the time, I was angry that people held her in such high regard.

Then Sheen came along, though, and I realized that my complete adoration of his antics -- which would occasionally make me nearly giddy -- and my discomfort and dismay with Lady Gaga’s made me a complete hypocrite. I spend a lot of time talking about how she’s overrated (which she is, but hey, so were the Beatles -- anybody with that level of notoriety can’t be as good as people make them out to be) and extremely gimmicky. I couldn’t make peace with the fact that she got so much attention because of the ridiculous things she would wear and say.

“I don’t understand why she has to do all of that stuff,” I’d say to girls who would immediately rule out ever sleeping with me as soon as I made a disparaging remark about their Mother Monster. “I mean, if she’s that talented, why can’t she just let the music speak for itself?”

Well, because that’s not enough anymore, if your goal is to be a really, really famous pop star, and I’m going to assume is one of Lady Gaga’s, since both of the LPs she’s released have the word “Fame” in them. Unless you’re one of the most talented musicians to ever live, you have to have a little bit of that David Bowie gimmickery in your arsenal. Just tonight, I listened to Adele’s new album, and I was very, very impressed. But, she’ll never be as big as Lady Gaga. She’ll never have a bunch of little girls and young women freaking the fuck out at her concerts, because she won’t catch their attention. She’ll catch the attention of the girls and boys who just really want their art to come before everything else, which I guess can be good or bad. I guess Lady Gaga knew this, which is why she doesn’t play quiet piano music and go by the name Stefani Germanotta anymore. (This is true in pretty much any kind of media. Almost everyone my age I know can tell me who Tucker Max is, but probably only a handful can tell me who Junot Diaz is, despite Diaz being one of the best writers on the entire fucking globe. Max is definitely one of my favorites, but I think even he would say he’d have some really ridiculously tough competition if Diaz was getting wrecked, fucking girls and writing about it all the time.) With Adele, it seems to really be all about the music. No matter what Lady Gaga says, I’ll never believe that she feels the same way.

I guess it’s the same with acting as far as Sheen is concerned. If the acting process was his real passion and heightened status took a back seat, he may still have banged a bunch of porn stars and done a bunch of blow, but he would’ve stayed quiet about it. Sheen was famous before, and he’s richer than I can even fathom, but he wasn’t on my radar until he started doing obnoxious things, despite starring on what is allegedly the most-watched network comedy on television. Maybe he knew when he started spouting off some of the most absurd quotes and statements I’ve heard since, well, since I was born, that people would pay attention again. Maybe he didn’t. There’s really no way of knowing for sure.

But, it worked. Res ipsa loquitor ("the thing speaks for itself"), to take a favorite statement from the late Hunter S. Thompson -- a dude who was no stranger to the way a bold persona could drastically enhance fame and alter the way people view your work. Sheen has become without a doubt the most popular news story in the country, despite a pretty huge story in Libya centered around Muammar Gaddafi, a man who is probably just as insane as Sheen. The difference, though, is Gaddafi's lack of charisma. He's not entertaining, and Sheen is. Gaddafi is apparently a troll, with something other than tiger blood running through his veins, and I don’t really have any desire to follow him on Twitter.

Whatever condition Sheen’s motivations, mindset or mental stability are in doesn’t matter to me; I will continue to follow him on Twitter and on television and on UStream and wherever else he decides to take his newly-revealed personality. If he does some kind of stand-up comedy tour or show where he simply just talks nonsense, I’ll pay money to go and see it, just like so many people pay money to go see Lady Gaga. If he does another show – preferably a reality show – I’ll watch every single fucking episode.

I'm ashamed of myself, but the man will have my attention for the immediately foreseeable future.

I've heard somewhere that talent always rises. This may be true; I'm not sure yet, but you need more than talent now if you want to rise to the top of celebrity culture.

I suppose geniuses are born, not made, and it kind of sucks to think that if you want to win, and keep on winning, you have to be born that way.

Wake up in the morning feelin' like P. Diddy: A beginner's guide

2011-02-21T21:23:00.003-05:00

The next 10 or so posts were from a blog I wrote for the Altoona Mirror. This is my final week at the paper, and I imagine they'll delete the blog when I leave. For some reason, I wanted to preserve some of the work.

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

I have always wanted to be a morning person. It's something that has appealed to me for years. It must be pretty rad to be able to wake up to an alarm clock on your cell phone and not want to hurl it across the room before you curl up into the fetal position and start sobbing uncontrollably. I want to be that dude from the Folgers commercials who smells coffee, sits up, stretches and smiles.

But, sadly, I am not of that ilk. I was not wired that way. The beeping sound of an alarm clock severely depresses me. Every time I hear it, I have the exact same reaction as I do when I hear "Soul Sister" by Train. It's like this: "Oh God, not this AGAIN. Why would you let such a sequence of sounds be INVENTED?" And then I shake my fists at the sky.

When I look at that sentence, I think about how I'm definitely looking at things the wrong way. I should be thanking God I get to wake up again, but when it's that early in the morning I'm not usually capable of forming such rational thoughts, especially positive ones. I'm not a morning person, and so by default I'm not a positive person in the morning. Come to me at 8 p.m. with a worry about your girlfriend who hasn't texted you back for a few hours, and I'll say that maybe she's lost her phone or the battery has gone dead; I'll tell you not to worry. Come to me 12 hours later, and I'll probably whip my mobile phone at you and then proceed to tell you she's probably hanging out somewhere with a guy who is much better looking than you, who was probably wearing a shirt with a popped collar...until a few minutes ago.

I'm not sure when I started hating getting up early, but I'd guess it was probably when I got to middle school in sixth grade, when the powers that be thought it'd be a great idea to have a school day for growing adolescents and teens start at 7:30 a.m. If I was going to get the sleep I needed back then, I was going to have to hit the sack before "Smallville" was over, and that was not going to happen. My family -- with the exclusion of my Dad, who often wakes up earlier than I even hit the sheets -- is not a clan of morning people. One of my most memorable mornings from the high school years was one day when I rolled out of bed and crawled into the bathroom to the shower, narrowly beating my older brother. I got naked and was checking the faucet for warmth when he came in and, in his bad early morning mood, decided he would not give up first shower without a fight. He literally choke-slammed me into the bathtub while I was in the buff. If it had been like three hours later, he probably would've just given me a high five and told me to go ahead and take the shower while he fired up the griddle and made some pecan pancakes.

This has gotten worse since college, when I would often arrange my schedule so I didn't have to wake up until at least 10 a.m. It has gotten worse still since I started work here. I don't come into the office until 1:30 each afternoon, which is awesome. But I've found that my pension for sleeping late extends until the moment I have to get up for an obligation, of which I typically have none before work beyond showering.

Many times in the past seven months, I've gone to bed early enough to get a solid eight hours before I'd wake up at the time I specified on my phone's alarm. I'd have plans, too. I was going to go to the gym, then I was going to start writing a novel that'd make Junot Diaz want to be my friend. At some point in there, I'd whip up some egg whites and read the paper.

Usually, though, I'd turn off the alarm. I'd just lay in bed until like noon, then I'd get up, shower and have enough time to really only read the paper while I watched Sportscenter and ate a banana while hating myself for being so lazy. I pushed the limit for the amount of time I could remain horizontal while the sun was up.

I decided recently it was time for a turn around. I want to wake up in the morning and feel like P. Diddy, to quote the great American poet, Ke$ha. I mean, who wouldn't? P. Diddy has clout, and his life is pretty sweet (well, after he beat those murder charges anyway). This is the dude who was able to make a group of hip-hop-hopefuls walk miles to get him cheesecake, because he just wanted some cheesecake. He actually had a reality show that centered around him training for a marathon. That's right, people tuned into MTV to watch a man jog a lot. If I were to start training for a marathon, my Mom might care a little bit, but that's about it.

Also, I bet his linens have a really high thread count, so that probably doesn't hurt.

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions, but I figured it was as good an opportunity as any to start waking up and being a little bit more productive than I'd been in recent memory.

I had to start at the very beginning. There is nothing in the world that will ever make me enjoy the sound of an alarm clock. Okay, that's not true. If it becomes a daily Pavlovian signal that Blake Lively has just shown up at my door with a large order of house special lo mein, I'll probably start to enjoy it. But the odds of that are slim, so I took that stupid noise out of the equation.

"Scott, what sounds make you happy?" I thought to myself. Almost immediately, I came up with two ideas. The first is the song "Circle of Life," from the very first scene of "Lion King." It starts with the sun coming up -- which was fitting -- and some tribal dude screaming, "Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba. Sithi uhm ingonyama." According to LionKing.org (yes this really does exist) it translates to, "Here comes a lion, Father. Oh yes, it's a lion."

Honestly, I don't care what it means. It just sounds nice, so I like it (kind of like a Radiohead song). So I downloaded that as a ringtone on my phone, and set it up as an alarm.

Next, I obtained a compilation of music from the television show "Glee." I threw that in my CD player alarm clock, and set that up. (If you are too cool and don't dig "Glee," I suggest substituting it with the song "You Get What You Give" by The New Radicals. It's probably barely edges out "Mmmbop" as my favorite pop song from the 90's. It's very happy. I don't know how I feel about everything I just wrote in this parenthetical sequence; not very manly, is it?)

I staggered these alarms within 15 minutes of each other. This way, if the music from "Lion King" didn't do the job of waking me up immediately, the kids from "Glee" would chime in a few moments later telling me that any way I wanted it was indeed the way I needed it, and that I was just a small town girl who was livin' in a lonely world. (They were heavy on the Journey throughout their journey to the regionals. Count it.) If I was already awake and reading the paper before I left for the gym, I would get a pick-me-up from that gang of adoreable misfits.

Right before I walked out the door for the gym, I'd fill my new Gatorade bottle with some water or green tea. It was one of those squirtable ones professional athletes use. I figured that somehow I could trick myself into thinking my running on the treadmill was part of some important team activity.

Whilst on the treadmill, I listened to a lot of music by Explosions in the Sky, an instrumental band that plays probably some of the most powerful music I've ever listened to in my 23 years on this earth. (They did all the music for the "Friday Night Lights" film and television show.) I can't explain why, but their songs make everything you're doing seem like it is vastly more important than it justifiably should be. I like to listen to them while I fold my laundry. It makes me feel like the most domesticated man since Michael Keaton in "Mr. Mom." And that came out in 1983.

Next, I'd jump in the pool and try to swim some laps, something I haven't done much since my Mom made me join the swim team in fourth grade. (It ended like piano lessons : I complained until she didn't make me go anymore. Now I regret doing that in both instances.) That'll wake you up for sure.

So then I'd come home and shower and try to write something for a little bit. That novel hasn't really gotten off the ground yet, so Diaz is going to have to wait if he's looking for new up-and-coming literary pals, but I don't think he minds. I do get a lot more reading done, though, and that's good for the mind. Especially those Junot Diaz books. Dude can write. (Yes, I'm hoping he Googles his own name a lot and decides he wants to e-mail me. So what?)

So far, it has worked for me. At least on two-thirds of the weekdays in 2011. We'll call it a start.

A review: Black Swan

2011-02-21T21:22:00.000-05:00

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

When I was wondering if I should go and see "Black Swan" after work last night, I asked my friend Heather, who had seen it earlier in the week, if it would be a beneficial life decision.

She told me that yes, it would be, as long as I wasn't offended by, um, certain sexual things. I'm no prude, especially when Natalie Portman AND Mila Kunis are involved, so I went to see it. And I'm glad I did. Not for that reason, either. I'm no prude, but I'm no pervert, either.

ANYWAY. Darren Aronofsky ("The Wrestler," "Requiem for a Dream") has earned the hype his films have finally begun to receive, that's for sure. He's one of those directors who never sells out, and works rarely, only whenever he finds something he can really get into. In this way, he's like Daniel Day Lewis (and if they ever did a film together, I'd have to try really hard not to start screaming in the front row like I was a 10-year-old girl at a Miley Cyrus concert). He ends up with big names in his projects, though, because he's become a go-to director for actors who want to be taken seriously and want to win awards. In this way, he's kind of like Joel and Ethan Coen. It's this formula that allows him to make indie-esque movies that deliver complex and serious messages that many people will actually want to go see. His movies become acclaimed by both critics and audiences alike. In this way, he's like James Cameron, if you take away the gimmicks and weak storylines (I didn't dig "Avatar).

I expected "Black Swan" to be dark, since that's just the way Aronofsky tends to get down. It was. I've told a few people that "Requiem for a Dream" is one of the more messed up movies I've seen, and I'd make the argument that "Black Swan" may have even been darker for this reason: In "Requiem," everything takes a turn for the insane because the main characters are all addicted to heroin. In "Black Swan," everything takes a turn for the insane because Nina Sayers (Portman) literally goes insane. Drugs play a small role in a couple consecutive scenes in "Black Swan," but Sayers isn't addicted to them and it'd be difficult to make the argument that they were at the root of her problems. Her problems go on in her head, which makes it all the more frightening.

"Black Swan" takes you into the world of professional ballet dancing, a world most really don't get exposed to. It does for ballet what "24/7: Penguins--Capitals" does for professional hockey, except "Black Swan" deals with pretty and unstable women, while "24/7" deals with goofy, toothless dudes who are much better dressed than one would anticipate (it's a bit more light-hearted). You find out immediately that this world is very demanding, the dancers are very dedicated and everyone involved takes it very seriously, and unapologetically so. This dancing is not the kind of dancing you do for fun on Saturday nights at The Shandygaff.

Portman's performance is very convincing. She's trying to find a way to tap into her reserves of both good and evil in the time leading up to the opening night of her dance company's rendition of Tchaikovsky's ballet "Swan Lake." The pressure from her annoyingly arrogant company leader, Thomas Leroy (a part Vincent Cassel straight kills) seems to be the initial catalyst for the absurdity that ensues. Throw in her strangely close relationship with her Mom (Barbara Hershey) -- they share a tiny apartment in New York City, even though Sayers is somewhere in her 20s -- and her friendship-turned-rivalry with fellow dancer Lily (Kunis), and you've got three strong contributors to the amplification of her pre-existing psychological issues.

Once all of those come together, it gets pretty wild.

The most impressive trait of "Black Swan" is its ability to make a person who may be (at least mostly) sane feel a little bit what it might be like to go insane. The acting, camera work, special effects and writing all contributed strongly to that in some way. There is real life, and there are hallucinations, and after a while it's kind of difficult to discern one from the other. There are scenes in the movie that are genuinely frightening, and not in the way Freddy Kruger or Lord Voldemort are frightening. You walk out of the theater with the eerie feeling that this could have almost been real. It is possible for anybody to go insane, and it must be a horrible thing to have happen to you. If I were a professional ballerina, I think I'd be very legitimately freaked out by what Aronofsky decided to make.

I wouldn't recommend this movie to everyone. It's very serious, and some parts are pretty graphic. It's about dancing, but it's complicated; it is not "Dirty Dancing" or "Footloose." It's the usual Aronofsky jawn, and it's good to know his style going in. If not, you might end up like one of my friends, who said it was a bit too much for her to handle. She "really wanted to like it," though.

I guess that makes it this year's "Juno." An indie movie with famous people that everyone WANTS to like, because it's cool to. That doesn't mean everyone will, but I did.

Let 'Em Play

2011-02-21T21:20:00.000-05:00

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

I remember playing in a basketball championship game when I was 12 years old. We lost.

(I understand you probably don't want to hear about my adolescent athletic experiences any more than I want to write about them -- especially since it's not even a triumphant one. But trust me when I tell you there is a point I've become surprisingly passionate about and, being the narcissist that I am, I figured a personal anecdote would be my best way to get it across.)

The game was close, and it had to be settled in overtime. In my school district's youth leagues, there was a rule that every player on each team had to play at least one entire quarter, and this didn't change for the playoffs. My coach abided by this rule, and that's one of the many reasons I respect him. To this day, he is still one of my most influential role models, despite the fact that he would put the fear of God in me every time I shot a scoop shot instead of a lay-up by loudly informing me that I was not Allen Iverson. The opposing coach was one of those Dads who was re-living his childhood vicariously through his son's little league success, and found a way to cheat the system. I wouldn't be surprised if this guy was sitting in his home right now polishing his son's trophy, actually.

I'm ashamed to admit that after the game I thought about how we probably would have won if everybody hadn't had to play. This was because back then, for a few days, whether or not I won or lost this championship was of the utmost importance to me. I am deeply ashamed of myself for thinking this way, even at that age.

Now? I could absolutely care less. Winning a basketball title in the sixth grade would have had no long-lasting effect on my life, just like losing didn't. (Actually, I got some sympathy hugs from some of the chicks in my grade who had come to cheer us on. Losing's not always that bad.)

I hadn't thought about this game for years, until I woke up a couple Mondays ago (Oct. 25) to see William Kibler's article about suspending must-play rules for the little league playoffs in the area. There had been a parental complaint from a woman whose son was disappointed when he didn't get to play his mandatory six minutes in basketball playoff games last spring. The Central Blair Recreation and Park Commission upheld the policy, which has been in place since 1988. One of the reasons they gave seemed legitimate to me: teams with more players were at a disadvantage. I guess that makes sense, but I would think the leagues would be able to find some way to work it out so the teams had a pretty consistent number of players. Apparently, when the must-play rule was in place in the area, coaches would allegedly "offset that disadvantage by discouraging lesser players from showing up," the commission staff said.

When I read that sentence, I actually got upset. I think I felt my blood pressure escalate a little bit, like it does sometimes when I'm in a hurry to get someplace and a person is going below the speed limit in the passing lane.

What kind of person is such a loser that they care so much about winning a peewee game that they'll tell a little kid not to show up? It sends the message to me that this coach is a terrible person who shouldn't ever be listened to or taken seriously, but what kind of message does that send to the kid? It can plant the thought in his head that he's not good enough, and maybe he's not, but you really can't know that when a kid is 12. What happens when you do this to a kid because he's tiny and uncoordinated, but then he hits a growth spurt and is standing at 6'7" in ninth grade and doesn't want to go out for the team because some idiot destroyed his love for basketball when he was in grade school? Maybe this was why my high school basketball coach who ran the league kept the must-play rules intact throughout playoffs. You never know when the next Dikembe Mutumbo's going to come your way. Or maybe it's because he is a generally good person.

Now that I'm older, I feel like I can step back and put myself in the position of some of the kids I played with. If they hadn't been allowed to play in that game, then it might have had some negative effects on them in the future. If my coach had in some way tried to encourage them to skip the game, it would have probably been much worse, and I don't think that's something you'd forget about easily. I can't imagine going to every practice and game, and trying just as hard, if not harder, than anybody else on the team (some of us were arrogant back then and didn't think we had to give 100 percent during practice, because we were talkin' 'bout practice, man) and being benched throughout the playoffs at such an impressionable age.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a very competitive person, and I hate losing. I always have. But sometimes there are more important things than winning, and little league sporting events fit into that category. Most kids want to win at that age, but the lessons they learn from playing sports are much more valuable than whether or not they're champions, especially in the long run. At that age, it should be about teaching them the fundamentals of the game, and some of the components of sports that spill over into real life, like gamesmanship, hustle and the ability to work well with others. I can't fathom a coach who wouldn't understand this, but they're out there. I've seen them and been involved with them, and I've heard about them on the news. Some dudes are crazy.

For a minute, I thought I was crazy. I decided to call my old coach, Ed Boyd, and ask him what his thoughts were on the matter. I wish I could adequately describe Coach Boyd, who coached me from fourth to sixth grade and who I've remained very close with since (I've said he's like a second father to me on many occasions and meant it), but it's tough to do. The energy and competitive nature he has exuded for as long as I've known him can only really be called intimidating, but that doesn't really do it justice. Believe me when I tell you that the man does not savor losing, or take it lightly. I remember one time during practice I made a remark about how I thought we were going to lose an upcoming game and he almost shot me. But, instead he sat down the entire team and gave us a very inspiring talk about never giving up or counting yourself out, and remaining confident no matter what. (The next practice he brought us each a sheet of paper that said "The decision between winning and losing is often decided before the game." It's still posted on the bulletin board in my childhood bedroom.) We did end up losing that game, but it doesn't really matter, because the lessons I learned from what lead up to that loss taught me some things I still value today.

When I asked his opinion, he said it was definitely a tough question, especially if you ask a coach in the middle of an intense game, but that he thought every kid in that age group deserved the chance to play at least a little bit.

"You know me, Scotty. I love to win," he said. "But you know what the greatest part about coaching you little guys from the time you were 10 to 12 was? It was watching you guys all grow up together and improve on your own, but also as a team."

The way it is, he said, is that on every team you have a few kids who you think will probably move on to play after elementary school, and you have the other kids who probably won't.

"For those two or three years, all the kids should get to enjoy it, when having fun and learning is what it's all about," Coach said. "They should all at least get into the game, so you can all win or lose together as a team."

Then he told me a story about my friend Jaime, one of the kids who never played another game of organized basketball after we lost that championship game. I'd forgotten all about it, but at one very crucial point in the game, Jaime dove after a loose ball and saved our possesion.

"That was probably one of the best plays he made, and just to see how happy and pleased with himself he was for contributing like that was rewarding," he said.

If there hadn't been a must-play rule, he might not have gotten in at all, but I have a feeling Coach Boyd would've gotten him in there one way or another.

I was a lucky kid. I learned a ton from my childhood basketball coach. Stuff I haven't unlearned and still use daily. I won't say that every coach is going to be as good or affecting as Coach Boyd, because he leaves some tough sweatpants to fill. But I think kids should at least learn a little something from their coach that they can use, and that they should look back fondly on their little league experience. They shouldn't have to recollect that time their coach told them to stay home from the game so the team could win, and they shouldn't have to remember hoisting their first championship trophy when all they did was clap on the sidelines.

Let 'em play. It'll do them some good in the long run, and that's what it's all about.

Obscure costume ideas

2011-02-21T21:19:00.000-05:00

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

It's officially crunch time. Halloween weekend is only a week away. This is the time when people who don't have their costumes figured out yet start freaking the geek out. They go to countless costume stores in the area, and freak out a little bit more when they realize that, by this time, all of the good stuff is sold out. They can't find anything mind-blowing at the stores, and the pressure blocks their creativity, so they can't come up with anything acceptable they can assemble from a trip to Goodwill and Michael's.

Do you know what happens then?

They settle. For something unoriginal and boring. They lose all hope that they'll get admiration from everybody at the party for their totally rad costume, and they decide to dress up as a vampire (one who doesn't even sparkle) or a white trash person with a mullet wig.

An unoriginal costume was fine when you were a little kid, when you weren't expected to come up with anything revolutionary and related to cutting-edge popular culture. But you can't mess around with that stuff anymore once you reach a certain age. Gone are the days where you could just cut two eye holes in a bed sheet and venture into the night as a ghost with the mission of accruing as many Reese's peanut butter cups as you possibly could. (After many years of intense study and data collection, I can confidently say that there really is no wrong way to eat a Reese's.) These days, if you want to impress that girl dressed up as (insert pretty much anything here, and then envision a more scantily clad version, because that's how the typical girl around my age dresses on Halloween), you have to be wearing a costume that's either really good and well thought-out or is in some way mocking/making fun of something.

It's definitely not easy to come up with ideas, especially when you want it to be a unique costume you won't see many others wearing. And as I said before, it gets more and more difficult the closer you get to that first Halloween party. Sometimes, you even have to have more than one costume, because you don't want to wear the same one on consecutive nights. It's stressful.

But don't worry. I'm here to help. I start thinking of potential costumes as soon as I wake up on Nov. 1. Not because I'm overly obsessive or anything, but because I come up with ideas I would have loved to dress up as for Halloween as soon as it's too late to dress up as the idea. It's like when I go to the video store. I always think of about five movies I've been meaning to see as soon as I get home, but I don't ever think about these movies when I'm on my way to the store.

Here are a few ideas I've come up with.

* The homeless lady who's obsessed with pigeons from "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York": This one would be easy, and it puts a spin on the traditional homeless person costume. All you need to do is dress up like you're a homeless in the middle of the winter and find some fake or stuffed birds to super glue to your shawl. Then you can get some bird seed to throw around periodically throughout the night, and you can also yell "Kevin, run!" really loud at random moments. If you want to go for real authenticity, don't shower for at least a few days before Halloween.

This could be a beneficial costume toward the end of the night, especially if you live in a college town. You can post up near a pizza shop, and kids will probably either get you pizza or throw money at you, because in their drunken state they may mistake you for a real homeless person and be more generous than they would if they were sober.

If you want another twist on the homeless motif, just dress up as former CNN employee Rick Sanchez. He no longer has a way to pay his mortgage, so it's just a matter of time.

* The South Bend Shovel Slayer from "Home Alone": Yes, I really like the "Home Alone" films, excluding the third one that was a horrible idea from jump street since Macaulay Culkin wasn't in it. This one is easy, too. All you need is a black trench coat, big black boots and a snow shovel. If you can grow a beard, do that too, and then dye it gray.

I guess you could be Harry or Marv -- the Wet Bandits -- too. I just thought of that, since I'm apparently in "Home Alone" mode today. All of these costumes will get people thinking about the movie, which will in turn get them thinking about Christmas. It's never too early to start thinking about Christmas, that's for sure.

* Justin Bieber: I know this one doesn't seem to creative (I'm sure lots of kids will dress as him this year), but you just have to tweak it a little bit. All you need really is a wig that mimics the kids absurd haircut (unless you're my friend Spencer or Tom Brady, and you already have this haircut). This is the perfect costume for someone who has a little sister who still goes trick or treating with her friends. You can have her assemble an entire mob of tweens, and have them chase you screaming all over the neighborhood. Then if you see someone dressed as Lady Gaga (which you inevitably will, in triplicate at least), you can get in a brawl with them over who is the more annoying pop singer.

If at some point you run into an older person who doesn't know who Justin Bieber is, you can just tell them you're Micky Dolenz, lead singer of The Monkees. Any costume that comes with the potential to sing "Daydream Believer" at some point is excellent in my book.

* Sarah Palin, except not really Sarah Palin: I saw at least 15 people (not including Tina Fey) dressed like Sarah Palin last Halloween, so that's obviously a little played out. But somehow she has -- sadly -- remained relavant. This is unfortunate, but she also becomes easier and easier to mock on a nearly daily basis, if you can get past the disgruntlement that encompasses you every time you hear or read something ridiculous she has said. She's kind of like Kanye West (except West's music is awesome, and I would opine that Palin doesn't really have any redeeming qualities).

So, since she's just as popular as she was at this time last year, maybe you still want to dress as her, but you need something to make the costume seem unique. So why not dress as Sarah Palin, and drag a parachute around behind you all night?

Suddenly, you're no longer Sarah Palin. You're Parah Sailin'.

Awesome costume idea? You betcha!

* A fast food mascot: This one would be more fun if you got a group of people to dress up with you as different mascots, then just engage in rivalry-fueled activities all night. There are many options: Colonel Sanders, Ronald McDonald, Jack from Jack in the Box, Wendy, Big Boy, the Domino's Noid, Chuck E. Cheese, Little Caesar, Jared Fogle (Subway's weight-loss phenom) and the Burger King, to name a few. (The King is actually genuinely creepy. My friend Evan is legitimately horrified of him.) It'd be very amusing to me to go into a party and see a bunch of fast food mascots arguing over whether the KFC Double Down is better than the Wendy's Baconator (toss-up) and yelling obscenities about how the McDonald's "Secret Sauce" is really just Thousand Island dressing. Hopefully at some point this becomes a physical altercation, because that'd be really funny to watch as well. I'm envisioning the King throwing Big Boy through the wall after Big Boy claimed that Burger King doesn't really flame broil its burgers.

* Four Loko: You and three of your friends dress up as insane people. If you can, get a straight jacket, and if not just dress like you think a crazy person would look. (If you want, I can show you some of my ex-girlfriends. They'd provide a good starting point.) When people ask what you're supposed to be, tell them Four Loko. College-age kids will absolutely love this, because Four Lokos are fruit flavored energy drinks that include a pretty hefty amount of alcohol. I guess they're so potent that they're on the verge of being banned, so naturally people are completely wild about them.

I'm telling you, it'd be a hit.

* Coach Eric Taylor from the "Friday Night Lights" TV series: I just decided today that this is who I'm going to dress up as this year. Coach Taylor is one of my favorite characters on television's most underrated show. This is going to be easy and cheap, so that's a plus. I only had to buy a Dillon Panthers -- the team he coached in the show's first two seasons -- windbreaker and hat that I found online a while ago. I also need to get my hands on a whistle. After that, the rest of the costume is on me. I plan on speaking in a southern drawl the entire night, and walking around blowing my whistle, screaming "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!" and saying a bunch of other motivational stuff. I actually plan on giving a very inspirational pregame speech to my friends before we head out for the evening.

Movie Review: Social Network

2011-02-21T21:18:00.001-05:00

*originally published on Altoonamirror.com

"The Social Network" is a story about the creation of Facebook, which made me skeptical at first, because you'd think it'd be difficult to make a movie about the creation of a social networking site interesting to someone who doesn't know anything at all about HTML code. But when David Fincher ("Fight Club," "Seven") directs anything, I feel like I owe him nine bucks no matter what the film is about, so I took myself on a movie date to see it.

The "The Social Network" was easily better than any of this summer's releases that I saw, or anything I've seen since. It should be noted that I still haven't seen "Inception," which I guess could immediately discredit me as somebody who should be allowed to review movies in the first place. I promise I've seen many, many movies, though, and the only reason I wasn't able to see "Inception" this summer was because I was too busy sitting in front of my computer logged onto Facebook. The film begins with Zuckerberg getting dumped by his girlfriend, Erica Albright, due largely (okay, completely) to his inconsiderate, inappropriate personality and obsession with social status -- two traits that become the themes that the film essentially revolves around. Zuckerberg does what most male college sophomores would do: He returns to his dorm room and starts alleviating his mini fridge from its burden of beer storage. Then he does what probably not many other college sophomores could do: He creates a website where Harvard students can rate the looks of one female student compared to another. It got so much traffic when it went live that it crashed the university's computer network. This was the beginning of a website and idea that would ultimately transform into Facebook.

Seriously. Zuckerberg created a website from scratch, while he was drunk and simultaneously blogging about his hatred of women and details of his creation of the site. He did this all initially because he was mad at a girl. That is so unbelievably amazing to me. If I'm upset over a girl, I just sit in a dark room and listen to Bright Eyes records for a few hours.

From there, the story progresses through the next few years of Zuckerberg's life. It showcases the rise and fall of his friendship and partnership with Facebook co-founder Eduardo Saverin and the turmoil he faced from Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss, privileged twin brothers who felt Zuckerberg stole their idea when he made Facebook. (The extremely unlikeable twins were both played by one actor named Armie Hammer, who looks uncannily like Brendan Fraser, an actor I cannot stand for some reason, which just added to my disdain for them. Special effects are cool, except when they're making two Brendan Fraser doppelgangers out of one.) It also deals with his encounters and eventual partnership with human trainwreck Shaun Parker (Justin Timberlake), who is most well-known for creating Napster.

The story is split up brilliantly by reenactments of two lawsuit depositions that were going on simultaneously. Zuckerberg was sued by both the Winklevoss brothers and Saverin. Saverin files suit against Zuckerberg after he is basically forced out of his share of the company.

"The Social Network" really didn't miss in any way I can think of, but I'm obviously not on the same level of criticism as Roger Ebert. All I know is I really liked it. The story was great. The casting was also absolutely excellent., and that helped the film in two huge ways. The first was that every main character seemed to be a more-than-adequate actor, so the dialogue was very realistic (take it from a kid who knows socially inept people like Zuckerberg as well as self-entitled rich boys like the Winklevoss twins). Writer Aaron Sorkin ("A Few Good Men," "Charlie Wilson's War") also deserves props for capturing the character's voices, especially since he's an older dude who probably doesn't talk to a bunch of college kids all too often. The second was that they casted people who were really, really good at pulling off being unlikeable. I already mentioned Hammer's portrayal of the Winklevosses. Eisenberg did a great job with Zuckerberg's smart sarcastic remarks toward authority figures (they were hilarious), and an even better job of making him seem unlikeable. (I kind of think Eisenberg is unlikeable in every other movie I've ever seen him in, though, so maybe that's just the way he is.) Justin Timberlake even made himself unlikeable, and he's the most likeable guy in the world. JT is so awesome he even made Jimmy Fallon look funny for three minutes on Fallon's late night show a couple weeks ago. If you don't believe me, I've posted the link to the side of this blog.

The only main character who was likable at all was Saverin (Andrew Garfield), and he ends up being screwed over the worst. That's what adds true emotion to the story, the one thing it would've been missing if it had focused on the feud between Zuckerberg and the twins, who all seemed pretty devoid of true emotion. I hate to say it, but Green Day was right with that "Nice Guys Finish Last" song they released.

What I liked most about "The Social Network," though, was how it made me really think after I saw the movie. It made me consider the social implications of Facebook, and it made me think about Zuckerberg's motivation for constructing it in the first place. He did it for a girl, the same reason so many boys and men do so many things. His hang-up on one specific girl and his desire to prove her wrong while elevating his social status (pretty much so he could get more girls) led to a social media website that has changed cultural interaction, most likely forever. If you think about it, Zuckerberg's feelings for a girl have indirectly resulted in the initial commencement of (probably) millions of relationships since Facebook became popular. I'm sure there are countless people out there who are together and in love who wouldn't have ever even met if they didn't have a Facebook. There are probably millions more who had their hearts broken because they met someone they never would've crossed paths with if not for Facebook.

It's pretty rare that you can find a film that makes you think about such sociological and cultural issues while also being so extremely entertaining. All I wanted to do when I got home was watch the new episode of "Boardwalk Empire," but I kept thinking about Facebook. Weird.

The only problem I had with the film is that my most important question wasn't answered or even undressed:

Who came up with the idea to invent the poke?

Real men wear pink

2011-02-21T21:17:00.002-05:00

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

Earlier this year, during my final college semester at Penn State, I approached a complete stranger at a bar and struck up a conversation with her because I thought she was attractive.

This is something I literally never do. I'm more adept at just leering from across the room and imagining what it'd be like to talk to the girl in question. I do that for a while, then I leave whatever establishment I'm at and trek home with my friends to watch YouTube videos until the sun comes up. (Once you watch one, you just can't stop you know? It's like eating Pringles.)

I don't know exactly why I talked to this girl on that particular night or where I acquired the brief bout of courage required to do so (it certainly had nothing to do with Miller High Life), but somehow I did.

If you were to ask me a couple weeks ago, I'd probably say approaching this girl was one of the bravest things I did toward the end of my college career, even though it wasn't a brave thing to do. At all. Anybody with a bit of self-confidence can approach a girl and start talking to her, and people do it every day. I assume this was how people generally met before the Internet was invented. My Dad didn't pick up my Mom 30 years ago by poking her on Facebook. He did it the old-fashioned way: He spit some golden game at her while she was ringing up his groceries at my Grandpap's store. She was unable to resist his mustache and charm (in that order), and I don't blame her.

Over the weekend, I was talking to the aforementioned girl -- yep, she somehow still talks to me -- and she told me her friends know me not by my name, but by my attire from that fateful night.

They call me "Pink Shirt."

That's fine with me; I have no problem being associated with wearing pink. But I do know they wouldn't have called me "White Shirt" or any other color (except maybe purple) followed by shirt had I been wearing something else. They probably would have referred to me instead as "Cultural Icon" or "Brad Pitt's Doppelganger." This stood out to them because somewhere in the annals of history a person or group of people made the decision that pink was a womanly color, and one that is emasculating when rocked by men. I'm not sure how it caught on, especially because men don't have a color to call their own, but it did. (If men can lay claim to any color, it's blue, predominately because that's the color most often attributed to newborn boys, while pink is attributed to girls. But a girl isn't looked upon as less girly because she's wearing a blue skirt. Men in general will usually just have a hard time digesting any information other than the fact that she is indeed wearing a skirt. We become colorblind in situations like that.)

I found out my new nickname was "Pink Shirt" on Saturday evening, and didn't really think about it again until I was watching football on Sunday afternoon (BEIN' MANLY). As I'm sure you know, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, something I was reminded of by all the players wearing pink-colored everything. Some were even wearing pink skull caps. If you know where I can find one of those, please let me know.

That's when I started to feel like a complete idiot. I actually viewed hitting on a girl at a bar as something brave, when countless women all over the world are battling breast cancer.

I haven't had to do anything that even approaches that level of bravery in my entire life.

I'm sure anyone who reads this knows a family member, friend or colleague who has or has had breast cancer. I have a friend who has been battling it since she was in high school. An estimated 207,090 women were diagnosed with breast cancer thus far in 2010, and 39,840 women died, according to the National Cancer Institute. 1,970 males were diagnosed, and 390 died. (I bet some of you didn't know men could get it, right? It surprised and worried me when I first found out, because I honestly think my moobs might fit a small A-cup. Maybe I'll look into getting a sports bra for when I go running.)

That's a really frightening and intimidating statistic, and after looking at those numbers it's difficult to not feel helpless. There are things guys can do, though. Obviously, you can't just come up with a cure, but you can help. Not by offering to provide free monthly examinations (try walking up to a girl in the bar and doing that), but by wearing pink.

Now, I know this is a minuscule thing to do individually, but if you can get a few guys you know to purchase something pink from one of the many breast cancer foundations out there, some serious scratch can be raised for those who have it and those who are trying to find a cure. (There are some links off to the side of this under the search bar, and if you just Google breast cancer you can find many, more, along with instructions for those examinations you may be considering.)

Who knows? Maybe it'll become so viral that by the time a cure is found and breast cancer disappears, the notion that pink is an unmanly color will vanish with it. That'd be killing two birds with one stone. (With breast cancer being a 747 and men getting chided for wearing pink being a hummingbird, since they're obviously not even in the same ballpark of importance, but still.)

Earlier this week, women all over the world teamed up on Facebook in an effort to spread awareness. The idea was to put up a status stating where you like to put your purse. There were statuses that said things like "I like it on my desk," "I like it in the backseat of my car" and "I like it on the kitchen table." Obvious innuendos, and that was the point. I saw at least 30 of these throughout the day, and decided to figure out what was going on. Using my sharp investigative journalism skills (Bob Woodward's got nothing on me and my ability to use search engines), I found out that the whole thing was to spread breast cancer awareness to guys. They knew that one of the only ways to get the attention of dudes on Facebook is through artful and wiley use of innuendo, and it worked.

We can show them we are indeed aware, and that we care, by buying some pink gear and rocking it as soon as possible.

If you're a guy, be honest with yourself. A day has probably not gone by since you turned 13 when you haven't thought about breasts. That's just the way it is.

If they're something you think about positively on a daily basis, don't you think it's worth doing a little something to help keep them healthy?

Come on, guys. Let's help save the boobies.

Pumpkin spice

2011-02-21T21:17:00.001-05:00

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

I've got friends who live all over the place. Most of them began their lives in Pennsylvania, just like I did, but things like jobs, college and simple wanderlust have caused them to relocate.

They're usually very quick to tell me all the amazing things about their new home bases. It's always hot and sunny in Arizona, and there's like, totally no humidity. Same thing with California, except it's a little bit cooler and there's an ocean right there where you can eat your In-N-Out Burger combo. It hardly ever rains in either place. In New York City, there's always so much to do, and you can walk to an Irish bar where real live Irish men bartend. In our nation's capital, they have a Chinatown that's so trendy it houses an Urban Outfitters, and the president lives there. (I meant in the city, not at Urban Outfitters, though he is the trendiest president of my lifetime, so I wouldn't rule out the possibility that he's picked up a skinny tie or two from that establishment.) In Delaware, you can walk into an Urban Outfitters and purchase the clothing for the exact price on the tag, because there's no sales tax. (I just wrote "Urban Outfitters" three times in less than 100 words, and I'm currently wearing a pair of Vans. Look at this hipster.) In Dallas, there are more than ample opportunities to quietly rip on Toby Keith fanatics. In Minnesota, there are a bunch of lakes, and you can say you live in the state where Gordon Bombay and every original member of the Mighty Ducks youth hockey team got their start. In Charlotte, there are so many good looking girls that if you have a girlfriend from Pennsylvania, you have to fatten yourself up to become unattractive to these women, so your fidelity will not be tested. (My friend who lives in Charlotte told me this is actually what he tells his girlfriend, and I'm pretty certain he wasn't joking.) In Florida, there is Walt Disney World. Also palm trees.

All of these things are splendid in one way or another, and I don't think at this point in my life I would completely object to living in any of those places. I do love Pennsylvania, though, for a number of reasons, and one of the biggest just started today: fall.

You know how people say New York is the city so nice they named it twice? Well fall is the season so nice they named it twice (the other being autumn, of course), and Pennsylvania -- especially the central portion -- is one of the greatest locations in the nation to experience fall. At the risk of seeming even goofier than usual, I'll admit that I can smell fall coming. I'll walk out of my apartment in the morning, and for some reason the scent and the crispness of the air puts me in a slightly giddy mood (giddy being something I'd never be described as except on the release date of a new Brand New album). I don't know particularly why this is, but it could be anything. It makes me want to do something not unlike this.

Maybe it's knowing that I won't have to get completely soaked in perspiration on my way to work for the next few months. Maybe it's because I totally enjoy jumping into a big pile of leaves right after I carve a pumpkin and chug half a gallon of apple cider. It's really nice to be outside during fall, because everything is so aesthetically pleasing. (I initially wrote "pretty" but changed it, because I'm going to reserve that word for use only toward women. I don't want to call a girl pretty someday and have her be one of the two people who actually read this and be like, "Oh, so I look like a leaf?!" You can't be too careful, you know?) Just the other day I went for a run on the Rails to Trails Lower Trail, and was very into the scenery. The leaves were changing colors and already starting to fall on the trail. To be honest, my exercise was less a run, more a frolick. The absence of oppressive humidity and stifling heat combined with the presence of something fun to look at makes it a lot easier for me to get myself out of bed and go running in the first place. Fall helps my vain attempts at making myself something fun to look at. I dream of the day in the near future when, after jumping into a pile of leaves leaves, I also begin beasting push-ups, right in the middle of the pile. (I've used "beasting" as a verb in my last two blogs. I really hope this catches on.)

It could be because I enjoy drinking a nice pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks to while watching college and/or professional football. (I normally only drink black coffee, but they're simply delightful.) Fall is a great time of the year for sports. Football gets into full swing, baseball playoffs take place and hockey and basketball start. Combine that with all of the network television series firing back up, and your DVR/TIVO might actually explode, along with your brain. Tonight I'm recording what will most likely be Miami's college football beat down on Pitt, season premieres of Community and the Office along with episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, The League and -- I'm ashamed to say -- The Jersey Shore. (I live alone and watch a lot of TV, so what?)

Another big part of it might be the holidays. Don't sleep on fall holidays. The two big ones, Halloween and Thanksgiving, are centered on food consumption. How do you hate on that? I still don't really get Halloween, but I love it anyway. (Other things I don't get but still love: David Bowie, anything movie director David Lynch has ever created and pogs.) Everybody has the option of dressing up as something completely ridiculous specifically to get attention from others. It's like being Lady Gaga for a day, essentially, except she pretends she's a fashion icon while most normal people will just admit they've always wanted to dress up like the Girls Gone Wild film crew. After dressing up, you get to eat a ton of free candy that was given to you by people who are oftentimes complete strangers (ever notice how this isn't acceptable any other day of the year?). On Thanksgiving, all you do is eat. That's it. You might reflect on how great it was that the Pilgrims and Indians got along, then you might watch the Charlie Brown reenactment, but then all you do is eat and gey psyched because it's now the time of year when all the soft rock stations play only Christmas music. So it's like you're No. 1 ranked competitive eater Joey Chestnut for a day, and your brother is No. 2 ranked Bob Shoudt. And you're vying for the green bean casserole consumption crown. (My favorite addition to the casserole? Bacon bits. Try it out.) That's seven different kinds of awesome.

One more thing I love about fall is that it's the beginning of cardigan season. I love wearing cardigans, for reasons unknown to even myself. I often make strange sartorial decisions, and my constant donning of cardigans is one of the strangest, outdone only by the period when I was in middle school and wore shirts three sizes too large for me. Well, it used to be, until Daniel Tosh started wearing them all the time and it became socially acceptable. The thing about cardigans is that people really seem to notice them, and can't help but to comment on them, even though I've only heard two variations of cardigan comments (500 times each): "Hey, Mr. Rogers!" and "It's a cardigan, but thanks for noticing!"

Anyway, they're comfortable, stylish and versatile. I highly recommend them. They just feel like fall. (I should write advertising copy for Eddie Bauer.)

I'm not going to say I'll never move away from Pennsylvania. But I am saying that for now I don't need year-round warm weather, rainless months (I love rain, actually), incredible fast food chains, Irish bartenders (it's not so much who the Guiness comes from), Urban Outfitters (though Pennsylvania does have them), affiliation with the Mighty Ducks, a bunch of lakes, Disney World (though that would be nice) or palm trees. For now I'll settle with being landlocked, having brutal winters, paying sales taxes, driving a maximum of 65 miles per hour (legally) and making two trips during my Sunday shopping (one for groceries, the other for wine), just as long as I can keep experiencing fall in all its splendor.

Happy fall, everyone. Enjoy it. Before you know it, winter will be here, and a simple cardigan just won't cut it.

But I don't dance...

2011-02-21T21:16:00.001-05:00

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

"Baby, I don't dance, it's not that I can't, there's a pistol in my pants."

This is something I used to jokingly say to friends and significant others in high school when I was presented with an opportunity to dance. It's an Eminem lyric, and every time I used it the "I don't dance, it's not that I can't" part was true, but there was never a pistol in my pants, because I'm a pacifist. (I've actually only shot a gun once in my life, and that was earlier this year in a controlled environment. I never really needed to, because I learned how to grocery shop at a young age and don't like to wake up early, so I never got into hunting.) Usually, people would be so shocked that I had the gall to use an Eminem lyric in casual conversation that the entire dancing question was completely forgotten. So, it worked.

I have no issue with dancing, it's just that I'm terrible at it, and since I reached an age where it may have been beneficial for me to learn, I've pushed it aside. I've always thought I had more important things to figure out. In high school I focused on learning how to make three-pointers, sleep in class with my eyes open and manipulate my mother into making my lunch every day. In college I focused on learning how to write stories, read novels during class and scout for girls on Facebook.

With so much important stuff going on, it was just never a priority for me.

That may have just been an excuse, though. I think I avoided taking dance lessons because on the few occasions that I'd tried it, I'd felt terribly awkward. And I'm not typically prone to awkwardness. There was just something about dancing, though, that really brought it out in me. I even felt weird when I'd watch Patrick Swayze writhing around in Dirty Dancing - but to be fair I usually feel that way numerous times when I see any of his movies.

I tried to fight this feeling (like REO Speedwagon front man Kevin Cronin), but it didn't go away. When my Mom tried to convince me to take ballroom dance lessons a couple months before prom, I declined. She was pretty persistent, and I eventually had to compromise with her. I said I'd learn before I got married. I thought I was playing a pretty good joke on her, because there's always been a pretty good chance that I wouldn't get married. (In fact, a girl I used to date told me recently that I can't commit to a pair of socks in the morning. I was amazed that she would use such an analogy, because I very rarely wear socks anymore. I'm sockless right now, actually.) I gave it a shot last fall by taking ballroom dance class for kinesiology credits at Penn State, probably so I could talk about how much money it cost to learn how to dance in an overheated gymnasium, which was probably somewhere in the area of John Travolta's initial salary for starring in Grease. But I dropped it after two weeks because of the embarrassment I felt at having the sweatiest hands in the world and an inability to remember any of the salsa moves we were learning.

I'd pretty much forgotten all about whether I could dance or not until I was writing an article last week that had to do with Altoona High's prom. I thought back to my prom, much like I thought back to my first day of college when I wrote about Penn State Altoona's first day a few weeks ago. I found that I remembered much more about my first day of college than the day of prom --despite them being only months apart -- and that I wouldn't even put my prom in my top 10 high school memories. I wondered why this was, and thought it was mostly my lack of dancing ability. (It certainly wasn't because somebody spiked the punch, because that didn't happen. I went to prom in 2006, not 1956, and the chaperones had long ago figured out ways to prevent that from happening.)

It turns out I was wrong.

According to pretty much every female I spoke with on the matter when I was trying to write this - including my mother, who revealed to me that my own Dad hasn't ever been one to cut a rug - it wasn't so much that they were looking for some guy to come out on a dance floor in a tuxedo and sweep them off their feet. They were looking for a guy who didn't care what he looked like, that had confidence and would come out and move around and not care what people thought about him.

Of course a few of them also said it was a turn-on if a guy knew how to lead a girl through a traditional ballroom-style dance, especially on their wedding day, which I can concede is very understandable.

I'm not sure how I didn't know this in the first place, because it seems pretty obvious. Especially when I think of the only other prom experience I've ever had. It was two years after I graduated, when I attended my little brother's prom as a chauffeur/chaperone (long story). He had taken a couple dance lessons, and had taught himself some moves using Michael Jackson videos posted on YouTube in preparation for his big day.

Ryan, who is usually a pretty socially inverted dude, was out on the floor beasting it the entire night, without any visible signs of feeling awkward. The kid couldn't do the foxtrot if you offered him a check, but he was only one step away from yelping out "hee-hee" and waving around a white-gloved hand. And he was the man of the evening. Everybody loved that this quiet kid was out on the floor essentially auditioning for Step Up 2: The Streets. It was inspiring.

On the way home, he told me that prom had been "one of the greatest nights of his life." I don't think I'd seen him as excited before or since unless the Pittsburgh Penguins were involved.

So I guess what I've learned is you can't sweat the technique, that you just have to quit worrying about it and throw yourself out there. I guess the only reason I ever felt such awkwardness was because I'm conceited and think people would actually care what I looked like when I was dancing, and that's generally not the case at all.

I plan to quit worrying and give dancing a shot the next opportunity I have. As luck would have it, I'm going to a wedding reception this weekend where I can put my new non-awkward resolve to the test. We'll see how that goes.

And for now, I'm not going to worry about learning to dance the right way. I'll just stick with my original plan: I'll learn to dance before I get married.

I figure once I get to a point where I have the relationship part right, it'll make more sense to actually get the dancing right.

The new slang conveying emotion through text messagine

2011-02-21T21:15:00.000-05:00

*Originally published at Altoonamirror.com

***Writer's Note: If you're somebody who doesn't text often or ever, I commend you. I wish I didn't text, at least not as often as I do. It's a terrible habit (addiction?) to have, and if your life hasn't been ravaged by it, I suggest you stop reading this right now, because it's going to be like me reading a manual on how to operate an eight-track player: completely useless and extremely boring. ***

I send a lot of text messages. It's definitely not the best way to communicate, but it can be convenient. You can text in pretty much any setting, no matter what you're doing - even dinner if you're not dining with your parents, who will at best glare at you for texting at the table, and at worst slap your Blackberry from your hands and right into a bowl of clam chowder.

If it's for reasons unrelated to work, I text message much more frequently than I carry on phone conversations, and by a stunning margin. I've frequently had text message conversations with a person for the entire day and well into the night, without even speaking one word to them verbally. In fact, I might actually have some friends out there who I've texted countless times, but have never spoken on the phone with for more than five minutes, if at all. I'm not proud of this (well, actually I kind of am, because that seems like it'd be a challenging feat to pull off), and nor do I think it's particularly healthy. But I continue to do it anyway.

Now, I think we can all pretty much agree that text messaging is not the best forum for a serious conversation. You're obviously going to pick face-to-face, and then a phone call as your second option. These are obvious choices for two primary reasons: It's easier to talk than to type, and it is much easier to convey actual human emotion if you're looking at a person, hearing them or both than by analyzing 160 character messages for excitement, elation or pure unadulterated rage.

But sometimes you have to have a serious text message conversation. It can be unavoidable. Because sometimes the Steelers are on TV, and you're not going to mute the voices of the amazing duo of Joe Buck and Troy Aikman just so a person can talk to you about how they just got laid off or how they think it's time to start seeing other people. (And if you think that was a bad example, you're clearly underestimating the unintentionally comedic conversations Buck and Aikman have each game.)

So, I've consulted some friends (through a group text message, naturally) and combined their suggestions with my own ideas on how to convey emotion through text messaging the best you can.

Here are some observations and tips:

>I've found that things are rarely as they seem with the use of "LOL" and "Haha," because texting has evolved through the years so that these two phrases (I don't know what exactly to call them so we'll stick with phrases) are completely overused. This has changed the meaning of them from a symbol of laughing to a symbol of normality. So, if you're texting with someone and don't include one or both of these in at least one of every five or so messages, the person automatically assumes you're upset about something. If you send an abundance of text messages, go back through your inbox and outbox and count how many times you used "LOL" or "Haha" in response to something. Now count honestly how many times you used either one and were actually laughing out loud.

Chances are, you weren't laughing in every instance unless you still use "LOL" and "Haha" for their originally intended purposes. Or somebody who laughs very easily and was texting back and forth with Carrot Top's apprentice.

Those two phrases are used now not to show people you're laughing, but that you're staying at least mildly light-hearted. I'm in a habit of using Haha constantly, much to my chagrin and deep personal shame. But if I go without it, and use short sentences with correct punctuation (like the way we write for the newspaper), people think I'm upset or something, even when I'm not.

>If you're legitimately laughing at something, you can't fail with an overwhelming "Hahahahaha." Or you can say, "I literally just LOL'd at that one." (I can't believe I'm writing about this stuff right now.)

>Obviously, using all capital letters is an effective way of showing somebody you're trying to yell at them in digital text.

>Exclamation points are the same way, but they are also used to show excitement. F. Scott Fitzgerald said you should never use exclamation points, because it's "like laughing at your own joke," so I've always tried my hardest not to use them. But Fitzgerald never had to send text messages to his wife, Zelda, who was eventually deemed clinically insane. If he had, I'm sure he would've used an exclamation point or two. I know I feel like I need to use them every once in a while. Especially when I'm conversing with crazy girls.

>If you receive a message that follows capitalized words with multiple exclamation points, then you can be fairly sure that things just got real. That's straight text message anger and/or passion right there, and if you were looking to get a reaction with whatever it was you said or did, you just got it.

>Don't be afraid to utilize ellipsis. You know, the three consecutive periods, like this: … According to Wikipedia (this is a blog about conveying emotion through texting, don't worry about my works cited page), an ellipsis can be used to "indicate a pause in speech, an unfinished thought, or, at the end of a sentence, a trailing off into silence. When placed at the end of a sentence, the ellipsis can also inspire a feeling of melancholy longing."

Melancholy longing? That's a pretty significant emotion to be able to convey in a text message, and you can use it to instill fear and doubt in anybody you're talking to. End a message with …, and the person is always left wondering.

>It's probably not a bad idea to have a personal sign off to end conversations. Kind of like how Walter Cronkite and Edward Murrow would end their broadcasts with "And that's the way it is," and "Good night, and good luck," respectively. That way, people will always know when the conversation has concluded.
Think of it as the texting version of hanging up. Sure, you could just say goodbye, but you may as well establish your individualism in some way through texting.

My Mom gave me this idea, actually. She recently began texting, and is pretty slow at it. So when she has nothing else to say, instead of typing out "have a good night" or "talk to you tomorrow," she ends our text message conversations with "XO" or "XOXO." I guess the X means a hug, and O means a kiss (I never understood this symbolism, but I digress).

You can personalize your own. I'm still working on mine, but think she might really be onto something.

>Use emoticons. I never thought I'd say this and I still hate using them, but sometimes they can be crucial. It's tough not to feel a little ridiculous when you're texting a smiley face or a wink, but it's kind of unavoidable. I can understand how a lot of guys feel weird using them in messages to girls, but look at it this way: If you're attempting to establish a romantic relationship with a girl, aren't you already saying absurd things in your text messages that your friends would make fun of you incessantly for anyway? May as well go all out.

...I think I should take a break from texting.

School's out forever

2011-02-21T21:12:00.000-05:00

*Originally published on altoonamirror.com

When I woke up this morning and realized it was Penn State's first day of fall semester classes, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia for my recently concluded days as a college boy.

The same thing happened last Thursday, when I was covering Penn State Altoona's move-in day. When I saw all those freshmen scrambling all over campus, exuding a palpable excitement at the prospect of starting a brand new phase of their lives, I had a couple flashbacks -- not unlike a character in Lost -- to my first days at Penn State Behrend, in Erie. It's tough to believe that was only four years ago. Now I'm an old man. A couple weekends ago my brother pointed out some gray spots in my facial stubble (and that was harsh news, considering I'm going gray before I can even grow a respectable beard).

In both instances, I felt something I guess I have to describe as envy, but only fleetingly. This is because I'm going to miss college, but I don't really have any qualms with being done with it and getting on with the rest of my life, which I know is a sentiment many of the friends I graduated with in May don't share. All I had to do was sign on to Facebook this morning and see everyone with a "real world" job expressing their desire to be back at University Park for what we like to call a "super senior year."

Don't get me wrong, I loved college as much as movie character Van Wilder and inadequate rapper Asher Roth -- the guy responsible for a terrible song called "I Love College" that somehow reached popularity a couple years ago. If you ask me to name the 10 greatest times of my life, I'd say half of them have taken place in the past four years. The kind of lifestyle I lived in college is one I will probably never be able to replicate, and my body is likely thankful for that. (It turns out a steady diet of Domino's pasta bread bowls, Kung Pao chicken and Natural Light combined with an almost complete absence of exercise is not good for mortal longevity.) I'll never be able to spend as much time with my friends as I did through the past four years, either. I miss them already, since we've spread out all over the country, and that was the worst part for me about college coming to an end. I don't cry myself to sleep (that often) or anything, but it's still saddening sometimes.

That doesn't mean I wanted to remain a college student my entire life, though, which I guess is why I stayed the course and got out of there in the requisite four year time frame. Toward the end of my college career, I was actually getting frustrated with the classes I had to complete to earn my degree (and believe me, I'm not trying to indirectly say that I'm smart, because that's certainly not the case). I felt like I was just spinning my wheels when I could be out in the world doing something, like writing about education in Blair County, for example. When I took my last final in the beginning of May, I was genuinely happy I was done with school and could soon begin my job. (When I finished this test I took it to the front of the room, gave it to the teacher's assistant, drop-kicked my pen in the direction of the garbage can and pretty much sprinted out the classroom door. I take the old "no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks" nursery rhyme very seriously, and I knew I had to be emphatic about it the last time I got to celebrate the sentiment.)

When I look at it from a monetary standpoint, I'm thrilled to be done with college. That's something kids don't seem to talk so much about. I'm always going to be thankful for the education I received from Penn State, because I wouldn't be in the position I am right now without it, but I'm glad I don't have to pay tuition anymore. It's hard to describe the amazing feeling of getting paid to do what you love after having to pay an exorbitant amount of money to become qualified to do so.

As I mentioned before, I liked a lot of things about college, and they made me happy at the time. If I stayed in college for another four years, though, the significance of the things I could do while I was a student would wane and then eventually disappear. College life, like so many other things, has a diminishing margin of appreciation. The more time you spend there, the less amazing it is to you. (Think of it as if you were a young child who got to go to Chuck E. Cheese once every few months. You'd appreciate it more than if you went every weekend.) People mature, and as that happens different things make them happy. It's a bit odd right now, to be stuck in kind of a transitional period where a cheap beer special makes me happy, but so does the increasing ability to adequately match my shirt and tie when I'm dressing for work. Sometimes I get excited to go out with my friends, but I've found recently I get almost as excited for the Sunday night programming on HBO and AMC while I gear up for another work week. I'm adjusting, and enjoying doing so.

I think the thing people tend to forget, especially immediately after graduating from college, is that so much of what you experience there are things you get to take with you. I'm never going to forget lots of the information I studied in college, and I'm never going to be without the amazing friends I was fortunate enough to make there. This is especially true these days, with Facebook, Skype and everything else that's available. I mean, I have trouble not staying in touch with people I'm trying to forget about, so I'm not worried about staying close with my friends.

I'm sure a time will come years down the road, when I'm married and have children -- if I'm fortunate enough for either of those to happen -- when I'll think about how I would love to just go back and live like a college kid again. I hope if that happens I'll remember how I was looking forward to life beyond college around the time I wrote this, and that although the memories from that time will always be important for me, my happiness has evolved and belongs elsewhere.

And if that doesn't dissuade me, I'll just drink a Natural Light. Then I definitely won't want to go back.

I & I: Growing Up with Bright Eyes

2011-02-15T23:35:00.001-05:00

Last Tuesday night, one of my friends showed me a YouTube video Bright Eyes had released of a listening party of their new album, The People’s Key. You could listen to the entire record while watching a couple members of the band and some other random people (along with a dog) wandering in and out of the room, drinking and listening. This development further fueled the gleeful feeling I’d felt the day before when I found out the album had been made available to stream in full on NPR’s website.

I guess glee isn’t an emotion most normal people associate with Bright Eyes, but there you have it.

I sat down on the couch and placed my laptop on my coffee table to watch and listen. I decided I’d take notes throughout, so I could write a review – because I’m sure there won’t be very many of those coming out in the coming weeks.

I wrote a few things down during my listening party of a listening party, and when I read back over them during a brief pause in the music while frontman Conor Oberst flipped the vinyl, I decided it’d be kind of stupid of me to review something Oberst had come out with. The notes I had at that point read like something an adolescent girl would write about a new Justin Bieber single. I almost wanted to rip the sheet out and fold it up very intricately, then pass it to a girl as subtly as possible while I blushed profusely.

I realized a review of this album would be terribly biased if done by me. It’d read like a sales pitch, really, because I’ve been unable to find fault with anything Oberst has come out with since I became an avid Bright Eyes listener nearly a decade ago. I’ll be the first to admit that I have a pretty hefty man crush on the guy, and he is undoubtedly my favorite living musician. If I wrote a review of The People’s Key, the finished product would probably be very similar to Kanye West reviewing one of his own albums (minus the CAPS lock). My adoration prevents me from being critical, like how love makes you blind.

My older brother, Kevin, introduced me to Bright Eyes when I was 13. He gave me a burnt version of Lifted or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground shortly after it was released in 2002. This would probably be a better story if I said I listened to it and fell in love with everything about it immediately, but that isn’t the case. I listened to the first 10 minutes or so, and didn’t dig it at all. The first eight minutes consisted of a guy and girl speaking unintelligibly while they were in a car, and the first song didn’t seem like anything too special. I was quick to dismiss it. I told my brother this, and said Dashboard Confessional was much better. I didn’t think this Oberst guy was nearly as talented a lyricist as Chris Carrabba. My brother told me that I was just completely wrong. I disagreed and then went back into my bedroom, probably to listen to Good Charlotte or something.

A few months later, I heard the song “Bowl of Oranges” while we were sitting in our hotel room on a rainy day during our family’s annual beach vacation. I told Kev it wasn’t bad. Truth was, I thought it was great, but had too much pride in my flawless musical taste to admit that he may have been onto something when he gave me Lifted.

“Yeah, that’s a good one, but that’s not how most of his songs sound,” he said, and then we had a marathon listening session.

This is really fucking melodramatic, but I do not believe I have ever been the same.

I won’t downplay the possibility that I was probably in the perfect position at the time to become a Bright Eyes fan, because I got into them while I was experiencing my first instance of heartbreak (if you can legitimately call it that at such an age), which is something Oberst addressed in his songs of the time as often as Juvenile addresses bitches and expensive cars. He made melancholy his territory the way Bob Marley made marijuana his.

Oberst and I were both sad and pissed off, it seemed, but the difference was that he was much, much better at being sad and pissed off than I was or thought I ever could be. I began listening to Bright Eyes constantly, and pasting his lyrics in my AOL Instant Messenger profile, because he had this knack for always saying the things I was feeling and wanted to say but was unable to articulate on my own. Back then, that was how you let others know about your emotions.

When my ex-girlfriend (if you can legitimately call it that at such an age) took her affection elsewhere and I found out about it from a friend of hers, I listened to “Haligh, Haligh, a Lie, Haligh” incessantly. I’d drink in my friend’s basement and lament my loss while we listened to “If Winter Ends” and claimed that we drank to stay warm while we killed selected memories. We were like seasoned alcoholic divorcees, not high school freshmen stealing gin from our parents.

Throughout high school and into college, I was able to keep drawing parallels between my life and the songs Oberst would sing. The only difference was the lyrics now found themselves on my Facebook profile as AIM became antiquated and I needed to find another digital way to express myself. I would rely on his old songs to put words to my emotions, and then he’d come out with newer stuff that seemed to be almost directed toward what I was experiencing (and yes, obviously some of this was because I was looking for these partial similarities). When I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning and Digital Ash in a Digital Urn came out at the same time during my senior year of high school, it was like some kind of holiday for me. I remember being happy with life in general at that time. I was old enough then to actually date someone seriously, and I was doing that. So, I was just absolutely floored when I heard “First Day of My Life.” It didn’t mesh with the rest of the album emotionally, really, but it showed me that Oberst was capable of being decently happy and singing about it.

When that relationship decayed, I went back to my old ways and listened to “Gold Mine Gutted” and pretty much all of his other sad songs. I was living in Pennsylvania and drinking on the weekends, and I also hoped I’d never see this girl again, so “Landlocked Blues” became a favorite.

In college, I somehow managed to sleep with a female friend. I’d been in love with her since high school, but had drifted into the purely Platonic zone and stayed there, until we got drunk and went at it in her dorm room one night. She didn’t want things to change between us, though, and I was pretty saddened by this. I listened to “Take it Easy, Love Nothing” so often in the following months that my roommate wanted to strangle me. The song – which was somehow simultaneously gritty and Super Nintendo techno-sounding – and its lyrics encapsulated almost exactly how I was feeling. I didn’t want to have feelings for anyone, and would be fine taking my vengeance out on other girls (who had nothing at all to do with my friend and the way she viewed our relationship) by way of fake stoicism and meaningless sex. It was perfect.

I can’t say I wasn’t emo.

Cassadega came out in 2007, Bright Eyes went on tour, and then Oberst disappeared for a while. Later

that year, I threw myself into the most serious and long-lasting relationship I’ve been in so far in my 23 years on earth. I was so in love, I remember, that I would actually avoid Bright Eyes. I felt like I didn’t need to hear much depressing music. I listened to more upbeat stuff, and even found myself enjoying some of the sentiments on Boyz II Men’s greatest hits album, Legacy. It was disgusting. When I talk to my friends about that era, they say that I was literally “a different person.”

I guess when you’re very emotionally invested in something and it ends, it’s almost always going to be kind of a terrible experience. The way this particular relationship ended was, for lack of any better description, extremely bad. It was just before the end of my sophomore year. I was totally devastated, and I did two things: I took a summer internship at a newspaper hours and hours away from her and everybody else I knew, and I started listening to Bright Eyes again. All the time. I think my time at that internship might have been a period when I was the most acutely upset I’ve ever been over a woman. I would even listen to Bright Eyes while I was running, although it strikes me as very atypical music to listen to during physical exertion.

My internship ended on Friday, August 1, 2008. The next Tuesday, Oberst’s self-titled album came out. I’d been essentially living under a rock most of the summer, splitting my time between an office and the beach and a tiny apartment with no Internet, so I hadn’t read up on how Oberst had gone to Mexico to record Conor Oberst with some friends he eventually dubbed The Mystic Valley Band.

The first time I listened to it, I couldn’t even fucking believe it. Had it been out in May, it would’ve easily been the soundtrack to my summer. If my self-serving analysis is correct, the majority of the album was not only about love lost, but about leaving places of familiarity to regroup from the aforementioned love loss.

I read an interview with Oberst later that month, and he spoke about breaking up with his longtime girlfriend, musician Maria Taylor. After that, he left for Moab, Utah, and then Tepoztlan, Mexico, where he recorded the album. Both were desolate, foreign places.

When Outer South came out in May 2009, I listened and was surprised there was very little talk of female-induced depression at all. Things seemed to be looking up for Oberst, and, oddly enough, the same was happening for me.

Oberst’s work with The Mystic Valley Band was different musically than most Bright Eyes songs, but it seemed like he was still coming out with stuff that I could really empathize with. He was still angry, but not as angry, and women didn’t seem to be such a catalyst for the remaining anger.

This was fine, I thought, and I felt the same way myself. I was a big fan of The Mystic Valley Band. I went to see them play live, and would list it among my favorite shows even though Oberst didn’t play one Bright Eyes song. (He and Ben Kweller did cover the theme from Ghostbusters, though.) Most of my friends didn’t like it so much, because they’d gotten so used to Oberst being a very, very sad person, or at least portraying one through his music.

I was no longer as upset or infatuated with heartbreak as I had been when I was a teenager. It was still there, somewhere, but it wasn’t such a severe feeling anymore. I was at a point where it wasn’t really a necessity for him to come out with more sad songs, because I didn’t feel like I’d be affected by them in the same way. I was learning how to really embrace being alone, and to not make some big deal out of it. I’d learned that there could always be something upsetting about relationships, but that all the time and energy I was dedicating to the aftermath wasn’t really worth it, or helping anything.

(I was still angry, though, and with no real reason to be.)

So, when he formed Monsters of Folk with M. Ward and Yim Yames, and released another album that had little to do with break-ups, I really enjoyed that, too. Their studio video for “Temazcal” became a staple for me during my drunken, late-night YouTube binges that happened frequently during my senior year of college.

I really expected The People’s Key to be Oberst’s return to more saddening songs. I guess I’m like a lot of other people, and have been programmed to associate Bright Eyes with that emotional mindset.

The record is sad as Hell, but it’s not sad about girls. It’s sad about things worth being sad about, like a friend committing suicide (a big contribution to “Ladder Song,” I’ve read), which must trump any feeling some girl is capable of instilling upon you. I’ve grown up listening to Bright Eyes, and will always immensely value the type of music that makes me feel better about relationships (even though I have definitely, definitely hurt more women than women have hurt me). I will value The People’s Key, too, but in a different way. I’ll value it because it gives me some kind of hope that I’ll eventually grow up and distance myself from my lingering sensitivity to female rejection. If Conor Oberst isn’t so pissed off about girls anymore, then I suppose I don’t need to be either. I can still worry about things more than I should, but maybe now they’ll be things worth worrying about; things in the future, and not in the past.

Supposedly, this is the last Bright Eyes record. If that’s true, then I’ll have no more new songs to draw parallels from and mold to events pertaining to my own life. From Oberst, maybe, but not from Bright Eyes. My emotions won’t have any new words from Bright Eyes to use for vicarious purposes. My experiences will be all mine, now, and maybe I’ll find some way to put my own words to them. I’ve probably always been foolish in my thinking that my life is anything like Oberst’s. If the guy is nothing else, he’s an individual, and no two instances of heartbreak are exactly the same, either. They’re like fingerprints or something from Lady Gaga’s closet.

If The People’s Key is it for Bright Eyes, then the final new words of the final song on the record (before Denny Brewer’s last creepy-ass monologue that I actually enjoy, go figure) will be the last new words I’ll ever hear Oberst record under that moniker. The song is called “One for You, One for Me,” and they are as follows:

“You and me, that is an awful lie. It’s I and I.”

I’m almost certain that line wasn’t addressed to me, but, as usual, I can empathize.

I probably couldn’t have said it better myself, either, but it did seem like a suitable goodbye.

My first ever advice column

2010-12-31T18:16:00.004-05:00

I never thought this would be something I’d be doing, but then my friend told me I should and so I’ll give it a shot. It’s a relationship/sex advice column for women.

E-mailed questions were sent to me by females, and I’m going to try my best to give them an answer.  What qualifies me to do this? Nothing tangible. I haven’t been good with relationships or sex really, and I’m sure you could find many women who would readily attest to one, the other or both. One girl I know told me the idea of me writing a relationship advice column was probably the funniest thing she’d ever heard, and she told me I should provide a disclaimer “to be fair to women.”

I can do that.  

DISCLAIMER: My advice might not work for you. If it seems like it might not be the best idea to follow my advice, then don’t. You don’t always have to take it when it’s offered, kind of like a hand job. If it seems like I told some kind of joke at some point in my answer, then it’s probably a joke and you shouldn’t really do it. If you can’t figure it out one way or another, just e-mail me again and I’ll shoot you straight.  

Anyway, my friends who are girls have always seemed comfortable talking to me and asking me for advice. I’m not sure why at all, but that’s the way it’s been since high school, and I’m completely fine with it. I like listening to these girls’ problems and questions, and I like spending time thinking of advice they might benefit from. If I can help a platonic friend on her journey toward happiness, then that’s great. That way, I’ll have to listen to less bitching from them in the future.  

I’ve been in love before, but I’m not now. Every time I’ve fallen in love, I have messed it up. I’ve messed up relationships when they haven’t even been very serious. I’ve messed up relationships when they weren’t even really defined as relationships. But, come on.   Do you really want your relationship advice from somebody who met their significant other in high school and then got married before they were legally allowed to drink? I sure as Hell don’t. (Case in point: I just came across a friend’s Facebook status. She got married earlier this year, at 22: “My awesome husband is taking me to get paint so we can paint our living room and hallway!!!!!!! Made my entire month!! :)” ) Do you want advice on romantic bliss from a person whose month has been made because her husband bought her some fucking paint?  

*NOTE: I've caught some flack for this one, and now I feel bad. There is nothing wrong with being happy about paint, or with being married. I was joking, and I apologize if I was offensive.

A lack of romance in my life -- and some misguided desire to acquire it -- has allowed me to evaluate it in others, whether it be for real, in a Nicholas Sparks book (I’ve read a few, so what?) or by way of a television show or rom-com. If you spend the majority of your life in a successful relationship, you don’t have to think about the problems that plague people who haven’t come across what you have just yet. If you spend the majority of your life not in one, then you spend a lot of time thinking about why this might be.  

I’ve learned from a combination of observation, discussion, research and personal experience through the years. The amount of time I’ve spent thinking about what I could’ve done differently to make various relationships (and even one-night-stands) work out has been substantial, even if I haven’t benefited too much from it so far. I’ve always told people I’m better at giving advice than following it.  

These are real e-mails from real women. I’m only using the first initial of their first name, because I said anonymity was allowed, and none of them signed their letters “Lonely in Pittsburgh,” or “Sleepless in Seattle,” or “Horny in Flint,” so this seemed like a logical way to do things.

If you like what you read and want to ask me a question, e-mail me at srm5082@gmail.com   

***

 I have been dating my boyfriend for over six months, and lately something  has really come to bother me. He never takes me out. However, when we do on  a rare occasion I end up having to pay for myself. In addition, when he  "spots" me money, he continuously reminds me that I have to pay him back  for it. I understand having a guy pay for everything for his girlfriend is greedy and selfish, but I do believe in chivalry somewhat and think that paying every so often wouldn't be such a sin. He has a steady job  and works, so not having money is not the issue here. I want to bring it  up to him, however I really don't know a nice way to mention it. Do you  think I should bring this problem up or just let it go? And if so, what  do I say to not come off as stuck up?
 ~S  

At the very least, your boyfriend should be taking you out occasionally, and paying for the date. Every guy who deserves to have lost his virginity before age 25 knows this is the way it’s supposed to be, and most of us will take girls out and pay whether we agree with it or not. I know we’re not living in the Victorian era, but chivalry’s not dead. It’s understandable if sometimes you guys split a check or something, but it should kind of be a matter of pride for a guy not to allow his girlfriend to pay for dates, especially if cash flow isn’t a problem. This is borderline unacceptable, unless he surprises you this Christmas with something big, like a Lexus, hundreds of shares of stock in Apple or a gift certificate that allows you to touch Ryan Reynolds's abs for an hour.  

And when he spots you money, he nags you about it? That’s ridiculous. I’ve never done this, but I think it’d probably make it a bit harder for me to get laid if, as I was entering my girlfriend’s bedroom, I said, “Hey, S, just remember you owe me those $3 from when I paid your cover at the bar tonight,” or “I bought you that slice of pizza, so you’re gonna have to pick up the condoms next time. And don’t get Magnums again, either, because that’s wasteful and not funny. You don’t put a garbage bag on a broomstick, do you? We can't even use those until we blow them up and hit 'em around at the Dave Matthews concert next summer.” 

You could bring it up point blank, but that’d be a weird conversation to have. I'd recommend getting passive aggressive instead. That’s how the general public addresses their relationship problems anyway. Make him realize on his own, by taking certain indirect actions. The first I'd recommend -- and probably the one that will be most effective -- is simple: Quit putting out. I guess many people would hate to admit it, but everybody knows deep down that dating is, at its core, a legal method of prostitution. In the back of every guy's mind when he's on a date is the thought that maybe, just maybe, he'll get laid; and if not, he'll be setting himself up for a time in the future when he might get laid. I once took a girl out on Valentine's Day, and we went to the wrong damn restaurant. I had to pay $140 for a two-person dinner. It was unbelievable, but my mood was lightened because I knew there was no way I wasn't getting laid after dropping that much on a meal (and also my girlfriend liked to have a lot of sex). Maybe once he locked you down in a relationship, he started to take it for granted and decided he didn't have to pay for it anymore. It's kind of like that old saying, "Don't give the milk away without selling the cow," or something like that, about not having sex before marriage. But I guess that's way outdated.  

I understand not getting any might suck a little bit for you, too, (I know it all too well) but how bad can it really be? I have a hard time believing that a guy who can't find a check on a restaurant table is able to find a clitoris in any condition, especially in the dark.   

To encourage him making a payment, leave the table to go to the bathroom as soon as the server sets down the check, then come back 10 minutes later. He'll start to feel awkward when the waitress circles by for the fourth time and the bill still isn't ready. Who cares if he thinks you're taking a shit or blowing rails in the john? You ladies gotta do what you gotta do.  

You could also play the TLC song “No Scrubs” at every opportunity. Play it in the car, make it your ringtone, insert it into your favorite sexual slow jams playlist, etc. If he doesn’t get the message when a song about T-Boz, Left Eye and Chilli refusing to date a deadbeat is sandwiched between Kci & JoJo and Keith Sweat, then all is lost.   I guess you’re going to have to ask yourself whether you want to spend another half a year (and even more, potentially) with a guy who's going to be a douche bag when it comes to finances for the entirety of your relationship. If he’s not going to buy you an entree, do you think he’ll be very great about putting a down payment on a home? You'll have to decide, I guess, if his unwillingness to be chivalrous outweighs whatever other reasons you might have for dating him.  

I dated this guy 6 months ago...We only dated for a month and then I broke things off just because it wasn't working. Since then I recently met a  new guy. Unfortunately....the new guy happens to be my ex-boyfriend's best friend. We've already hooked up and gone on numerous dates....but the ex  found out and completely forbid it. His friend is a bit conflicted, but  clearly not conflicted enough to quit hanging out with me. Basically my  question is...is it ever okay to date your ex-boyfriends friend?
 ~K  

The answer to your core question: Yes, sometimes it is.

This has more to do with the guys’ relationship and what your new dude decides to do than it does with anything you might do, though. If new guy (we’ll call him Clyde), ignores other guy’s (Reggie) embargo on dating you, then you’re vindicated and can feel free to date him harder than Ross dated Rachael (ladies can always get down with a Friends reference).

Let me explain something, though: If you’ve hooked up with both guys, then they are now Eskimo Brothers. If you’re unfamiliar with the term, you become another’s Eskimo Brother when you have both had sex with the same girl. (I’m assuming by “hooked up” you mean had sex, and my apologies if I’m incorrect. I understand the term means different things to different people, just like the terms “dating” and “mature” and “biscuit”. Usually my friends and I just walk around yelling that we fucked someone, so there’s very little ambiguity.)

Once a guy knows this, it cannot be erased from his mind unless he has some sort of accident that induces amnesia. Eskimo Brothers are such for life, and you need to realize that Clyde will never look at you and not know that Reggie also has carnal knowledge of you. Since Reggie wasn’t all like “Bro go ahead and date her because I’m not going to be a jealous prick who’s holding onto the past,” he’s probably going to make sure Clyde knows it on the regular, or at least when he gets wasted.

I know my duty here isn’t really to make you worry about something you probably weren’t even considering before, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t. Hopefully, he’s like me and most other people, and can look past the fact that you’ve been with his friend. Not everybody is this way, though. I once had a girlfriend who would wig out frequently anytime we were in the presence of a girl I’d had sex with before I’d even met or begun talking to her. It was uncomfortable.

What you need to do is tell Clyde you have absolutely zero feelings for Reggie, and that you’ve totally and completely moved on. Then, have him talk to Reggie and set him straight.

  In lieu of the upcoming holidays [I got this e-mail a while back, but procrastinated], how about something about gifts for significant others for Christmas, etc. Like, worst gifts you've ever heard of/best ideas you have. Also, I'm curious to your thoughts about whether these gifts should change as you get older/ as your relationship grows/ as you get hitched and babied [letter writer and her husband just celebrated their first Christmas with their brand new baby boy] and all that adult stuff. I.E. - I bought my husband a pair of slippers, a fancy, funky toiletry bag b/c he packs more than I do when we travel and a bag to haul firewood so that I can enjoy our fireplace. SO LAME, I know. Two years ago, pre-wedding and definitely pre-baby, I bought us a weekend away in an awesome hotel with a fancy romantic package that included a king-sized bed, an in-room jacuzzi tub and two giant flat-screen tv's for New Year's. I was pretty much Super Girlfriend that year.
 ~W

  Well, since the holidays are already over I guess I blew it on gift ideas, but for next year: Most guys will like most things, as long as it’s something that will benefit them more than it will benefit you. If you’re having a tough time with ideas, just go through an issue of GQ or Esquire, find something you think he’d dig, and then buy a version of the same thing that’s less expensive.

As far as worst holiday gifts, I can tell you that one time I took a girl to Ponderosa on Valentine’s Day. In my defense, I was young and it was kind of spur of the moment, so I hadn’t been able to make reservations. Also, my hometown is kind of short on fine dining, and those buttered rolls they have there are fucking awesome. Anyway, shortly thereafter the girl got back with her ex-boyfriend and didn’t talk to me or tell me about it for like a month, when I finally heard the news from her friend. So, yeah, that one was pretty bad. And best I’ve heard of? One time, a girl got me a basketball that was autographed by Steve Nash and all the other Phoenix Suns. Guys like that stuff. I miss that girl. Another time, I took a girl to a concert and afterward she took me to the bar she worked at, gave me free Johnnie Walker all night and then took me to a swanky hotel room she’d booked. That was great. Your Jacuzzi tub room with two TVs? That’s top of the line, too. You can never underestimate a man’s adoration of a nice television.

But yeah, I’d say those gifts should change throughout the years, because once you get married and start having children, I imagine the practical things become more and more important. Your husband probably values slippers more now after he’s been at work all day and caring for a child after than he probably would have when he was fresh out of college and his biggest worry was when the box of wine was going to run out (though I’ve always enjoyed a nice pair of slippers). These things aren’t lame, they’re just different. That doesn’t mean he won’t like them just as much as something you got him a few years ago. Once you get kind of “settled in” to your life, I’ve found you kind of want gifts with longevity. Sure, the romantic weekend getaways provide memories that last forever, but a man can rock the same pair of slippers and get stoked on always having warm feet for years and years. The romantic getaways can start up again whenever your children are a bit older. This is how my parents did it; they had their 25th wedding anniversary and went on a little weekend trip. Now they go away for a weekend like at least once a month. They go up to Erie, Pa., get hammered on wine and never, ever, have sex.   

Why and how do men cheat when they are "in love" 
~E

Why are men even in relationships when they cheat on their girlfriends? This happens ALOT, and I've been on both sides of the situation. Being cheated on sucks. And being the "girl on the side" - led on, lied to, and snuck around - also sucks. Men don't genuinely seem to care about either one of the girls, and I just wonder, whats the point? Is it some type of power/control mind game that guys just enjoy playing?
~S 

I’m going to take these two together.
 
E, the how has never ever been the question for me, if we’re talking physically. I’ve woken up every single day for as long as I can remember with a full-on erection, and until you reach a certain age or level of intoxication, it’s pretty easy to get a boner, and with it certain feelings that are almost uncontrollable. I spend an inordinate amount of time talking about my distaste for Lady Gaga and Drew Barrymore, and about my subsequent non-attraction to them, but if you were to put me alone in a room with one of them, I’d probably have no problems physically having sex with them. It’s disgusting, really, but that’s the way it is.

So how is easy to explain, but why is not. Oftentimes, guys use the how (the hormones and such) as the why, but that should never, ever be an excuse. Nor should being drunk. If you’re not too drunk to get an erection, then you’re not too drunk to lose all inhibition and get on someone who isn’t your girlfriend.

Cheating is a terrible thing that people shouldn’t do unless their significant other is a big cockbag, in which case they should just break up with them then go rail other people. S and E, I can’t tell you really why a guy would even bother being in a relationship if the girl he’s in one with isn’t the only one he’s going to have sex with. I think a lot of it might have to do with the fact that society makes being in a relationship seem like a pretty sweet deal, so people may actively try to get into them when the circumstances aren’t ideal; then, they go and do something fucked up like cheating.

I could get on my high horse and talk about how I’ve never (officially) cheated (though some girls might beg to differ, different stories for a different day), but I can’t really talk about that. I’ve spent like seven months in the last five years in an official relationship, but the reason I haven’t been in one is because I haven’t had a sustained connection with somebody I want to be with all the time and have sex with exclusively where all the circumstances have come together to make it work out. More guys and girls should take this route, I think. Less heart damage in the long run, and more appreciation for that person you finally find who most closely resembles what your imagination calls “the one.” Instead of worrying about why somebody may have cheated on you, or cheated on someone else with you, put your energies into finding somebody who won’t cheat period. I think if you find somebody you’re completely happy with, and vice versa, cheating will never be a problem. And, if you’re not going to be completely happy with someone, why enter and stay in a relationship with them?

I have been the “guy on the side,” so I can empathize, S. If this is happening to you and you’re somehow bothered by it, just don’t do it anymore. Don’t let yourself be put in that position; tell the guy if he likes you, then he should break up with his girlfriend. If he doesn’t, then just move on with your life. I understand this may be difficult to do if you care deeply about somebody, but if after a while they don’t ditch the girl and give you a monogamous shot, then they don’t care about you as much as you care about them. Find someone who does. 

My Year: A Review and Recap

2010-12-31T16:04:00.000-05:00

2010 was a pretty big year for me. Lots of stuff happened. Normally, on the last day of the year, I like to sit around thinking about the momentous occasions that have taken place throughout the past 365 days and nights while I listen to songs like “A Long December” by Counting Crows (because who doesn’t?) and “February 15th” by Bright Eyes.

This year, though, I’ve decided to recap some of the significant events of my year, while not listening to Counting Crows. It’s not that I don’t dig the song, it’s just that if you listen to the same song at the end of every single year that pounds it into your head that maybe the coming year will be better than the last, it kind of gives you a pessimistic view of the year that’s ending.

Fuck that. I had a pretty decent year, in some ways. And, since I’m a huge narcissist who likes to write things about himself in the first person, and since I think people want to read it if it’s put into a public forum, I decided to write about it.

-I made my Mom cry. Twice. But in a good way. The first was because I graduated college. I don’t remember much about the actual graduation ceremony, because I spent most of it Tweeting nonsense because I was still drunk and didn’t want to really walk in the first place (@scottmuska). I do remember afterward, though, when my parents took me to lunch and I drank my first ever shot with them. That was kind of a momentous occasion for somebody who ranks drinking in his Top 3 favorite activities alongside masturbation and eating -- after much thought, actual sex was booted from the Top 3, due to infrequency. Later on, my Mom cried a little bit. She doesn’t cry too often, so it meant a lot.

A week later, I was leaving my childhood home two days before I started my first job. I was about to get into my car, and my Mom started crying, again because she was proud of me, she said. That might’ve been the proudest of myself I’ve ever been, in that moment. Well, it’s up there anyway.

-We had this thing called senior week at the end of our final college semester. It was between finals and graduation day, and I hung out with my college friends for most of it. It was an amazing time, and kind of our swan song. We’d spent four years doing a lot of dumb shit, always together, and this was the end of it. One day during this week, we had Beer Olympics, and we won. The teamwork was the best part.

-I was pretty broke around spring break time, so I forewent a trip to Florida in favor of a week in majestic Tidioute, Pennsylvania. Basically, it’s the middle of nowhere. A bunch of us went to camp, and bonded the entire week. While we were there, I helped actually brand one of my friends with a fire poker. I also ate a lot of red meat and shot a gun for the first time in my life. This place was the closest to being in Woody Creek living like Hunter S. I might ever get.

-As I mentioned, I got a job. It’s at a newspaper in central Pennsylvania; I had to start somewhere. I dig it, though. I get to write all day and stuff, and one of the days somebody actually called me a journalist. I’m actually doing professionally what I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can recall. Or at least since I figured out I wouldn’t make it to the NBA. This helps me sleep a little bit at night, but not much.

-The day I found out about this job was probably one of the most memorable of the year. I’d pretty much figured I wasn’t going to get it, for one reason or another, but then my editor called me one morning.

I was sleeping at the time of the call, so I rolled out of bed and answered my phone. I sat down on the little chair in my bedroom and braced myself for rejection. Instead, I got a job offer, and immediately began freaking out.

Yep. I accepted my first job as a professional staff writer while I was wearing only boxer briefs.

-In June, I moved into my first real apartment, where I live alone. It’s amazing having your own space. Girls have been there, but not romantically. Actually, it has been the exact opposite: Something resembling a romance that had taken place over a period of years came to a conclusion in that apartment. I’m hoping to change that pattern this year. Ladies?

-In July, my family’s dog, who I had grown up with, died. She lived a long time, though. Long enough in people years to have her driving learner’s permit. I wrote an essay about it that got me probably the most recognition I’ve gotten for anything I’ve written so far. So, yeah, I guess in some way I ended up profiting from my dog’s death, which is weird, but I don’t think she would’ve minded. She probably would’ve given me a pound. Yes, Tori did know how to give pounds. I taught her that once.

-I saw Ben Folds play “The Luckiest” for his wife the night before Valentine’s Day. It made me re-evaluate my attitude concerning living and dying alone. That was a good night.

-I had several encounters and interactions that proved to me that people are not always who they seem to be, and a person must be very careful when they’re trying to imagine a certain person into existence. A person with these traits you’re imagining may be out there, but they might not be that person you’re trying to attach these traits to.

-I grew out my hair, and then I cut it all off. I’ve finally made peace with the fact that I can’t do much more than rock a buzz cut, but I’ll probably still keep trying. Maybe someday I’ll end up with a fucking awesome haircut, and I’ll be very excited about it. Because there is no better feeling in the world than doing something even you thought -- even fleetingly -- that you couldn’t do.

-Fifteen minutes ago, my Mom came into the room and we started talking about something very unserious that quickly became serious. Eventually it came to her telling me that, in life, you can’t spend time doing things that aren’t fulfilling to you or that contribute to the quality of life of others. I could die when I’m 40 from something I have no control over. If I do, I’m probably going to be pissed that I spent so many hours running on a fucking treadmill. You’ve got to do things that make you happy. Hunter S. Thompson had this quote that goes like this: “Kick ass, die young.” I don’t completely agree with that, but you may as well do the ass kicking part, and you may as well get started with it now. Years from now, you’re not going to want to be thinking or saying the words “too late” too often. Because that will make you bitter.

Have a really happy New Year’s celebration. Enjoy yourselves.

Sports are sports

2010-11-17T23:21:00.002-05:00

***I wrote this the day before Penn State lost to Ohio State. I was going to post it on my work blog, but didn't feel like reading it over. I figured since I'm so conceited that I think everything I write should somehow see the light of day (i.e. Internet), I'd post it on here.

***
Do I want Penn State to win tomorrow? Absolutely. I want them to win every time they play, and especially when they’re playing a Big 10 rival like Ohio State who has a quarterback with something akin to a God Complex.

I like football, and I like Penn State more than I like any other team. Whether I deserved to or not, I graduated from there and have a diploma (more on that later). It’d be an awesome story for walk on quarterback Matt McGloin to lead the team to victory over semi-Heisman candidate Terrelle Pryor. It’d be lots of fun to watch, and probably even more fun to call my friends who graduated from Ohio State and let them have it, like I was somehow responsible for the victory and didn’t just sit there yelling at a television.

Again, just so we’re clear: I want Penn State to win tomorrow, and I really hope they do.

Do I think they will, though? No. Not really.

The reason it’d be such a great story is because a Penn State victory is so unlikely. They’re unranked and starting a guy who was their third string quarterback a month ago, while Ohio State is ranked No. 8 in the AP poll and is starting Pryor, who some seem to think is the bee’s knees.

Does my prediction show some kind of flaw in my support for Penn State? I don’t think so. I make my prediction based on realism. If I was betting $100 on the game, I’d bet on Ohio State, because that’s the logical pick and I could use an extra c-note.

There is a difference between what I want and what I think is going to happen. I want to marry Blake Lively, but I really don’t think that’s going to happen. (I hope I am wrong.) I’m a realist, at least when it comes to sports, and I don’t think there’s too much wrong with that.

I know at least one person who does, though.

***

I woke up this morning to a text message from a friend of mine. It said (completely unprompted) “I despise Ohio people.” (Ohioans?) It then went on to say something unsavory about how they’re all born a certain way. It rhymes with Max Soles, a homicide detective with an eye patch and pistachio addiction who I just made up. She’s currently in Ohio, and is going to the game tomorrow. She graduated from Penn State, too, and as you’ll see in a moment, she’s pretty passionate about it.

She followed this statement with an “LOL,” so I didn’t know if she was being serious. I responded with the text, “Haha don’t stereotype” because I don’t like stereotypes, am a very self-righteous person and also for some reason love initiating conflict when it’s really not necessary at all.

She then told me she has every right to stereotype Ohioans and say they’re, uh, not very nice people, because she hasn’t been proven wrong once, and she’s lived in a surrounding state/city her entire life. She went on to say that she doesn’t even consider it a state. “It’s the united 49 states and one mistake, ” she said. (Google reaffirmed for me that it is indeed a state, and that i has a population of about 11.5 million. There has to be at least one good person out of all them, right?)

I don’t want to name any examples, but this kind of thinking hasn’t really done much good. Ever.

I don’t know why this made me mad, really, because obviously some girl spouting off complete absurdities and judgements of people based on the state in which they were born isn’t something really even worth acknowledging, but I had to egg her on. It irked me that she was complaining about the entirety of a state when she had gone there of her own free will. On a trip for pleasure, too.

“So you went to a state you hate to see one of their college football teams beat the [excrement] out of the college you went to?” I typed and sent.

“No,” she replied. Then she said this, which I promise you I am not making up. I could not make this up if I tried. “I’m here to see them cry as we regain honor. A true fan believes in their team, doesn’t leave them in dust, supports them in their weakest hour to victory.”

Who is this girl? General Patton? William Wallace?

Then she told me I don’t deserve to be a Penn State alum. Because I predicted the football team would lose. She told me I “should be pummeled,” too.

I told her that was some of the dumbest stuff I’d heard in a while. “Honor? It’s a sport,” I said. “Weakest hour to victory? They aren’t soldiers.”

I think that’s what had made me upset, kind of like when I got upset when former Miami tight end Kellen Winslow told reporters that he was a soldier. I absolutely hate it when people compare sports to war, for reasons any sensible person should be able to discern.

Sports are sports. She told me that it unites thousands upon thousands of people at Penn State (which it does), and because of this it’s something more than a sport.

So, yeah, I guess it is. It’s a bunch of people getting together to watch a sport and hope for a favorable outcome. I had always just assumed the fan part fell into the customary realm of sports. Without fans and spectators, sports like football would just be a fun workout, really.

Sports are great, and watching them is too. It gives you something to get excited about, and helps you escape other worries for a little while. They can be serious (I take them seriously) but they aren’t that important. I bet any player on the team would acknowledge that there are more important things in the world than sports.

I was told that I didn’t deserve to go to the school that groomed me for my first job, taught me some stuff and provided some of the greatest times I’ve ever had. Because of something football-related, from a girl who I guarantee could not name three starting offensive linemen on this year’s team.

People like this are completely irrational, and their ignorance doesn’t give a good name to the people they’re cheering for.

After we were done talking, I polled a few of my friends who also graduated from Penn State. Every single one of them (I spoke to about 20 people) predicted a loss, except for my friend Dave, who is apparently very optimistic. He said Penn State would win by a score of one million to zero.

“Whoever that [person] is needs a reality check,” one of my friends said, and I agree. She needs at least a couple.

(Here’s one. I looked up some people from Ohio and have found that six former presidents, including my man Ulysses S. Grant, who was instrumental in winning the Civil War. Ohio has also produced Steven Spielberg and R.L. Stine. I realize it sounds like I love Ohio or something, and that’s not the case. I’m just trying to prove a point.)

Even my friend Lenny, who is probably the biggest fan I know of Penn State football and the university in general said he thought it’d be a fun game to watch, but that he wasn’t too optimistic about the ultimate outcome.

“Realistically, I don’t think they’re going to win,” he said.

At some point after our conversation turned to football, Coach Paterno came up. This happens all the time, because he’s obviously the first person you think of (and one of the few people on the team who she can put a name to) when you think of Penn State football. She called him a legend, which he is.

I wonder which person he’d be more ashamed of being a Penn State alum: the guy who made a prediction that his team would lose, or the girl who seems to believe millions of people are inferior because of the state they live in.

Think before you speak is all I’m trying to say. And if you have any strange biases toward other states, just keep them to yourself, or you will sound like a fucking idiot.

UPDATE: Penn State got fucking spanked. I have yet to be beaten or stripped of my degree.

A Rumination on Shark Week

2010-08-06T18:50:00.009-05:00

I like the idea of Shark Week, but I don’t really like Shark Week. I feel this way about a lot of things, like the girl I thought I loved throughout most of high school or a healthy, vice free lifestyle. (Also fitting into this category: The band Animal Collective, Smucker’s Uncrustables peanut butter and jelly sandwiches/pastries and Crocs.

If you think about everything surrounding Shark Week, it seems like it’d be absolutely great. It’s become symbolic of something, but I’m not sure what, exactly. This year, Shark Week has been marketed by the Discovery Channel in a way I haven’t seen in previous years. The station has made it seem like Shark Week is a kind of holiday, calling it the “biggest week of summer” and have even gone as far as to dub it the “greatest week of the year” in some commercials.

This is obviously not true, because the greatest week of the year is either the week of Christmas, the first or last week of school (depending on whether you’re in college or primary/secondary school), one of the weeks you get off of work and get to go on vacation (if you’re an adult), or the first week of March Madness. But I digress.

One in about five (and that’s a conservative estimate) Facebook statuses has had the words “Shark Week” in it this week, and people have been buzzing about it all summer. I’m not sure when or how this started, but maybe it was when Tracy Morgan said people should “live every week like it’s shark week” on 30 Rock. Maybe it was when Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly got really pissed off because they weren’t allowed to watch TV during Shark Week. Maybe it’s a combination of all those things, and the other references to Shark Week that have been made in Pop Culture. I even went on a bar tour last year during the first week of school (or "syllabus week," christened so because all you do in class the first week of college semesters is go over the syllabus) called the "Syllabus Week/Shark Week" bar tour. This was because one of my friends had said, "syllabus week? May as well be Shark Week," and we all just thought that was fucking hilarious. People have Shark Week parties, and there’s a website where you can change a picture of yourself so it looks like you’re a shark. It has, somehow and at one point or another that I don’t think anybody can really pinpoint, become a popular culture phenomenon.

I think it’s cool that so many people get pumped up for something like this (or at least they seem to, it’s difficult to tell how genuine people are about the adoration they have for Shark Week and sharks in general), a week-long television event, because I like hype, especially when it doesn’t have to do with either Tiger Woods or Brett Favre.

Basically, everything about Shark Week is fucking awesome, except for one thing: It’s about sharks. What is so great about sharks? Nothing. There is nothing you can tell me that’s going to convince me that these fish warrant an entire week of programming on a channel with so much other great programming to offer. I would sit here and watch Ice Road Truckers and Deadliest Catch all week before I’d want to watch seven days of documentaries and shows about sharks. I’d even throw in that new show, The Colony, even though I’ve never seen it beyond commercials. (A guy making fuel out of animal fat seem intriguing, and maybe something I could use someday if I’m in dire straits.) I’m sure a lot of people would argue that Shark Week is intriguing because sharks are so “mysterious.” Lots of animals and fish are mysterious, especially ocean-dwelling ones. I think sharks are mysterious because there’s really not all that much to figure out about them. They attack things, eat them, and occasionally mate. The wildest thing I’ve seen them do is jump out of the water to catch prey on a program I’m watching now, called Air Jaws 2. This would make sharks more frightening than they already are, if they weren’t jumping out of the water and merking seals on some remote island I’ll never, ever even be near. The dudes on this show are saying that this is the only known place in the world that great whites jump out of the water, so it’s fun to watch for about five minutes before the complete irrelevance of it starts to bore me. It’s one of those things that’s pretty cool to see once, but after that they all look the same. Like anything Michael Cera is in.

Now, the programming has switched to some Australian man who I assume has dedicated his life to learning about sharks (for whatever reason), and he is in a yellow kayak, paddling through the water. Sharks are bumping his boat. There's a chance he could be tipped over and then eaten by a fucking great white shark. I'm not exactly sure what he intends to learn by doing this absolutely stupid thing, but I think he said something about wanting to see sharks mate. (This seems to be a focus of Shark Week, which is something I would've found cool in the fourth grade. Apparently, people don't see sharks mate often, but those that have describe it as a violent ritual that includes -- and holy shit this is a fucking shocker -- them biting one another!)

Aside from sharks being mysterious, people also seem to really dig talking about how watching Shark Week is so educational. I won't argue that it is. I've watched a bit of it this week and have learned some things I didn't previously know about sharks, like the fact that they're so fucking stupid that at a point every year they go through a phase where they just (yes, this is wild) bit one another for no reason. This isn't even when they're banging, either. They just bite one another, and scientists do not know why. I might know why: Because sharks are fucking stupid. They're primitive, and, as I stated before, they don't do anything that's really worthwhile beyond scaring humans into thinking they're going to be attacked by a shark if they go into the ocean. And honestly, they don't really even have much to do with that. It's human beings that make other human beings so frightened of sharks. According to the International Shark Attack File, 118 people were attacked world wide by sharks in 2008. Of those 118 incidents, 59 of them were considered "unprovoked," which would be the kind that might happen when we're taking a swim. Compare that with, say, lightning. On average, 2,000 people are injured because of lightning every year, and pretty much every one of them I would venture to say is unprovoked. Actually, most lightning strikes in history, with the exclusion of the one that zapped Ben Franklin, have probably been unprovoked. This information is according to Wikipedia. (Oh shut up. This obviously isn't a place to come for Cronkite-esque journalistic accuracy, and I seriously doubt somebody got on the Wikipedia page to put erroneous information on about the volume of lightning strikes per year. Get off my dick; this isn't a research paper. It should also be noted how cool and helpful Wikipedia is. At the top of the lightning page, it says "For the Snow Patrol song, see The Lightning Strike.)

Have you ever even looked at a shark? They just look fucking stupid. Apparently they have heightened senses, like an awesome sense of smell for blood, but not a lot as far as brains go (unless it's the fictional shark, Jaws, who was pretty much the Carl Sagan of sharks). So, realistically, you're watching educational programming, but it's about an unintelligent fish that lives in the sea that you'll probably never encounter unless you're eating one. Why do you need to learn about something that you'll never really use? If someone came up to me and told me sharks bite each other during sex, I'd probably take it the wrong way. (I'd think they wanted to have rough sex with me, and let's be honest. Who doesn't like a little mid-coital soft biting every now and then, right?) The information you get from Shark Week is utterly useless in pretty much any scenario. They actually have a show on this week where a guy shows you how to not get killed in a shark attack. That's like me watching a show on how to get laid by Liz Hurley. I'm never going to have the opportunity, so what's the fucking point?

I honestly learned more that I'll actually use from watching one hour of Jersey Shore than I did from the hours of Shark Week I watched. Some examples: Heavy-set ugly women are referred to as Grenade Launchers, and skinny ugly women are referred to as land mine. Also, fat girls that think they are hot are the worst fucking thing in the world; and they eat pickles.

You know, pertinent stuff.

I'm all for education, but you have to think about how plausible the education you're getting is. I would get pissed in college whenever I had to learn about astronomy, because I don't care about astronomy and will never use that knowledge. If you sit in front of the television for a week watching shit about sharks, you're learning stuff that you'll probably never ever use. Why not use that brain power to try and figure out how to plug up that oil spill, or to read a book about decision making (I suggest Blink by Malcolm Gladwell).

I think Discovery Channel should replace Shark Week with Lightning Week. Lightning can kill people too, and does so much more frequently, but it also serves a purpose. Without lightning striking Ben Franklin's kite, I might not be sitting here typing on this computer right now, or possess the Pabst Blue Ribbon Light I hope to hang directly over my bed (admittedly a stretch, because I'm sure somebody like Steve Jobs or Chuck Norris would've discovered electricity by now). If there was a show about how to avoid being struck by lightning, it'd help many more people.

So, I like the idea of everyone getting excited about an annual week-long educational programming TV block, but I don't like learning unnecessary shit about sharks.

I started to change my opinion a little bit when I heard so many Australian voices coming from the TV, and saw so many Foster's oil can commercials.

But then they showed a shark killing a baby penguin.

Endorsements: July

2010-07-30T15:49:00.002-05:00

Author's Note: I actually went back and read a little bit of this one, and thought it'd behoove me to let you know I was pretty hammered during the entirety of writing this. More so than usual. This could be a waste of time for you.

Every month I used to do an entry where I would express and comment on the random thoughts that plague my head for nearly 24 hours a day, including the hours during which I try to sleep. But then I got a Twitter, so I could just type up these random thoughts concisely and the same amount of people would read them as will probably read this (about three). I’m not saying I won’t do more random thoughts entries in the future, because I probably will. You can’t restrict all randomness to less than 160 characters. In the meantime, though, I’ve been kicking around some ideas I could do at least monthly that would be fun, and figured I’d concentrate on what I like. So, I’m going to endorse some things, and tell you why I endorse them. Maybe you’ll agree with me, and maybe you won’t. I’ll warn you right now: I’m not going to endorse Lady Gaga now or probably ever, unless she somehow finds a way to murder Chad Kroeger with a whale harpoon. (I’m contractually obligated to make fun of either Nickelback or something in reference to Lady Gaga every time I write something.)

Ties: I wear a tie pretty much every day for my job. I’m not saying this because I want you to think I’m sweet and have a very professional and high-paying job (because I don’t, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you because I like to pretend like I’m poor, so you can add “Being Bohemian” to my list of endorsements for the month), but because I’ve found a certain amount of power in wearing a tie that I never knew existed. You see, from grades seven to 12, I dressed not unlike Allen Iverson prior to the NBA instituting a dress code: baggy clothes that were much too large for me and were almost exclusively t-shirts and basketball shorts or sweatpants. I see pictures from that era and am reminded how much things and people change over time. Instead of me increasing my clothing size as I get larger, I’ve gone the opposite route. (I used to wear XXL t-shirts, and now I usually wear large. I’m not sure about my underwear size, because I don’t wear underwear.)

Anyway, I’m trying to say I became conscious of what modern fashion entails, and how to make myself look somewhat presentable, at least in a sartorial way. I’m pretty sure I could get by on most days without wearing a tie to work, based solely on the fact that a lot of the people I work with only wear them on days it would be rational to, when they know they’ll be going out of the office to conduct an interview or check out a court hearing and because nobody ever says anything to me when I don’t shave for like six consecutive days and look like a homeless person (the only thing separating me from one is the tie, actually). The reason I wear a tie is because it adds a certain level of “pinache” I wouldn’t normally have, especially because I enjoy wearing paisley ones and other ridiculous types. It makes you look a little better than you would have otherwise, no matter what.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, it takes roughly 30 seconds, give or take, to put on a tie in the morning. Do it. That’s like 1/87th how long it takes those kids from Jersey Shore to do all that stupid shit to their hair that only makes them look like a tanner version of me in my fourth grade school yearbook picture (minus the turquoise turtleneck, which could actually be considered more fashionably acceptable now than a fucking Affliction t-shirt). You might get some compliments from the girl who works at Sheetz who sometimes will hook you up with extra croutons and grilled chicken on your salad, especially if you’re rocking that white, navy and baby blue paisley Michael Korrs number she complimented you on that one day.

Also, I have it on good authority that, if you take a woman out and you’re wearing a tie it will increase your chances of her wanting to make an amateur sex tape with both parties naked except for the tie by a pretty significant percentage.

Sperry Top Siders and Nike Free Runs: The former is a boat shoe, the latter is a running shoe. Both are unfathomably comfortable once broken in, kind of like a baseball glove or a middle school dance once Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” from the seminal film “Armageddon” is played and kids start making out. The reason I love both of them is because they’re actually more comfy without socks. Since May, I’ve worn only these two selections of footwear for the majority of the time, with sandals making brief appearances when I’m really trying to let loose. I literally have not had a pair of socks on my feet since May, and that’s reason enough for me to endorse these products, because I, for some reason, despise wearing socks. Aside from that, though, I can’t really say much about the Nike’s, except that my pair has neon green on them, which I feel is pretty rad. The Sperrys, though, those are good for other reasons, paramount among them being that they make you look richer and more sophisticated than you really are. It’s key to not overdo it, though. Leave the pink Polo at home, and if you do decide to wear it, leave the collar down. Unless you want to look like someone whose Dad paid his way into that financial internship and uses primitive words like “Brah” when attempting to have a conversation about torn clothing with people who work at Abercrombie & Fitch. (Side note: I see this on a lot of people’s Facebook profiles who work for A&F under employment information: Employer: Abercrombie & Fitch. Job Description: Model. What the hell is that? The first time I saw that on someone’s profile I was like “No way is that dude a model for Abercrombie. I’ve seen those guys on bags and oversized posters, and there is no way he fits the mold. This guy doesn’t make me feel like I should never eat a French fry again. “ I’ve since learned that’s what they call the people who work there. I think a more accurate description would be something like “salesman,” or “clothing folder.” That’s like me putting Employer: Newspaper. Job Description: Pulitzer Prize Winning, Eight-Time New York Times Best-Selling Author instead of Reporter.)

Workout clothes on women: Since I’m apparently blogging exclusively about fashion right now (I watched The Devil Wears Prada recently), I felt like I should endorse this. I don’t know why, but I love a girl in a sports bra and some running shorts. I’ve got no real reason for this. I just like it. This falls into what I like to call the “Apple Jacks Paradox,” which means you like something for no real explainable reason, other than “you just do.”

The Anti-Hero: The anti-hero has been around for a very long time. It’s someone who is likable for unconventional reasons that don’t really mesh with them being a good person. I came to the conclusion that I liked the anti-hero when I was watching a Showtime marketing clip from Comic-Con the other day, where they interviewed David Duchovny and Michael C. Hall from the shows Californication and Dexter, respectively. Duchovny plays Hank Moody, an alcoholic and promiscuous writer, and Hall plays Dexter, a serial killer who only kills bad dudes. They have characteristics that make you like them, even though they aren’t good people like Superman or Mother Theresa. It’s more realistic for a person to relate to an anti-hero than a true protagonist, because most of us aren’t real heroes in any sense. Anti-heroes have room to make mistakes that you’ll almost immediately forgive them for If Clark Kent committed adultery, I think a lot of us would be a lot more let down than if we found out some dude was a murderer that was only offing people who had also killed numerous innocents while robbing a bank. An anti-hero doesn’t have to be good all the time, and that makes it so much more significant when they actually do something admireable.

Lady Gaga could turn, in my eyes, from a complete disappointment (except for the song “Alejandro,” which I do enjoy) to at least an anti-hero if she assassinated Chad Kroeger.

Also, I just opened my refrigerator to get another lemonade for grown-ups (I’m making my own Mike’s Hard Lemonade except with more booze, which means I can’t endorse drinking like somebody who has chest hair this month). While in there, I found some uneaten Chicken McNuggets left over from a late night trip I made to McDonald’s last night to combat my currently healthy cholesterol levels. I immediately chuckled a little bit to myself (pretend I’m Carlos Mencia and always laugh at the shit I do) and said out loud in my empty apartment, “Those aren’t going to make it through the night.” As a person who is trying to be healthy and drop some weight, I guess that makes me an anti-hero. Without the promiscuity or sociopathic tendencies. This may not have even made any sense. I just wanted to convey that I have McNuggets in my fridge, which should probably make you immediately jealous, because they’re (arguably) better cold. I think maybe it cancels out some of the grease, or something.

Using “Haha” in text messages although you’re not really LOL’ing: This has become commonly acceptable technological vernacular, and I definitely embrace it to a (probably) astounding level. I’d say about 74 percent of my text messages are either precluded or ended with “Haha.” Sometimes both. I don’t know how this ever came to be, but I can definitely say that it conveys a non-serious vibe in a type of communication where true meaning and emotion is difficult to trace. I can honestly say I’ve gotten text messages where people haven’t put “Haha” in there and I’ve been nervous about how serious they were trying to be. If you throw the “Haha” in there, it immediately relieves a certain amount of tension that’s inherently found when you’re a bit nervous about the way a person might respond to a not-so-thought-out or potentially controversial text message

Parenthesis: Because I use them way too much.

Staying up for 24+ hours straight: I did this earlier this week. I had an excellent night that ended much later than I’d expected going into it (one of the best nights I’ve had in quite some time). The end came when I returned to my apartment in the college town where I used to live (I have an apartment there until mid-August) at just after six in the morning, except I decided that wasn’t the end. I opted, since I was sobered up by that point, to drive myself to my new home about 45 minutes away. The sun was coming up while I was driving, and it’s just a cool feeling to know you’re still awake 24 hours after you woke up the day before. It feels like you beat some kind of system, and when you do finally pass out it’s extraordinary.

They Took My Dog

2010-07-13T21:54:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning to a call from my Mom. This isn’t a rare occurrence, since I often sleep past the hour when most people deem it appropriate to make a phone call, and my Mom loves making phone calls. When she makes them, she likes to talk about a lot of things, many of them slightly trivial. So, I wasn’t all that worried about it, I didn’t panic and immediately assume something was wrong.

But then she told me that she and the other four members of my family not including me were all going to the vet early that afternoon to put our dog, Tori, to sleep. I met this with a surprising amount of stoicism, since she was my first real pet and I’d pretty much grown up with her. She’d just turned 14 1/2 the day before. I told my Mom I thought it was the right thing to do, because she’d been sick with an aggressive cancer that had started in her right hind leg sometime during the winter and had been spreading ever since. Also because my Mom immediately revealed to me that Tori was bleeding rectally. This combined with the fact that she could only barely use three of her legs, had lost more weight than Jared Fogle and would spend a pretty good chunk of her day (when she wasn’t sleeping, which was rarely) either laying in her little bed or barking at things that weren’t there convinced me that what I was telling my Mom I meant with all my heart. I’d already come to this conclusion when I went home last weekend, and had found her in a terrible condition. I had to pick her frail, bony body up -- she was sickly, supermodel skinny, with more hair -- and take her outside to do her business, and she struggled greatly even popping a squat, because of her useless leg and low energy levels. I was further convinced that it was time for her long and, I like to think, good life to end when my Dad, who was the closest to Tori of any of us (as soon as he came home from work, she followed him like, well, a puppy), said he thought it was about time to put her to sleep.

All of this confirmed for me what I’d always really known, that my first pet was going to die really soon, but I still had a glimmer of hope that maybe she wasn’t that bad and would continue to stick it out. This changed when my best friend Evan, who has known Tori for almost as long as I have, came over. In the 11 or so years they’ve been acquainted, and in the hundreds of times Evan has walked into my house, Tori has never not given him an unbelievable amount of shit. She fucking hated Evan, with every fiber of her tiny being, and she would bark and bark and bark incessantly at him anytime he was in her domain. She could sense his arrival, and she would find him. This time, though, she acted like she didn’t even know he was around, and I suppose she probably didn’t. When he was near her, she didn’t even bark, except when she would growl or let out a little yelp at the wall, which definitely wasn’t Evan. She was at that point where she didn’t know her best friend from the people she hated the most. If she didn’t want to hassle Evan, I knew she didn’t really want to live anymore. Since she was a small, indoor dog, he was her equivalent of the postal worker or paper boy. She’d lost the ability to fight her own fights, realized it, and unlike many bitches the world over she decided she didn’t want other people to fight them for her. She’d become dependent and docile, and that wasn’t my dog’s personality (dogonality?).

When I said goodbye to her that Monday before I headed out of town to go back to my job and, I guess, my new life, I knew it was probably the last time I would ever see her. I told her a bunch of shit about dog heaven that I’m not even sure if I believe or not. Firstly, I don’t know if there is a heaven, and I’m alright with not knowing for many, many years. Secondly, I don’t know if, when a dog does go to heaven, they get to eat as many Milk Bones as they want. (Who can really be sure if canine obesity exists in heaven? If it does, there’s got to be a ration on treats and Beggin’ Strips.) But I told her both of these things, and I told her I’d miss her. I gave her a kiss and she returned it. I’d like to think she knew whose nose she was licking at that point, and I do. (If Evan had come that close to her face, she would’ve bit his off, no matter how low her energy level might be or how shitty she was feeling.)

A little while after I got off the phone with my Mom, she sent me a picture of Tori (the same one as above). She was in the bed she frequented, and she was wrapped in a towel. She looked so skinny, skinnier than I could ever remember her being before. Even on the night we brought her home, when she was pretty close to being a newborn and tiny puppy. I remember it vividly. We played with this little puppy we were so happy to have, that we thought we’d never have, and we watched “The Haunted Mask” episode of the short-lived Goosebumps television series. When I saw this picture my Mom had sent me, I cried a little bit. I’m not ashamed of that, because I think that’s an appropriate action. Also, it takes absolutely nothing for me to start crying, unlike most self-respecting men, but there’s not a thing I can do about it, so hey. I cried mostly because I would miss my dog, but also because she was going to die while everyone in the family was around except for me. I dwelled on this for a bit, then went for a run, showered and went to work. I wanted to act status quo, and I wanted to try and not think about the fact that, in a way, I was glad I didn’t have to be there to see the family dog put down.

Most of the day went reasonably well. I knew what was going to happen, and knew it was the right thing. I waited for the text message to come from someone in my family to tell me that the deed had been done. My big brother texted me, told me she was dead and that she hadn’t seemed very opposed to a lethal injection. He said she went quietly, and my family took that to mean she was ready. I have no doubts that she was.

Later in the night, I had to go to the conclusion of a little league baseball game for something I was doing at work. When I got there, it was pouring down rain, and the game was delayed. I decided to wait it out in my car. When I was sitting there in the rain, I started thinking a lot about Tori. At first, I was thinking about the times when she was sick, and I got kind of upset. Then, I decided I’d think about all the good things I remembered about her. I got out a notebook and sat in my car writing down some of my fondest memories of her. I thought about how intelligent she was. She could shake with both paws and do all the normal dog tricks like sitting and playing dead and rolling over. I especially remember how, when she wanted something, she would “dance.” She would get up on her hind legs, and drape her front paws out; she looked vaguely like someone dancing without a partner, like she was learning the steps in an introductory ballroom dancing class. She would look at you and continue to dance until she got what she wanted. She wasn’t unlike many people in that respect. I thought about the times we’d taken naps on my bed or on the couch, and the time I taught her to modify her normal handshake skills into a “pound” or “daps” fist-to-paw bump. I thought about a lot of things.

Then, I got back to thinking about how I hadn’t been there for her death. I realized after a while that this was a stupid thing to get caught up on, because her death had taught me more about life than maybe her entire life put together had. For years now, I’ve been a pseudo-emo kid who kind of adopted the idea that when every living thing in the world dies, he, she or it dies alone. (I attribute this to way too many sad songs, books and viewings of Donnie Darko.) The important thing about Tori dying was that she was surrounded by almost everyone she’d spent significant amounts of time with. To dwell on the fact that all of my immediate family had been there at the time of her dignified death when I was unable to be was the wrong way to look at it. I needed to look at it as a lesson. Everyone doesn’t die alone, and it’s important to keep a group of people close to you who you might want to have around when you do die, regardless of whether there’s a heaven, hell, that place the people from LOST were hanging out or anything else.

She taught me that, among other things, and so I guess her work here was done.

It just kind of sucks that Evan can come into my house now and not suffer any hysterics or hassles, but so it goes.

Suntan Lotion

2010-06-11T20:32:00.018-05:00

Suntan lotion, for me, is one of the most distinct smells in the world, although I'm not even sure exactly what it smells like. There's definitely some coconut in there, which is nice, but it's not just that; it's got so much more in there. So much that adds to its uniqueness that I don't think anyone has ever said "Something smells like suntan lotion" and been surprised when the something they were smelling was something other than suntan lotion. It's like the scent of coffee, marijuana, cucumber melon lotion from Bath and Body Works, or patriotism. You don't confuse it with anything else.

I value the smell of suntan lotion. So much so that I'll call it my smell. I'm not saying I smell like suntan lotion (because I've been told I smell like the inside of a Panera Bread, no joke, and this person didn't mean it as an insult, which means they must really dig freshly baked bread equipped with a smaller-than-average penis). I'm saying that when I smell suntan lotion, I immediately have these flashbacks of some of the great times I've had earlier in my life. It's like when I smell it, I can no longer concentrate on whatever it was I was doing before it wafted into my nostrils. These flashbacks are to things I seldom think about anymore and, in some cases, even actively try to forget, but suntan lotion shows no mercy. It's kind of like I'm an amnesiac getting little bits of my memory back in a more vivid way than I was really prepared for. I'd compare it to the final episode of "Lost," when the characters were living in one life (purgatory or some shit, who knows?), but are somehow connected to their other life/dimension/whatever, but they don't remember it. The only way they begin to remember is they have these epiphanies that happen when they touch someone else that was special to them on the island, or if they see something that reminds them of it. When it happens, they completely forget everything else except some extremely happy moment (which were few and far between, during both an adolescence trying to figure out girls as well as being stranded and defenseless on a tropical island), when it seemed to them it couldn't get any better. From what I could tell by watching the show, these people could feel that same happiness just by looking back on these moments, like they were experiencing them again.

That's what my flashbacks are like. I smell this lotion, and I'm totally useless to speak to the people around me for the next, like 10-15 minutes. I get swept back to a certain moment and feel just like I felt during it, and then I spend the subsequent minutes trying to send myself back there. It's like when you have one of those dreams where you're banging Giselle Bundchen and when you wake up you try and fall immediately back to sleep so she can finish you off. (Let's be honest, that's why dreams are sweet. Because you wake up having not finished and can pat yourself on the back for going at it without exploding with Giselle for the entire dream, which lasted much longer than the 8.3 seconds it would take you to shoot one off in real life.) I completely forget that the woman --and yes, it's almost always women, because suntan lotion doesn't remind me of the great times I've had with dudes-- and I didn't work out because of either my own stupidity, or her own stupid whorishness, borishness or, well, irrationality. Sometimes because of all four. I forget all these things and think about how, in that moment, she seemed perfect, and us being there doing whatever it was we were doing (usually making out) resulted in an extreme happiness I haven't really felt in the past few years.

I think about a time right after I finished high school when I was with a girl at the beach. I think about a time when I was with a girl at a swimming pool the next summer. I think about a time when I was only 13 years old at that same pool, kissing a girl by a basketball court there. I think about the time I went on a cruise with my family and hooked up with the #2 ranked high school swimmer in the state of Connecticut. (Or so she said. I don't really care one way or another. She was good looking. Also, I realize this one doesn't really fit into my whole sappy talk about "perfection," but it was still elating.) I think about the time when I was eight years old, and I would spend the day at a different pool watching the first love of my young life leap off the diving board. How do I know I was eight? Because she was always wearing a USA Olympics one piece, and I was eight the summer of 1996, when the Olympics were held in Atlanta and some dude tried to blow some shit up. I remember these things. (This girl is now married, for what it's worth.)

When I remember these things, I get all giddy, like a little schoolgirl, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately. This is most likely because I no longer get that giddy feeling. I get nervous about dates, sure, but the amount of fist pumping I throw out after a first kiss has drastically declined in the past few years. I worry that, as I get older, this excitement will disappear completely, and that I'll never be able to find it. Other things have taken the excitement's place (mainly booze and the viewing of chick flicks), and maybe there's not so much room for it in the world I live in now, which is the world of the adult. I'm nostalgic, to say the least, for a simpler and more fun time. I now have a full time job in a place where I know next to nobody. At this job, I have a desk that is cluttered with all kinds of things. A dictionary, like seven phone books, papers with phone numbers, yellow legal pads and a couple of coffee cups. There are no pictures of a significant other, someone who makes me really excited and makes me feel like I can come even close to an emotional state of perfection. I guess I don't feel that excitement because I have to take other things seriously now. There was a time when the pursuit of this excitement was the thing I took most seriously. Somehow, that has been replaced by a self-centered desire for my own success.

The last time I smelled sunscreen, the time that made me think so much about all of this, I was at an assignment for this job of mine (that I happen to really like, by the way...I don't want to give the wrong impression). I smelled it out of nowhere, and was immediately thrown into a flashback to that time at the pool (you can guess as to which one it was), and I felt the excitement. Then, for the next ten minutes, I was completely out of it. I didn't know what was going on around me at all.

And I realized that there was nothign wrong with that.

Life in the fast lane is more frustrating than one might assume

2010-06-04T17:49:00.007-05:00

It was a little white Nissan Versa being driven by someone who attends, or knows somebody who attends, the Eastman School of Music at the University of Rochester. They also bought their car at BlueKnob Auto Sales. I know these things because I got close enough to this person's rear end to read the decal stuck to the back hatchback window and the license plate holder that read the name of the dealership. I could also tell that it was either a woman, SideShow Bob or Anderson Varejao because of the curly mop on the person's head. And SideShow Bob is (allegedly) a fictional charater, and Varejao is a 7 foot tall basketball player that could never fit in a Versa, so it was a woman (not saying whether that's a relavent factor or not, you decide).

Now, this wouldn't be a big deal at all if I were at a redlight stuck behind this person, but we were moving. On an interstate. I was braking, coming down from slightly over the posted speed limit of 65 miles per hour, which, let's be honest, nobody even makes an attempt to follow unless there's a police officer in the vicinity, to something like five to 10 mph less than the posted speed limit.

This person was traveling in what they like to call "the fast lane." It's the lane on the left side of the two lanes of a highway that are going in the same direction. And, for those of you who aren't in the know (and I've found that an astounding number of people in the areas of the eastern United States I've driven around in since I acquired my license don't) it is the lane of the highway that's reserved for people who are passing traffic traveling in the right lane of the highway.

So, if you're not passing somebody, get the fuck out of the left lane. Especially if there are other cars directly behind you. I thought this was a rule that everyone was taught when they were learning to drive, just like how you're supposed to use a turn signal when you're turning or stop at a stop sign. In fact, it's a law to stay right in most states, including Pennsylvania (where I've lived pretty much all my life). In Pennsylvania, you're supposed to stay right unless passing or making room for cars to merge into traffic from on-ramps.

I've dealt with people "hanging out in the fast lane," as my parents call it, more times than I can count in the six years of my driving career, and it's always gotten me frustrated, but I never did anything drastic. I would just get up on the person's tail and pretty much "body" them into the left lane. Nobody likes being tailgated, myself included, and I've found that this is usually an adequate way to get the person to move over when they have some room. It causes a momentary spike in my stress levels, especially when it disrupts my fucking cruise control settings, but I get over it and move on with my life.

This time was different, though. This lady in the left hand lane would not move over, and I, along with about six other cars directly behind me, was becoming livid. I first attributed this to the fact that I'm a very impatient and aggressive driver. I wasn't always this way, but somewhere along the way it changed, and I became a pissy and easily agitated traveler when people wouldn't acquiesce to my haste to get wherever it was I was going. I've found this strange, because I am, by nature, a kind of slow moving person. My family likes to refer to me as Uncle Jack, after my Grandma's brother who was always so late for things that they'd say he was going to be late to his funeral. (Funny story, he actually was. The hearse got a flat tire and the whole procession had to come to a halt in the middle of the road.) I have an inordinate tendency to always fuck up my timing, on everything. It always takes me longer to get ready for something than I thought it should, and because of this I'm always running late. So, I have to compensate for this by driving a little too fast and aggressively at times. Today, I was on my way to meet the woman I was hoping would become my new landlord, so that I could see an apartment in her building. I was, of course, running late, and this fucking lady in the Versa wasn't helping me at all.

I was also impatient, because for some reason I'd picked the night before to come to the realization that you can't really do anything useful while you're driving a car. (This can be attributed to the fact that I've been driving 40-45 minutes to and from work everyday, one trip after 10 p.m. at night when all I want to be doing is having some wine, which you can't do while driving if you didn't know.) This happened when I decided to listen to game one of the NBA Finals as I drove, and realized when I got home that I was pretty much just bored by listening to it and that I could've just turned the game on upon my arrival. The score wouldn't have been much different, and anything I heard on the radio that seemed phenomenal could be seen on the postgame Sports Center recap that I pretty much always watch anyway. You can listen to music, sure. That's one of my favorite things to do in the world. You can also listen to the news, which I should be doing. But it just doesn't seem practical to me. You can get where you're going, sit down and listen to music while you read the entire world news briefs on The Daily Beast's Cheat Sheet in about five minutes. Then you can listen to music while you do other shit that doesn't involve looking through a windshield, like cooking, shooting hoops or singing in the shower. To state it plainly: There's nothing useful you can do inside a car--while it's moving--that you can't do outside of a car that's really that interesting, beyond the simple act of driving.

So, since I was at my wits' end, I decided to do something drastic; something I'd never done (seriously) in my entire driving career, unless it was in jest toward one of my family members or friends. I was going to wait until I had an opportunity to get up next to this lady, and while parallel to her, I was going to beep and flip her off. I don't know why I'd never done this before, but it was kind of a point of pride for me to have not done it. I enjoyed telling people I'd never done it, because it doesn't really mesh with the way I normally express myself in a verbal way.

I got my opportunity when, what felt like about three hours later, there was enough daylight in the slow lane for me to swerve over and pull up next to her. I was about to do the beep to get her attention, but I looked to my left first, to see what I was dealing with.

It was a woman, a girl even, depending on your definiton. She couldn't have been older than 25. I immediately decided not to blow my horn and flip this person off, and decided instead to simply drive past her as quickly as possible and continue on with my life as far away from her as possible. This was difficult to do, because I was burning with frustration and yearned to give her the international symbol for "fuck you." I was looking forward to it.

But, when I turned and saw this woman, I realized this bitch was sending a fucking text message. She had both hands on the phone and was more or less steering with her elbows, giving the interstate cursory glances every few seconds, kind of like I do when I'm looking at and attractive girl in a public place, except I'm not endangering the lives of myself and everyone around me. I'm not Cyclops from the X-Men without his red glasses. (That statement there really illustrates why I spend my time glancing at attractive women instead of being in their company.) Since she was going so fucking slow and hadn't noticed the line of cars trailing behind her for the last three miles, I figured she was re-writing "The Great Gatsby" and was in a very deep concentration. So, I decided not to beep at her, because that certainly would've disturbed her and made her an even bigger hazard.

So, that's just one more reason why less time should be spent in the car. It only gets more and more dangerous.

I can't think of a time in my life where I've wanted a DeLorean so badly, so that I can drive back in time, before texts were invented. Maybe back then people were sensible enough to stay out of the fucking fast lane.

The KFC Double Down: A Review

2010-06-01T23:03:00.000-05:00

I didn't utilize the drive-thru at KFC, even though I only had a half hour's break from work. Instead, I got out of my car and walked straight into the store, where I waited in line to order the infamous--despite it's only being around for about a month and a half--Double Down pseudo sandwich.

I didn't get out of my car because I thought I'd get an extra few steps of exercise or something (although I should take anything I can get since I sit at a desk all day). I did it because I wanted to look the cashier in the face and laugh at her when she asked me if I wanted the original or grilled version of the Double Down, because that's a stupid question and I'm sad she had to ask me it, because of course I'm going to go with original. If I'm going to indulge in what the majority of the press (and people who are freakishly obsessed with healthy eating, like Jaime Oliver) deem to be one of the worst fast food inventions of all time, then I'm going to go all out.

I got my sandwich to go, and went back to the office to enjoy it, because I initially wanted to take some notes while I ate. I figured I'd be in such a fit of ecstacy that I'd have to keep writing my observations about the sandwich while I masticated, because I was likely to completely forget everything about it except the severe enjoyment that would undoubtedly come when a person gets to eat two breaded chicken breasts with bacon, two types of cheese and a special sauce between them.

***AUTHORS NOTE: How did I know I might lose all my wits while eating? Well, I guess now would be a good time to reveal that this was my second go around with the Double Down. I got one a while back, but felt it would be appropriate to eat it again for a few reasons. 1) It's delicious and I just wanted to eat one again, 2) I'm a firm believer that many things need to be tried twice to really get the full impression, because 3) Last time I ate one it was like two days after I'd gotten news from my doctor that my cholesterol--which had measured pretty high due to my formerly terrible diet and poor genetics back in the end of December--was back to normal. I celebrated by going to try the Double Down with a few of my friends, and I remember it being pretty good, but I couldn't remember just HOW GOOD it had been, because when a person has been on a low fat diet and they jump back into the fast food world exuberantly with a moderate-to-heavy dose of KFC, the aftermath of having done so is bound to affect a person's opinion on the way the food treated them while they were actually eating it. It's kind of like how people will say bad things about how they hate tequila when they were ready to make Jose Cuervo a saint the night before. You actually get a sort of chicken hangover if your digestive and circulatory systems aren't adequately prepared. But this time, I was ready. I ate a burger at Five Guys along with a large order of fries on Saturday, and a Big Mac value meal on Sunday. I'd like to say this was because I was getting ready for the Colonel, but that's not true at all. I just at like shit all weekend.)

This idea went quickly out the window, though, because as soon as I opened the box to lay my eyes on it for only the second time in my life, I realized the slight phobia I have of getting my personal belongings greasy was going to prohibit me from even thinking about grabbing a pen and writing things down as I ate.

So, I abandoned that aspiration and, as my trend with my entire meal was, I went all out and discarded the piece of greasy tissue paper you're apparently supposed to hold the sandwich in while you eat it. I held it in both hands and proceeded to down it in a time frame that couldn't have been more than five minutes (which translates to about a dollar per minute, if you're wondering); this was partially because I'm a fast eater by most accounts and was pretty starving when I ate it, and partially because it's not really as large as one would assume.

After that, I immediately went to the bathroom, washed my hands and came back out to do a memory dump of what I'd just experienced.

What did I think? Well, I thought it was really good. Not the best fast food item I've ever eaten, probably, but it was definitely good. It was really just a large chicken sandwich without the bread, to be honest. I would definitely eat it again if I didn't have to worry about my cholesterol (or if I was married and no longer worried about being in good physical condition), but don't think I would've made as big a deal--or been as affected by it--if it hadn't been for all the publicity this sandwich has gotten as of late. I mean, I've never felt it appropriate to Tweet about something I was eating, or to write an entire review of something edible for no good reason either.

I think it's intriguing to eat a Double Down, and they've probably sold a lot of them for the specific reason that the Double Down is currently the villain of fast food--and food in general. If something is heavily advertised and a person is told enough times that it's bad for them and they shouldn't try it, they become curious and then have an urge to try it when they wouldn't have given this product a second thought before. Sometimes, people like to rebel in whatever way they can, even--or maybe especially--if it's a little rebellion that's pretty much insignificant. I never thought that eating a chicken-based sandwich from a fast food restaurant that was founded by some white-bearded dude who wore a fucking bow tie, but I kind of did (which means I should probably look for more excitement in my life).

And you know what? It was completely unjustified. Believe it or not, this sandwich isn't even that bad. It's not great for you, but not bad either.

I found out in an article written by Joel Stein that the Double Down doesn't have as many calories or as much fat as a Burger Kind Tendercrisp sandwich or five chicken strips from McDonalds. It's not even the worst thing you can get at KFC (which would be the beloved Famous Bowl). It only has 540 calories, which is like drinking five light beers, and its 32 grams of fat are, although not healthy, not really at the top of the fattening end of the fast food spectrum. It doesn't make Time's list of the top 10 worst fast food meals: , a list that actually includes a drink from Starbucks.

The most disappointing thing for me? It doesn't even come close in caloric content to the other--in my opinion--most revolutionary cheap fast food item that has been made available to the general public in the last year or so: The Domino's Bread Bowl. I was, until my cholesterol mishap, eating chicken carbonara bread bowls on a pretty regular basis (it was a "devil may care" stage as far as my health went for a while), and I never thought to even tell anyone about it, let alone Tweet it to the three people that may have read it.

So, the Double Down was like most slightly rebellious things I've attempted to do in my life. It made me feel bad ass for a little bit, until I realized I was following a trend that wasn't really that crazy to begin with, established by an entity that only mirroed it's creativity: it tried too hard (and this time the entity was the descendants of a man who will forever be remembered for chicken and a bow tie).

In the end, I didn't get anything out of it besides a few moments of pleasure and a new kind of hangover.

Two Days without a Cell Phone and the Thoughts that Ensued

2010-05-24T22:11:00.000-05:00

After graduating from college last Saturday, I packed up some things and decided to head to my hometown the next day for a ladder week between the end of my college career and the beginning of my professional one. I had some plans for this week, like hanging out with my family and catching up with some people I might not get to see quite as often now that we’re getting jobs and spreading out all over the place. I was looking forward to it.

Then I got home on Sunday, tried to restart my Blackberry, and it broke. (I found out when i went to get it fixed--which took about three hours for some reason--that the software had crashed. I have a cell phone that has software. I feel like it can’t be long until I can take a vacation to that planet the Ewoks live on.) This was immediately following dinner with my parents, when I was ready to make plans that would allow me to leave my childhood home and spend some time with some friends. I didn’t know what the fuck to do, because I had no idea how to get ahold of anybody without my cell phone. I was completely lost.

Now, I know I could have called some people on my family’s landline at our house, but this would’ve only been possible if I wasn’t a complete slave to cell phones. I know probably four or five people’s numbers off the top of my head, and those people either weren’t home or I no longer speak to them (it’s funny, the shit you remember, until it’s not). When I want to call somebody, I just look them up in my cell phone’s contacts. When the phone is broke, you’re fucked. And, even if I did have access to the phone number of every person I know in my mind, there’s a good chance I wouldn’t call a lot of them anyway, because it’s much easier to make plans via text message. You have more time to think of what to do; they have more time to decide if that’s something they’d really like to do; they have more time to gather other options before responding. Basically, text messaging completely eliminates all the awkward pauses we were doomed to plod through when we were young and trying to make conversation with people of the opposite sex despite not knowing a fucking thing about what they cared about or were even interested in beyond cheerleading, the color pink and wearing thongs much earlier than any daughter of mine ever will goddamnit.

So, my night consisted of drinking with my Mom and starting the third season of Mad Men, which is a perfectly fine night for me on most occasions. I just didn’t want to do it that night in particular, because I’m working a job in a place where I know pretty much nobody, will be living by myself for as far as I can tell and have visited the bar closest to my prospective apartment and have been very frightened by it. So, this means I will probably be drinking and watching seasons of television shows pretty much every night (minus my Mom) after work as my main source of recreation. I wanted to save Mad Men for my time of self-imposed solitude and go out and have a whole different kind of fun instead. Among other people.

The one thing I kept thinking while I sat there with my mom was, How did my parents do it? How did they have prosperous social lives? How did my Dad ever even create me without using text and/or instant messaging to initially woo my Mom? Did this crazy mustached-wearing-motorcycle-riding-hairy-chested-man actually walk up to her in a public place and start talking to her WITHOUT EVEN KNOWING HER? What a fucking man! No wonder he had four of us in less than five years. His shooting percentage must be as high as Steve Nash’s free throw percentage!

So, I consulted my Mom. She told me about her and my Dad’s courtship. It wasn’t unlike how you see it transpire in the movies. He didn’t meet her on Facebook or anything creepy like that...He just talked to her and asked her out to her face, without the aid of (at least my Mom says) alcohol or drugs to inspire social lubrication. The first thing she pointed out was that guys used to keep every girl’s phone number they ever got in the mythological “Black Book.” I immediately regretted not having one of these. It seems so much cooler than storing phone numbers in a cell phone, kind of like how driving a Mercedes Benz Coupe is cooler than driving a Caravan, except in this case the cooler thing is actually more practical. If I’d had a black book, the software never would’ve crashed. I could’ve just pulled it out of the pocket of my acid wash jeans and started to ring up anybody I wanted to. (Guys included, because my black book would be a social rolodex, or I would’ve memorized the guys numbers. Because let’s be honest, there weren’t that many girls that I could’ve been calling anyway.) I wouldn’t have been as prone to lose all of my numbers, because I wouldn’t drop my black book into the toilet while drunk at a party because I was trying to multi-task and type a message into it while my other hand was trying desperately to find my tiny member. I could drop my black book on the ground every single day of the year and it wouldn’t break. Also, I’d never have to recharge my black book, because black books do not die. (I still haven’t found a solution to the “my friend threw me in the pool while I had my black book in my pocket” problem, but feel as though I wouldn’t need to have my black book around me while I was near a swimming pool, because I’d like to think I’d already called every female I was acquainted with and told them to show up at said pool.

Then I started to think more about text messaging and the other advances made in technology in the past few years. I was thinking about these things because I didn’t have a cell phone to fuck around with to keep my mind from wandering to thoughts that could actually be meaningful and important. I’ve become convinced that if I’d never had a cell phone, I would’ve probably discovered a new element like Tony Stark in Iron Man 2.

The aspect of text messaging I found myself considering with the most depth (or as much depth as my mind would allow after three episodes of Mad Men, which equals about four or five glasses of bourbon...if you’ve seen the show you’ll understand. It’s like how you want to start playing basketball when you watch March Madness.) was how it affects romantic relationships. Text messaging has changed the way they start, progress and even--sometimes--end. I know this to be true generally because of my own experience.

Since I got my first cell phone that could send and receive text messages (I used to dominate that snake game), the way I talk to women has changed drastically. I pretty much completely halted speaking verbally with girls on the phone, unless I was dating someone and I “had” to. Once text messaging came into play, talking on the phone seemed pretty fucking stupid. (Keep in mind that I’m a journalist, and probably about 1/3 of my job consists of talking to people on the telephone. It’s not like I’m not capable of doing it.) I mean, why would you spend an hour of your day talking to a significant other on the phone? If you thought it was hard to come up with enough stuff to talk about when you were younger, try doing it whenever you’re in constant contact via text message with that person for the entire day. When you’re doing that, you don’t need to talk to the person on the phone at the end of the day.

Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking, and that’s that you just want to hear your loved one’s voice. That’s fine. Go ahead and make the call if you really want to hear them. I’m all about that, and I’ve gone through times when I’ve wanted the exact same thing. I endorse it. Some people have pretty voices that are enjoyable to listen to. Ask them to sing you a song. In fact, there are a few people I’d like to call just to hear their voice right now. But since text messaging, there’s really not such an obligation to be on the phone with the person you’re dating on a daily basis. What I have a hard time figuring out is whether or not this is good or bad for a relationship. With a steady stream of text messaging, you’re in constant contact throughout the day with your better half. You know everything that’s going on with them, and you can be completely plugged into their life all while you’re doing other things and going on with your life. In today’s society where efficiency is so highly valued, I think many people would argue that this is great.

But what if it isn’t?

You have to consider the fact that while you’re talking to this person through text you’re concentrating on other things and not completely dedicating yourself to what they have to say. This could start a horrible trend, where people aren’t as dedicated to the ones they love (or whatever) as they should be to have a healthy and long-lasting relationship.

And maybe text messaging has made it too easy. It’s very possible it has nothing to do with it, but maybe text messaging has contributed to the fact that I’m much better at talking to someone in the initial stages through text than in person. Maybe my addiction to text messaging has had something to do with me never in my life walking into a bar and trying to talk to a woman out of the blue. Maybe my unwillingness--or at least my inability to see the necessity in it--to talk at length on the phone on a daily basis with someone I’m romantically involved with might have a little bit to do with me never having come even remotely close to having a successful long term relationship.

But who am I to say anything? If I know it’s so bad and think it’s damaging my social skills--especially with women--why haven’t I stopped?

I’ll tell you why. I haven’t stopped because it’s easy, and because most of the girls I’ve talked to are content to text message all day and forego the long and drawn-out phone call. I guess because of this I’ve never been able to gauge which ones I can hold a real and enjoyable conversation with everyday. The written word is killing my game (something I never imagined I would say), and I’m not going to do anything to change it, until I begin to date again. I’m not going to get a black book, either, because if I walked into a bar and talked to a girl and asked for her number and she agreed to give it to me, I sure as fuck would get a weird look if I pulled out a notebook and began to write it in a book. Being practical doesn’t get you laid, you know.

But I will try to concentrate more on what I’m doing, whether it’s reading a book, talking to a girl or watching whiskey while I drink Mad Men. Especially if I’m talking to a girl. They like attention, I’m told. But who can be sure? Certainly not me. Like I said, I’ve never had much success as far as relationships go.

A Guide to Acquiring Success/Becoming Successful from a 22-Year-Old Who Isn't Really Successful (Yet)

2010-03-22T20:16:00.000-05:00

For the last four years or so I’ve been pretty preoccupied with success. I’ve been trying to figure out just what constitutes success, what different kinds there are and what types used to be and now are important to me--professional, commercial, personal, etc. I’ve been almost paralyzed with this sort of fear that I’ll never achieve the kinds of success I’ve decided to pursue, and I’ve lost countless hours of sleep trying to figure out ways I can prevent this failure. Some of those hours have been spent watching stuff; some have been spent reading things; some have been spent speaking with some of the people I hold dear and in the highest esteem as well as people I hope to never ever end up like; most have been spent thinking to myself, trying to plot out an ideal future (which is impossible to do by laying in bed and thinking) and frame my own definition of success and how to achieve it. This has proven to be pretty much impossible, because there are so many facets to becoming successful in the ideal way people wish for, and realizing that was probably the first step I took towards being content with the success I may someday find. Now that I’m uncomfortably close to transitioning from college kid to real adult, I’ve decided it’s a good idea to at least get some of my thoughts together and cohesive, so I can at least be happy.

For some reason, I’ve decided to share them with you.

***

        Everything has got to start with confidence. I can’t stress how important being confident is for basically every facet of life. If you feel like you’re a piece of shit, then other people are going to treat you that way, whether it’s your boss, girlfriend or some douche bag that wants to get your goat. If you want to be good at something, there’s a certain amount of other factors involved, but without a certain degree of confidence you won’t be able to reach your full potential, no matter how high your prowess or skill level.
        Throughout my short life I’ve seen a great many guys date girls that are extremely far out of their league. More often than not, this was due to the guy’s confidence level. He was confident enough with himself to show the girl who he really was, and to do the things he liked to do, and inadvertently impressed the shit out of all of his friends (and even other guys that weren’t even close to being his friend, because they resented him for his success with women that they couldn’t understand).
        Make eye contact. Eyes are so rarely ugly, and if they are people probably won’t tell you. People like to look eye-to-eye because you can tell so much about how a person is feeling by the way they look at you. This is unavoidable. Find a way how to master making eye contact without staring, though. Because staring can be creepy. The same thing goes with smiling. If you’re smile’s ugly and you’re older than 13 people probably won’t tell you, and will appreciate you smiling at them regardless. If you’re smile’s that bad, use some confidence to get a better paying job, get Invisalign for a few months, and smile your heart out. As long as you’re not doing it to the point where you resemble the Joker, because that is also creepy.
        Everybody has flaws. Do not complain about these flaws, because complaining to someone about being fat, having an ugly smile, a man rack or anything else will not make them go away. It’s a lot better to accentuate your good traits than to draw attention the bad ones, and people will get annoyed as shit with you if you keep calling yourself fat. And if you are fat, go to the gym. If you’re fat because you have terrible genes, find something to divert people from your weight (which is easier said than done, I’m sure). When was the last time you heard somebody make fun of Zach Galifianakis for being overweight? Being self-conscious has rarely helped anybody with anything.
        Communicate, because speaking and sharing things with other people is easily one of the most important things in life. Without communicating, people really begin to misunderstand each other. They still do when they’re communicating, but at least then they can understand why, and have a discussion about it. I don’t think I’ve ever spent someone who has spent their life almost completely in solitude that has felt successful and happy. I’ve never met any of these people, since they don’t communicate with the outside world, but I’ve read about them.
        Find a friend or group of friends you can share your life with, and never let them go (this includes family, because the members of my family are some of my best friends, obviously). These are the people that will make you feel better when things aren’t going well, and they’ll supplement the amount of fun in your life to an extent that I don’t think most can comprehend. Never take advantage of these people or do wrong to them, because at the end of the day there isn’t one person in this world that knows for sure if there is a god or an afterlife, but nobody can deny that friends are real and important. Unless you’re a really big douchebag.
        Stay in step with technology. This never used to be such an important thing, but if you don’t do it the world could leave you behind. There’s a good chance that, if you’re my age, your friends and family are or are about to be in places all over the world. We have the Internet and other methods that help people stay in touch, so you’d be stupid not to. This will also help you with most occupations. Some companies really get excited when you know how to use Microsoft Excel or Skype. Technology also allows people to stay connected with current events and popular culture, which make it so much easier to communicate with others. You’ll always have something to talk about, especially since Lady Gaga wears something stupid pretty much everyday of the week.
        Don’t be too afraid to dance. Chances are you’re going to look like an idiot, but chances are nobody around you truly gives a fuck. In fact, if you’re not a public figure, most people don’t care what you do at all. Sometimes it’s alright to just go for it. It might pay off in an unforseen way, too. I’ve actually seen my friends win women over with their terrible dance moves, which is probably better than winning them over with free beer at the Kappa Felt A Thigh house.
        Learn to recover from heartbreak and loss, and if you can do so quickly and without permanent damage, find some way to teach others how to do the same. Whenever you do get your heart broken--which will certainly happen to almost everybody at at least one time or another--think about the people that haven’t felt anything like that. This gives them nothing to compare love to, which may actually dull the sensation of true love, or make it unrecognizable. Feel free to go on your requisite bender and to embrace the bitterness left in your heart for a while, but try your best not to let it consume you. If it does, though, which often happens, get something from it. Do something you normally wouldn’t or couldn’t, just because you’ve got back time to yourself that wasn’t originally there. Go on a trip, whether it’s camping with your friends or to the strip club down the Interstate. There’s nothing that the road cannot heal, and it’s important to be able to know and embrace both elation and depression.
        Be chivalrous. So few guys are anymore, and it’s a very important thing. Open the doors for women, give up your seat for them on the bus, pay for their dinner at least every once in a while. Bring them little meaningful gifts for no real reason. Write them love letters, or at least tell them just how much they mean to you. Also, attempt to make them laugh. Women seem to really like it when guys make them laugh. (This ties into the guys who’ve dated out of their league that I know. They are all able to make their girlfriends--and other people’s girlfriends--laugh incessantly.)
        Just because you’re chivalrous, though, don’t be afraid to fight with women (not physically, please, because that usually doesn’t work out). Don’t let them walk all over you, or take advantage of you. They can be wily creatures, and to be truly successful you cannot allow them to completely run your life. Once someone becomes your sincere everything, you’ve got nothing else. (An example: This sort of happened to me a couple of years ago. I was so absorbed with this one woman that I completely disregarded my own self. There are many events and emotions I could site, but I’ll stick to one: While with her, I lost 12 pounds within about a month, and didn’t even notice. If that happened to me now, I would probably throw a party.)
        Actually, don’t be afraid to fight with anybody. It’s extremely difficult to be successful if anybody is walking all over you.
        Think for yourself, question authority and gather knowledge that will serve to help you form your own opinions. Don’t be a Republican or a Catholic or a crack dealer just because your Dad is. If you educate yourself on the pros and cons of being any of those and still think it’d be a good decision, then go ahead and go for it, I sure as hell won’t stop you (but if you choose to be a crack dealer the DEA might).
        Argue very fervently with people you disagree with, but don’t disparage or persecute the beliefs of others. It’s always important to remember that there’s that constant chance that neither of you is really right. But still always try and win. Just win cleanly. Don’t try and convince someone that purchasing a houseboat would be a good idea by telling them they have a big nose. (Also, it turns out that this really might not be a good investment, but that depends on a great deal of things you can look up on your own if you’re considering buying a houseboat.) Base your arguments around being optimistic, pessimistic and realistic. All three are important and are appropriate for different things at different points in your life. Chances are, you’ll fuck up and be the wrong one at the wrong time more often than not, but that just keeps the arguments going and allows you to learn a little bit more, or at least to gather some things to consider.
        Don’t be afraid to fight, argue or disrespect people who are older than you when it’s warranted. The notion that people should respect their elders simply because they’re older than whoever is supposed to be respecting them is one of the dumbest fucking things I have ever heard. You don’t need to respect someone or let them take advantage of you simply because they’ve been on the earth longer than you, because they had nothing to do with that. You had absolutely no control over when your parents decided to have sex. Remember that.
        Exercise, get up early, eat right, stay clean, dress well. Put “sometimes” after each one of those things I just wrote.
        Become your own commodity. Make yourself, as an individual, someone that is valuable to many people, whether it’s at work or in a social or familial sense. Make it so that if people can still live without you (which, let’s be honest, pretty much everybody probably could), they don’t want to live without you.
        Put yourself in the position to be considered an expert on something. It doesn’t matter if it’s on books, TV shows and movies, zebras, Judaism or cool videos of goats on YouTube. It will make anyone feel good to be questioned on how to do something, or where to find something (unless it’s how to cheat on your wife or where to find lime to stop the stench coming from the closet where you’ve put all those deceased hookers).
        Digest everything. Read books (they really do make you smart, or at least seem smarter than you really are, believe me), watch lots of TV shows and movies, learn about zebras and spend time in the outdoors, educate yourself on Judaism and laugh really hard at some YouTube videos. These are all ways to gather the knowledge that you don’t really find in most educational environments (unless you’re a journalism major like me, we are subjected to some really stupid shit that we’d be better off looking into at home and not paying for).
        Don’t use the word “like” more often than you have to. It makes you sound similar to a valley girl. You don’t want to be like that. Ah, shit.
        Learn to spell the word “definitely” correctly.
        Give a fuck about things, but only to a certain point. You don’t want to be a tight ass, because it’s so much more difficult to have fun then. Remember that there’s a time and place to take things seriously, and that it’s a lot less often than most people think.
        Shout really, really loud sometimes. Scream even. For some reason this is good for you, and it makes you feel better about things. Just make sure you’re doing it out of earshot of people who may worry or be frightened or both.
        It’s okay to have habits, but don’t allow them to be stronger than you. If you’re doing something you don’t think you could quit doing if you absolutely had to, you should probably reevaluate some things.
        Do something at the end of every single day that you can look forward to throughout the day. I don’t care what it is. (Unless it’s something really bad, then I don’t want to tell you to do that. Like choking yourself during manual stimulation or anything like that. Joining a fight club is certainly acceptable, though.)
        Keep your own story moving, and keep it entertaining. Have the initiative to do this. No life is completely boring if you don’t allow it to be.
        Sit outside by yourself in a beautiful place at least once or twice a year and just think about things. Ideally, you should do this on a starry night at a place you really enjoy going to be alone. I personally like to go to a park where there’s a really nice lake and a dock I can walk out and sit on. A girl took me there once when we were really young and showed it to me. She’s now a woman, and is probably closer to finding success than I am, so she knows things.
        Don’t be afraid or ashamed to cry sometimes. It’s a lot like dancing. People don’t think less of you if you do it, even if you don’t look particularly good while doing it.
        Help people who are less fortunate than you, and stick up for people who can’t stick up for themselves. Do this simply to do it, and not for any other motivation. Doing the right thing can go a long way.
        Use “sir” and “ma’am” every once in a while. If you do, it’s pretty common for someone to tell you not to, because it makes them feel old (commonly women). If/when this happens, say “Oh, I didn’t know 25 was old.” Crisis averted.
        Make a routine that you follow, and then break the shit out of it sometimes.
        Compliment people. Tell them they have pretty eyes.
        Travel a lot if you can.
        Cheat on your taxes. Sticking it to the man gives a person the largest feeling of success possible.
        And please, no matter what you do: Don’t hang out in the fucking fast lane unless you’re passing someone and there’s nobody directly behind you.
        And try to be happy.

Stupid Sayings

2010-02-25T18:06:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of cliche sayings and quotes out there. I guess some of them are decent and promote good things, but some of them are just so damn stupid that I can’t even wrap my head around it. You know what I’m talking about. The kind of things you constantly see on the Facebook “write something about yourself” boxes and “favorite quote” profile supplements and on AIM or iChat away messages. They’re things you’ve seen in print and heard over and over again, for years. Every time I hear one of these now I just begin to overanalyze them, and I think about how absurd some of them truly are. I’ve kept my opinion on these things to myself for a long time, because I’ve been hesitant to offend anyone that buys into many of them and publishes them all over the Internet (as I’m about to do) and on their fucking trapper keepers (mine says Love Conquers All!). I guess, though, I didn’t have much else to write about tonight, and felt that I’d share a few of my least favorite cliched sayings with you.

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too.” Who the fuck ever came up with this saying? It really makes absolutely no sense, not even metaphorically. My parents never got me a cake on or around my birthday and been like, “Here you go Scott. This cake is yours. You have it, but you cannot fucking eat it, do you understand me?” Isn’t the only point of having a cake to eat it (unless you’re on Cake Wars)? There is absolutely no point in having something if you can’t use it for what it was made for. Otherwise, it’s a huge waste. You don’t buy a hoagie and just stare at it until it gets moldy, and you don’t buy a television and then never watch it. I can kind of get what people are trying to say with this one, which is something like “You can’t always have things your way,” or something along those lines. Which is probably just exactly what they should be saying in the first place. Delicious baked goods have no place in such a philosophical conversation as “You can’t have a wife and be banging her sister in law” (Brodeur) or “You can’t drink 15 beers everyday and remain at your fighting weight for the rest of your life.” If you have a cake and you’re not going to eat it, don’t waste it. Give it to a homeless person or someone else that’s going to appreciate it. Do the same thing if you buy some shoes you’re not going to wear, too.

“From the bottom of my heart” Where I come from, when you really want something to resonate, you say it came from the top. But, for some reason, when people are talking about the heart, they use extra emphasis by saying the feelings spewing from the heart are coming from the bottom, which makes no sense to me. If somebody tells me they love me from the bottom of their heart, then wouldn’t that mean that the love they feel for me is probably toward the bottom of the standings, underneath that other guy, eating cake, new episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians and Ugg boots? If I’m metaphorically storing the strongest kind of love in my heart, then I’m probably going to stow it somewhere toward the top, where it won’t get lost or clouded over by other things, like Johnnie Walker Red or burritos from Qdoba.

“Love is all you need” No, it really isn’t. I don’t get this one, either. I mean, love is a pretty good thing to have. It’s an overwhelming and sometimes frightening emotion, and it has a huge place in both our psyches and within society as a whole. (Without love, we wouldn’t have all those ridiculous VH1 shows with Ray J and Flavor Flave and shit.) But, it’s not all that you need. In fact, I’m sure there are certain people who have gone through their entire lives without ever feeling love, people like Adolph Hitler and Ted Bundy. I’m not recommending living without love, but I’m saying it could be done. Also, if you’re in love or you love something, that’s not really all you need at all. Love isn’t even in that magical equation of three that people used to always tell me I needed growing up. I know that food and shelter were the first two, and I can’t remember if it was water or clothing that rounded out the list. I don’t know if water is included in the food category, but if not it’s definitely more important than clothing. People live in nudist colonies and never wear fucking clothes, and they’re probably having a great time. I think this saying is actually very damaging, because people listen to it and spend a very significant amount of time and energy avidly looking for love. That’s not something you can look for, it’s got to find you, I think. I could be wrong.

“Cheaters never win and winners never cheat” If you’re a baseball enthusiast, I encourage you to compare the amount of games you’ve won with Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi or anyone else who has used steroids (see: the entire fucking league). They’ve won. A lot. And they’ve made a lot of money winning, even if their testicles were shrinking. This can also translate over to real life. How many kids do you know that have cheated on a test and done better than you, even though you were being honest? You might feel like a winner, but I’d like to see you go into a job interview and be like, “Well my GPA isn’t as good as some peoples’ because I didn’t cheat ever!” How many people do you know that have gotten a job because they knew someone who worked at the company, even though they may not have been qualified as other people that applied? That’s a form of cheating, but those people ultimately win, no matter what you tell yourself.

“It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game” I heard this all the time as soon as I started playing competitive sports, and even then I knew it was a bunch of bullshit, because the vast majority of people that play sports on an officially assembled team play because they like the sport and want to win. I couldn’t then, and still can’t now, comprehend how nobody, in all of the years this saying has been in existence, spoke up and said “Well, isn’t the way that you play the game probably the biggest factor as to whether or not you’re going to win or lose?” It seemed pretty obvious to me.

Now, I know that sometimes this is supposed to tell people that if they’re losing in the final thirty seconds they shouldn’t chop block the opposition or karate chop them in the neck, but why don’t they just tell people not to be pussies, suck up the fact that they lost, and not be a sore loser? Normally, when you lose it’s yours/your team’s fault. Why would you begrudge another team that did what you were supposed to do, only better?

But it is all about winning and losing, pretty much. Because that’s why games exist. If there was no way to crown a winner at the end of a football game, do you think we’d pay a bunch of idiots millions of dollars to just fuck around on a field for three hours? Would baseball players pump themselves full of physically and mentally damaging performance enhancing drugs if they weren’t trying to win?

“The pen is mightier than the sword” No, it isn’t. Say somebody that believes, from the bottom of their heart, that a person really cannot have their cake and eat it too, and they get really pissed at me for chastising their beliefs, so they come up to me on campus and gut me with a saber on Monday morning. I can’t stop a sword with my pen, no matter how smoothly it rolls across pages, and if I get knifed down, my words aren’t really going to be worth that much afterward anyway. People will only look back and say that I antagonized someone that really dug cake.

“Pain is weakness leaving the body” This is often used by the armed forces, a group of people I respect and would not want to fuck with, but I really don’t agree with this saying. Pain is pain. It fucking hurts, and it’s not because your weakness is exiting your being. It’s because muscles and bones and body tissue have nerves that respond to things that inflict pain. The nerves send these messages to your brain that say stuff like, “Why is this fucking guy doing 30 chin-ups?” or “Does this dude not know not to put icy hot anywhere near his genitalia?” or “Why doesn’t he stop punching walls when his girlfriend talks to other guys?” I mean, if you’re working out and you’re sore following that, then I guess the lactic acid could be construed as weakness leaving the body as you get stronger, but that’s about it.

“Be the change you want to see in the world.” This is a really popular one, and it was really fucking easy for Gandhi to say something like this, because people loved him. He could actually promote change. Most people are not capable or able to do these things. The kinds of changes people want to see in the world are on such a broader scale than what one individual can accomplish. Take me, for instance. I think one of the biggest changes I’d like to see in the world (besides more fast food restaurants offering breakfast all day like Jack in the Box or Bar Rafaeli falling in love with 22-year-old poor white dudes that write blogs) would be for some of those crazies over there in the middle east to get their damn minds right and stop thinking other countries are the devil, and to stop blowing up their own fucking bodies and killing innocent people just to prove some point that they probably don’t even fully understand. (Seriously, they tell these guys they’re going to get to have sex with 72 virgins in their version of heaven because they fucking blew themselves up. How idiotic is that? It doesn’t even begin to make any sense, but that’s religion for you, sometimes.) They’re pretty set in their ways, and I cannot be the person to change that. It is literally impossible.

“Nothing is impossible.” Okay. I’m not even going to provide an example or explanation here, because anyone with the cognitive abilities to read that bold print has already thought of something that would be completely impossible for them to do.

“If you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." This one is so extremely popular with the ladies it’s disgusting. Basically, all this quote is good for is to give certain girls the mindset that they are allowed to act like raging bitches around their significant others, simply because when they’re at their best they are just so great and irresistible. What the hell is that shit? If you’re a girl and you’re reading this, then take heed. Do not use this quote anywhere that it can be linked to you. Just don’t do it. And don’t listen to it and think that the way of thinking that could accompany belief in a quote like that is moral or justified, and don’t think that any guy worth his salt would agree with it. It’s not that, if you’re going to be with someone in a romantic way, you won’t ever see their worst. I’m sure that’s part of it (from my experience), if you’re around that person long enough. But don’t embrace the fact that somebody might be a little bitch and let you push them around when you’re ”at your worst.“ It shouldn’t be about handling you, unless you’re a one person trainwreck. It should be about them trying to help you out a little bit and make you feel better.

If you’re not going to take my advice on this, that’s fine. I don’t care. You’ll end up with someone like Spencer Pratt or something. Just keep in mind that this quote originally came from Marilyn Monroe, a woman who was married and divorced three times before the age of 35. She also killed herself by overdosing on barbituates. Probably not the best person to be taking advice from on such matters. It didn’t really work out for her.

Random Thoughts: January

2010-02-18T19:44:00.000-05:00

Sorry this is a little late this month. I’ve been really busy trying to figure out a way that I could turn having a blog that’s pretty much about nothing consequential into a job opportunity (I’ve had no success). I’ve also been trying to figure out other ways a kid can get a job with benefits if he’s a journalism major (I’ve had no success). And I’ve been really working hard on growing my hair out.

--To start things off, let’s talk about some rap music. I’ve been listening to rap a great deal lately, because I’m trying to expand my cultural prowess and I really respect how seriously amazing some of these guys are with words--especially if you factor in the amount of marijuana their lyrics tell us they indulge in, which isn’t really good for the brain I’ve been told. One artist I’ve been listening to (partly because he single-handedly saved that awful new Rihanna song about hardness that I was complaining about last month) is Young Jeezy. Quite frankly, that man confuses the shit out of me. I mean, he’s a pretty good wordsmith, but he’s a one trick pony. If you’re familiar with any of his work, then you know basically the only thing he talks about (with the exception of hoes and cars) is cocaine and dealing it. He likes to give the impression that, even though he’s worth millions of dollars because of his rhyming skills, he still deals heavily in the trafficking of cocaine. I suspect this isn’t true, and unless he’s one of the dumbest motherfuckers in the world, it isn’t (because he’s rich without it and draws about as much attention to himself concerning yay as Bob Marley did concerning smoking weed). So, I don’t get why he keeps fucking talking about it. It’s kind of annoying. I get that he definitely dealt in the coke trade when he was a young man, but why can’t he just let the past go? (I get that a lot of artists, most notably Notorious BIG, talked a lot about dealing coke, but it was always in the past tense. My problem is that Young Jeezy still likes to talk about being something that he clearly no longer is. It’d be like Dennis Rodman talking about how he’s still the greatest rebounder around, even though he hasn’t stepped foot on a court in years.) I used to piss the bed, but I don’t write blogs saying I still do, and you probably won’t see the ShamWow guy doing infomercials talking about beating up hookers or Roman Polanski making a movie about having sex with minors. Whenever you do something that’s not so admirable, you should not draw attention to it. So, I guess Young Jeezy feels it’s admirable to be a coke dealer, which I don’t understand at all.

--Do you guys remember when Sean Combs changed his name from Puff Daddy to P. Diddy? This was when he was dating Jennifer Lopez and had just been acquitted of murder charges. Apparently it was because he wanted to clean up his image, which is basically impossible to do after you’re put on trial for murder and are a celebrity (unless you’re Snoop Dogg, but more on that in a second). Just ask anybody that doesn’t live in Baltimore to say the first three words that come to mind whenever you say Ray Lewis. Murderer will be mentioned just as often as linebacker. I can’t say I understand Diddy’s move. I mean, think about it. Puff Daddy obviously implies that he likes to smoke a lot of weed (and I mean a lot, because you really have to enjoy something to make it your stage name I think, which is why my rapping name would be Orange Pop), a substance that is known worldwide to make people lazy, unmotivated and peaceful. I’m not really sure, but I don’t think people feel much aggression when they’re using that particular type of drug. So, if he would’ve just stayed with Puff Daddy, people would’ve just been like “Oh, that dude is high all the time. I don’t think he shot anybody. Frankly, I’m surprised he found the motivation to actually make it to that nightclub in the first place, and the only reason he fled the scene was because he heard gunshots and got even more paranoid than a sober person like you or I would!”

Snoop Dogg pretty much proves this. Nobody seems to remember at all that he was on trial for murder. Probably because he is so extremely public about his marijuana abuse. See what I mean when I was talking about these guys being good even though they’ve gotta be huge burnouts?

--Lil’ Wayne’s going to jail for a year because he had a ton of guns (machine guns!) on his tour bus that he didn’t have a license for. This just further adds to the whole laziness and paranoia thing that marijuana brings on. Apparently, Weezy is high as a kite like all day everyday, and I guess this made him too lazy to get a license to carry these firearms (or to join the NRA). He also had to have been paranoid as shit to have machine guns on his tour bus. I mean, it seems like every single person I know loves the shit out of that guy. I don’t know who on earth would want to shoot him except for like Toby Keith or something.

I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t smoke pot, unless you want people to think you’re not a murderer. And, if you do, don’t buy machine guns. Because that’ll put some seriously conflicting notions in people’s heads.

And that’s all I have to say about rap.

--I rip on Lady Gaga a lot, and some people get kind of pissed and don’t initially understand why I don’t dig her. I mean, I respect that she makes some seriously popular music and is apparently a very talented musician and that she should be recognized for these qualities. And she really hasn’t yet. She was snubbed in awards season quite frequently by Taylor Swift, which I disagree with. If you look at it objectively, which people should, Lady Gaga had four #1 hits in 2009. The last band to do that was The Jackson Five. How does a girl that writes songs about people being in love at the age of 15 or comparing two people to Romeo and Juliet--who fucking killed themselves--beat you out for Female Artist of the Year, especially when you’re writing songs about faking orgasms and not picking up your cell phone because you’re trying to get down at the club? (Two notions I can definitely empathize with.)

So, Lady Gaga is good, but I don’t like the way she dresses. I feel it is unnecessary, and girls fucking hate when I say that. I say it’s gimmicky. I actually put up a Facebook status when I saw what she wore to a recent awards show (I think it was the Grammys or something but I could be wrong) that said “Alright, enough Lady Gaga,” just to see the reaction I got. It was not very favorable on the female side.

Yesterday, I was finally able to come upon a male comparison for her when I was watching Pardon the Interruption, a sports talk show on ESPN. They were talking about US Olympic figure skater Johnny Weir, who is hands-down one of the most flamboyant men in the public eye today (he’s akin to a skinny, talented version of Perez Hilton). They were discussing the ridiculous outfit he wore in his previous night’s performance, and it definitely resembled a slightly-more-male version of something Lady Gaga would wear to the grocery store. My boy Mike Wilbon said Weir’s outfit was “undermining” because “when you have talent like that, it should simply speak for itself.”

And, with that, he took the words I want to say every time I see Lady Gaga performing right out of my mouth, except he is more eloquent.

--Technology is killing people’s intellects. I mean, people can get on blogs and write total non-sense right now and distribute it so a number of people will read it. I mean, you probably won’t really become smarter from reading what I’m writing this very instant. You could, though, be sitting down in a chair reading a book by Malcolm Gladwell or some other journalist who writes very interesting and also entertaining things. Instead of sitting down for six hours at a stretch pretending to kill people with the new Call of Duty game, you could be watching the news or a History Channel show about evolution, or even about the bible, whichever way you swing.

Until recently, I’d always taken solace in the fact that there were still people out there who didn’t rely on technology to the point that it was taking over their lives. The kind of people who still prefer actual physical books or newspapers to reading off of a computer screen. You know, my people (and I’m biased, because I want a job). This solace was dashed quite suddenly on the first day of this semester, when I was sitting in my first class. This class is based completely on reading short fiction stories, and classic ones. We have two anthology books for the class, and our professor gave out our first assignment with the syllabus during the class. It was to read a short story by Anton Chekhov (one of the most famous writers to ever live). A girl raised her hand and informed the professor that she hadn’t bought the books for the class yet, and that she might not be able to for a couple of days. She asked if there was anywhere she could find the story, and this began a debate that lasted about thirty seconds and included my teacher and a number of students over whether or not the book could be found on the Internet. I had to raise my hand, wait for them to quit talking and be called on. When I was, my teacher (who has got to be in like his 70’s and someone I figured would dig on books and not the Internet) my teacher actually seemed vaguely surprised when I said “I bet you could find it in the library.” Said library is located literally across the street from our classroom.

--Guys named Jack who make it into the public eye are often extremely successful. there’s Jack Daniels, Jack Kennedy (better known as John F.), Jack the Ripper, Jack Bauer, from 24, Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock and Jack Dawson from The Titanic, Jack Shepherd from LOST and Jack Mehoff from childhood jokes.

I know that all but two of those dudes are fictional characters, and that Jack Dawson wasn’t very successful if you measure success by living for a long time, but he did find true love. Also, I guess nobody really knows if Bauer or Shepherd are going to be successful since their shows are still going on, but people do know them by their television names more than their true names (Keither Sutherland and Matthew Fox).

Yeah, I don’t know where I was going there. These are random thoughts, after all.

--How do people not recognize superheroes in movies? This is something that has been bothering me for quite some time. I mean, in the Batman movies, he doesn’t even cover up his whole damn face. All he does is cover up half of it, and then lowers his voice about eighty-five octaves. And Bruce Wayne is one of the most well-known people in Gotham. I love superhero movies probably more than the average guy, but that’s just ridiculous.

--Have you guys seen any of those PETA advertisements where all these famous women get naked and show their asses and stuff? I have, and I’ve paid close attention to them. They all have to do with treating animals nicely and not doing cruel shit to them. Somebody should tell these ladies that they really don’t need to get naked to do these things, because the vast majority of people in the world aren’t cruel to animals just because they’re sensible and not sadistic. It kind of makes you wonder if these ladies are doing this kind of thing for recognition, which apparently happens more than you think.

Tiger Woods, Y'all

2010-02-18T17:49:00.000-05:00

Since Tiger Woods, world’s best golfer and amateur pornstar, is giving a press conference tomorrow to address his recent absence from golf and his stint in rehab for sex addiction (I think he went the sex route instead of the drugs/alcohol route because he wanted to stay in shape), I figured I’d post this little article I wrote a few weeks ago. It was published in Penn State New Ken’s student newspaper simply because my brother is the sports editor. I’ve been working on my networking skills. Some of it was changed for the print edition, though. (One of these changes I’m told was the 86ing of “sex-addicted Ambien freak”)

***

I’m sure everyone remembers the first couple of weeks after Thanksgiving, when Tiger Woods was getting so much media coverage that I can’t even remember any of the news events that were transpiring at that time that actually mattered.

He was, of course, getting all of this attention because he’d cheated on his wife with a very impressive amount of women. Actually, he was getting something like 10 times the amount of attention for being an unfaithful husband who was beaten with a golf club by his spouse than he did when he won the 2001 Masters and became the first golfer ever to hold all four major titles at one time (which solidified him as probably the greatest golfer to ever live).

The thing was, though, that I didn’t care at all whether Woods was faithful to his wife or was coupling with more women than I’ve even hugged in my entire lifetime, because that’s not the reason I know who the man is. That reason is golf (and Buick commercials).

This might make me seem like I’m very insensitive to the problem of cheating, but I assure you I’m not, and would never condone such behavior. I’m just insensitive to whether or not Tiger Woods is cheating, because it’s not even remotely my business, and the lack of marital bliss in his life has no effect on me whatsoever. The man doesn’t make millions of dollars to be a poster child for a happy marriage.

Think about it: If I was married and went and nailed 15 women, I wouldn’t even get an article written about me in any publication, and I know people will argue that this is because I’m not famous, which means I’m not really a role model on any large scale. This is true. This is also exactly why Woods shouldn’t get coverage for being a sex-addicted Ambien freak. We see all of the news about him cheating on his wife, and it doesn’t make us want to cheat on ours, but the media and the public must keep in mind that there are little kids who look up to their favorite athletes and strive to do the things they do (and I’m no exception, when I was in the sixth grade I wanted to get corn rows because I had a severe man-crush on Allen Iverson). This is why these things should be kept quiet.

By devoting so much copy and airtime to these athletes who make bad social/legal/familial decisions, the media effectively reverses some of the principles that have been pounded into today’s youths’ heads since they were extremely young: It’s not okay to cheat on your wife, but the best golf player in the world has done it. It’s not okay to cheat on your wife with your best friend and teammate, impregnate her and then have an abortion, but one of the best soccer players in the world has done it. (I’m speaking of John Terry of Chelsea and the England National Team. When news of his affair broke earlier this week, it came to light that a judge in England had actually given Terry an injunction to kill the story so it wouldn’t become a public spectacle, which is a ridiculous strike against free speech, but maybe a good idea. Obviously this injunction was overturned, or I wouldn’t know about these happenings.) It’s not okay to leave your wife for Madonna and eventually Kate Hudson—though this is arguable—but Alex Rodriguez, one of the best living baseball players and a winner of the2009 World Series, did. And it’s certainly not okay to smoke marijuana, because it apparently makes you stupid and will have negative affects on whatever you’d like to do with your life, but the greatest swimmer (and maybe Olympian) to ever live did.

Knowing these things about some of the world’s best athletes doesn’t benefit anyone, really. All it does is damage their reputation, and any sensible adult shouldn’t be worried about what an athlete’s personal life’s shortcomings entail. They should watch them play sports, and realize that they’re paid absurdly high amounts of money to do only that and nothing else, whether it’s fair or not. I can almost guarantee there has never been a sports contract that included a penalty for cheating on one’s spouse. If they do something wrong, it should be treated like it would be if a normal person did something wrong, which is to say it would get no attention. I realize the media is a watchdog and ambassador of truth and everything, but these kinds of unimportant things should stay under wraps. You know, for the kids.

And I guess I just spent this entire article giving them even more attention, so maybe I should practice what I preach.

Man, I Hate (Certain Aspects of) College

2010-01-12T20:27:00.000-05:00

I just finished the second day of classes for what should be (barring a major fuck-up on my part) my last college undergraduate semester ever. In fact, it’ll most likely be my last semester of any type of education ever (and you’ll infer why on your own as I progress), unless I attend nursing school after unsuccessfully trying to find gainful employment as a journalist or writer for the next couple of years. The probabilities of this happening are not really all that unlikely, and this route of action is literally something that my Mom has suggested to me on more than one occasion, probably because she’s a nurse herself as well as a woman who likes to take big metaphorical shits on my dreams.

I would like to say that I disagree with her, because after spending four years and more than $50,000 at one of the universities that is considered by many to be far above adequate in an academic sense, I think I should be able to get a job in an area I studied for. I should at least be prepared to hold a job in said area--and I am, but not because I went to Penn State, but because I’ve learned a great deal from actual internships and jobs in the journalism field (and didn’t have to pay my employers for this opportunity).

What I’m trying to say is that college is not even close to being worth what people are forced to pay for it, and in some situations isn’t even necessary. There are certain areas of study that college is almost completely pointless for, if a person is assertive enough to educate themselves and be assertive in trying to find jobs that will supplement their self-education, power of thought and need for experience in the field they hope to break into.

Some of the most successful people I’ve ever met or studied in my life didn’t go to college. My Grandfather is one notable example. He started working at grocery stores and built himself up to an owner of a major business. He also kills it in the stock market, kind of like Michael Douglas in Wall Street. He knows things about running a successful business that no business major I’ve ever run into could even touch, and this is just from learning from the people around him. He didn’t need some professor to tell him what a good investment was, or that if you want to keep your business going you need to find good employees and keep your shelves adequately stocked. He just learned from inserting himself into the kind of business he sought to become involved in, and it has worked perfectly. So much so, actually, that he’s been able to generously contribute a significant amount of money to what my education is paid for with. (An education where I have actually been required to pay for credit hours to take shit like Ballroom Dancing, Meteorology and high school level Algebra.)

Augusten Burroughs, the wildly successful author of the books Running With Scissors and Dry basically never went to school after he was 12 years old. Instead, he set out teaching himself about the advertising industry, then went out to California and got himself a job as an advertising copywriter.

These types of things used to be pretty possible, if not slightly common. People found their talents and perfected them themselves without the help of academia. I’m sure that, if society dictated it reasonable, there are plenty of people out there who could learn enough about their chosen profession in high school and through a number of apprenticeships (internships, something where they can be around people in their career and learn the ways of it while also helping the companies with some of their more menial tasks). Unfortunately, though, if a person wants to get a job in most areas other than basic manual labor, they must now have a college degree, and I think that’s a shame as well as a waist of time and money for a lot of people.

Now, I’m not trying to say that all people shouldn’t have to go to college, and far from it. I don’t want a fucking doctor that’s just been watching Grey’s Anatomy to give me heart surgery (and I probably wouldn’t even want relationship advice from him/her), and I wouldn’t let my friend Lenny represent me in a criminal trial just because he watches as much Law and Order as my Grandma. And, I guess I would give preference to someone seeking a job at a newspaper that had a college degree as opposed to someone who like to read a lot of books and magazines and papers but had only really written for their high school yearbook. This is probably because society has made me think this way, and I’d like to say I’d do otherwise, but it doesn’t fucking matter. The way things are now, college is basically essential, and nobody is going to change that at all. I have to accept that, and I do.

I do have a suggestion to make it cheaper and more bearable for everyone who goes: Make a person’s generally accepted tenure at a college two years long (2 1/2 to 3 absolute maximum). This would cut the cost of attending absolutely in half, and it will also pretty much cut the course load in half. At first glance this would seem pretty much implausible, but I propose completely cutting out general education classes. They’re in my “stupidest ideas ever” category, right up there with the decision to give Heidi Pratt a record deal and the Snuggie, and I’ve had to take 45 credits of them throughout my college career. If you take 15 credits per semester, which is probably about the norm, that’s a year and a half of your college education. And there are definitely a few more classes they could cut out of the core curriculum for a lot of majors that would eliminate the fourth semester. (A prime example of this is a Comm 400 class I started today. 400 level classes are supposed to be the most difficult. This class is called Mass Media and Culture. One of the two books I have for the class is called Getting Off: Pornography and the End of Masculinity. I have a class where one of our major talking points is fucking porn. Furthermore, we spent a good portion of an hour and 15 minute class playing a game called “Two Truths and One Lie.” In a college class. I think I could move on to a career in pretty much any industry--including adult entertainment--and be completely fine without that class. But I have to take it to graduate from my major.) That’d be two years taken away from the amount of school a person would have to attend and pay for right then. This would also allow campuses to cut down to a smaller size (since less students would be attending at any given time) and be less costly to maintain.

If this happened, fewer professors would be needed (and I don’t give a shit about eliminating those jobs, because the vast majority of professors I’ve had--with a few notable exceptions--have not been very dedicated to the aspect of teaching kids things at all, but only with their own research that they could be doing from their homes. Maybe then their research would be better, because they wouldn’t have a bogus teaching job to fall back onto if they weren’t putting enough effort forth.), and that’s fine with me. They sometimes rub me the wrong way. They often seem to think that they’re doing us a favor by teaching and giving us meaningless assignments that ultimately end up as final grades that could very well dictate the direction a person’s life is going in. It doesn’t seem like they realize they’re getting paid to perform a pretty easy job (it’s got to be easier than being a high school or elementary school teacher, for many reasons), and that they’re not paying us to sit in their class and listen to some of the insignificant things they blather on about.

So many teachers these days--pretty much all of them--make it a point to tell kids to turn off their phones during class, and not to send text messages or read the news on their Blackberries or whatever. They get all hot and bothered if a person comes into class late, whether it was their fault or not. They won’t even let you take a fucking nap. They want a person’s full and undivided attention, which I think is bullshit. I don’t want to say it’s a good idea to sit in a class and text someone the whole time, but I also don’t think the professors should be able to tell you how to behave at all as long as it’s not a distraction to the other people in the classroom. They want us to respect them (something I think should be earned and not given just because they went to grad school), and they want to essentially be our bosses, and this makes no sense to me. I wouldn’t get out my phone and start text messaging when my boss was talking to me, but that’s because he is my employer and the person that pays me money and gives me health insurance. I’m not paying him to provide guidance for me, but he is part of the company that is paying me, and is higher up in that company than me. As far as I’m concerned, professors shouldn’t really be considered bosses. They are more knowledgeable than most of the students, I’m sure, but their job is to provide that knowledge to people if they want to listen to it, not to make them sit in class and pay attention to every word they say if they don’t have to to be successful in that class, or if they simply aren’t worried about the results of that class.

It’s this same reason that I don’t think attendance should be mandatory. I have a class right now that I’m pretty sure I could do very well in, since it’s mostly reading intensive, but if I miss more than 5 classes I completely fail the course. That’s such bullshit. Especially because probably at least half of the students in that class are smarter than me and better with reading comprehension. These kids would only have to come to class on the days that quizzes were given if there wasn’t an attendance policy and the professor didn’t make them “pop” quizzes so people would show up and listen to him talk about a bunch of insignificant shit. Then, when these intelligent kids do show up to class and realize that their fears were true--that they were learning nothing from the professor’s lecture, they get yelled at for checking their e-mail on the phone or getting in a quick nap so they will be more alert for a class they actually need to concentrate in.

It’s like we should be the bosses, to a certain extent, but we aren’t at all. It’s kind of like being Michael Scott.

Now there are two arguments that I’m sure I might get from people about my idea to eliminate two years from school. The first will come from some of the professors who would be scared shitless if something like this was to happen, because they’d be axed from teaching a class about Love & Sex and not have anywhere else to turn because they majored in Greek Philosophy. The second will come from my friends that like to read this, and also like to live the kind of lifestyle that I do.

The first would be that general education credits are necessary because not everybody knows what they want to do or be whenever they come to college.

Are you fucking kidding me? If you don’t know what you want to be, then don’t go to college in the first place. If you’re that Hell-bent on going and figuring out what your calling is (and I haven’t heard many people that have found it because of an inspiring gen-ed class) then you can pay the extra money for those extra two years and be undecided about a major. The rest of us shouldn’t have to shell out inordinate amounts of money to learn about Astronomy when we want to be social workers.

The second would be that the social aspect of college is the time of a person’s life, sometimes, and really can’t be beat. This is because when you’re in college and paying a lot of money to waste a lot of time, you can go out and get hammered on margaritas on a Monday night and not worry about it. Not only are there a ton of your colleagues out doing the same thing, but it’s pretty much socially acceptable. I’ve heard so many people complain about graduating this semester and going into the “real world,” and I know they will tell me they want to drag out college for as long as they can, and a two-year cutoff would affect that plan very negatively.

To them I say do one of two things: learn how to get wasted and deal with a hangover and still attend to your responsibilities like the millions of functional alcoholics throughout the world do every single day, or take the $30,000 (and this is only tuition, not even living expenses or book prices) that you would be spending to go to school and move wherever the fuck you want. Then have yourself a two-year bender and don’t do anything else. That’s even better than going to college, right? And that $30,000 worth of spending money is more than enough to live off of for two years, unless you do more coke than Lindsey Lohan. Actually, if you did something like this, you could probably do some traveling and meet some pretty interesting people, and maybe even learn more beneficial things than you would if you spent two years taking gen-eds.

(On a side note, I guess an idea like this could fuck up college athletics, but the athletes that are really good don’t stay for four years anymore, anyway. And I guess we could allow them to stay for four years and take a master’s program in public speaking, so that way we could have ex-athletes-turned-commentators that could actually form sentences.)

To further prove my point that college is vastly overpriced and basically a gigantic waste in certain ways, I’ll resort to some of the mathematics I learned in 8th grade and got a refresher on at 19 because I needed to fulfill a quantification gen-ed requirement.

If you were to take a class worth three credits, and your tuition is $7,000 per semester (roughly what it is at PSU currently), the semester lasts 12 weeks (which it does pretty much universally, unless you go in trimesters like Ohio State, which apparently works well for Pryor) and you’re taking 15 credits (basically the norm), you’re paying $466.67 per credit. If it’s a three credit class you have three times a week, at 50 minutes per shot, then you’re paying $38.89 for each one of those classes, not including the price of textbooks. So, if you’re skipping one class, you can purchase a month’s subscription to some of the best pornography Web sites on the market (I did some research). And I’ll tell you what: you’ll probably benefit more from that when it’s all said and done than you would from going to one class for 50 minutes (it’s all about perspective).

I also looked up some ballroom dancing lesson prices in the area, and they charge $30.00 per person for a 50 minute lesson, and that’s for two individuals and not for a classroom full of clammy-palmed people you’ve never met in your life.

I’ve come this far, though, and have to finish this semester and graduate. It’s just difficult to think about how much money has gone into something that, if I didn’t absolutely need to go through it, I could probably have done without and not been that different or worse off (I’m talking about the educational part, not the social part). I guess I’ll just have to swallow hard and go with it, and hope someday some portion of it pays off for me.

I do know one thing, though. After I graduate and get those phone calls from people trying to get me to donate money as an alumnus to my alma mater, I’ll send them a copy of the softcore porn I’ve written the script for, to thank them for all that they’ve taught me.

Random Thoughts: December

2009-12-30T21:25:00.000-05:00

I can’t believe another year has come to an end and a new one has begun. Actually, I can believe it, to be honest. Mostly because it’s happened to me every single year of my life so far, and it’s a good thing too, because if one year didn’t end and another one didn’t start I’d have no fucking idea how old I was. I’d only know that I definitely had a lot more chest hair than I did the last time I was checking myself out in the mirror, and they don’t let you buy alcohol based on the amount of chest hair you have. (Though I think that would add an interesting element to purchasing of alcohol. Let’s just say that most girls don’t have chest hair, and if they do it requires a great deal of examination to see if they do. If this were ever to happen, I think every guy in the world would probably want to work at a liquor store.)

I guess all I’m trying to say is that the only thing a new year signifies to me is the start of a new calendar year. People always talk about “starting over” with the new year, and I think that’s bullshit. I mean, you can’t really just start over in most cases. I mean, you wake up on New Year’s Day with all the same problems you had on New Year’s Eve. Ask someone with genital herpes or the inability to adequately drive a car. Neither one of those things just disappear. Ask someone with erectile dysfunction, which brings me to my next random thought from the past month.

--I was watching television earlier today, and I saw a commercial that I’ve seen many times. It’s one for Viagara, the drug that helps men that are probably too old and unhealthy to actually have sex anymore continue to have sex, and it shows a man in probably his mid-50’s to early 60’s. He’s walking down a sidewalk next to a reflective building and talking to his own reflection. He’s telling himself, or his doppelganger or whatever/whoever the fuck it/he is, that he’s hesitant to talk to his doctor about erectile dysfunction. Eventually, his reflection convinces him to do so, and you see a little clip of him talking and laughing with his doctor. It then cuts back to him talking to the reflection again, and they slap five--which means this man is giving a high five to a fucking building and probably scared the ever-living shit out of whoever was sitting on the other side of the reflective glass.

Now, you’re probably thinking this guy is a little fucked up because he’s talking to his own reflection. That is not a normal thing to be doing, but I think the first thing I noticed that I felt was even more abnormal than talking to yourself was this man’s hesitance to talk to his doctor about not being able to get a boner. Holy shit. If I woke up in the morning without a tent pitched and my bed comforter acting as a tarp, I would run screaming and crying to my doctor immediately. I wouldn’t even call ahead for an appointment. And if it was his day off, I’d fucking find him. Golf course, whatever, I’d find him. And I’d steal a prescription pad from my mom’s place of employment (she’s a nurse), interrupt him on hole seven, and make him write me a script for Viagara or Cialis or Horny Goat Weed or whatever was going to make me feel better. And we also wouldn’t be laughing during this conversation. Wow. I should get into advertising.

--I heard the new Rihanna song for the first time about a week ago. I realized immediately that she constantly talks about how she is “so hard.” I also realized immediately upon hearing this that there are a lot of distasteful jokes that could be told about Rihanna saying that she is hard, because she got the shit kicked out of her by a man earlier this year. I wouldn’t say or write anything like that, because hitting women is wrong no matter what. But, I will go ahead and say that she’s not hard at all, because she went back to the guy that beat the shit out of her. That’s not hard, and a terrible example to set for the very stupid and impressionable teenage girls that idolize her. I miss the days when people idolized women like Celine Dion. She knew what the hell she was doing. Marry an old rich dude. That’s been the paradigm for certain women for ages, and although I disagree with it, it’s probably better than running back to a guy that bit you in the face.

She also asks where them bloggers are at in the same song. I think the only thing more self-deprecating than actually having a blog is calling the people out that have them through a pop song. She’s basically asking people to make tasteless jokes about how she should’ve never thrown the Lambo keys in the first place.

--I went to a Penguins game with my little brother last week. It was the last one they’ve won to date, actually, when Evgeni Malkin had a hat trick. When he scored his third goal, my little brother looked at me, wondering if I was going to throw my hat. I immediately snatched it off of my head (so someone else wouldn’t grab it and throw it, because there are douchebags everywhere), and said “I’m not throwing this hat, I just bought the fuckin’ thing yesterday.” He also decided not to throw his, since it had been a Christmas gift the year before from our older brother.

This got me to thinking about hat tricks and just how stupid they are. I love going to hockey games and I love being a participating fan, but those tickets are fucking expensive, and I don’t think the people at the games should be expected pay more (the price of a hat) just because one of the players on the team did what he is paid millions of dollars annually to do. Whenever I worked at a grocery store and we would stock the shelves with three trucks worth of products in less than six hours, nobody would start throwing their hats on the floor. They would just start bitching about how there was no more buttermilk.

Who the fuck even drinks buttermilk?

--To go with my theme from the past month of watching TV almost constantly (holiday break and no job), I got to watch the last couple episodes of Glee a few nights ago. I love that show. In case you haven’t watched it before, it’s basically like a series version of the movie Grease (or I guess the High School Musical movies) where there’s definite plots and subplots, but there’s also a musical aspect. The kids on this show just break out into dance at the most random times, and I couldn’t help but think about how awesome it would be if this was the way the world really went.

I mean, even in the worst times, these kids are just singing and dancing around like a bunch of well-practiced idiots. It often comes with no warning. They just get going, and they’re always synced perfectly. I wish it was like this for me in high school. Like if we lost a huge basketball game and everyone was in the locker room all down-trodden and our coach came in and we just started this awesome acapella version of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin” I bet our chances of winning the next game--no matter who the opponent might be--would be significantly increased.

--I was having a conversation with one of my friends a while ago, and she told me that one of the things she looks for in a potential mate is their religious affiliation. She’s a Catholic, wants her spouse to be a Catholic, and wants to raise her children as Catholic.

Alright, whatever. That’s fine, I guess. But an attitude like that really conveys a kind of righteousness that could be blinding, I think. I mean, you have to consider the fact that there are 22 religions in the world that have at least 500,000 or more followers. Each one of these religions seem to think that they’re the one that is “right,” or else people would not follow that religion.

But we can’t all be right. What if the Jews are right? What if the Catholics are? What if it’s the fucking Rastafarians? Basically, nobody knows what religion is the absolutely right one, or even if there is one that’s the right one. That’s why I don’t understand why people get so hot and bothered about marrying outside of their religion. I just want to marry someone that is a good person. They can worship the flying spaghetti monster if they want to. I’d rather marry a girl that’s a Buddhist than a Catholic that has a questionable moral standing.

I mean, it might be better if you marry someone outside of your religion. That way your family will have a better chance of being right. If/when you get up to the pearly gates at the time of rapture and your Neo-Paganism spouse was the one that ended up being right, they can at least try and vouch for you being an upstanding citizen that didn’t lie, cheat or steal.

--I’ve heard Kelly Clarkson’s song where she professes that she doesn’t hook up a few times recently, and all I can think is “Well, yeah, why would someone want to hook up with you anyway?” She makes good music, I’ll grant her that, but so does Tracy Chapman and I don’t want to get down with her. I mean, Kelly Clarkson just isn’t attractive. Not anymore. She used to be. I’m trying to find a politically correct way to say that people probably don’t want to hook up with her so much anymore because she really, um, let herself go. I mean, if this was Victorian England then people probably would want to, because chubby and pale were very attractive back then (and I actually have an idea for an entire entry based on that and how I wish society was that way today, but we’ll talk about that at a later date), but that’s not really how it goes now, and I guess it can’t really be helped.

I’m not trying to say I have a problem with women that are overweight, because I don’t. I mean, I love women; I have all their albums. I’m just saying that if you do let yourself go, don’t try to take your anger and frustration out on men by writing a song that alleges they all want to bang you when the real truth is that they may have used to but don’t want to anymore. Or they want to get with you simply because you’re a celebrity. If I’m going to sit around and drink beer and eat fried jalapeno poppers all day, I’m going to accept the fact that girls might not find me that attractive once I put on forty pounds. I’m not going to write a song acting like I didn’t want to get on women in the first place.

--The 2009 Oxford American Dictionary word of the year was “unfriend.” Like to unfriend someone on Facebook. I’d like to make a remark now about how technology is taking over the world and how social networking might not be the best thing for people to be immersing themselves in, but the truth is that I’ve immersed myself in it. And, without it, pretty much nobody would read this damn thing.

--J.K. Rowling should fight Stephenie Meyer for potentially ruining young adult fiction for eternity. Then Anne Rice or Neil Gaiman should beat the shit out of her again for ruining occult fiction for eternity. Then Bram Stoker should come back from the dead and beat her ass again for taking his invention and distorting it to the point that it’s barely even recognizable anymore. I just can’t make peace with the fact that one of the best stories ever told about a creature that couldn’t go into the sun because he would fry to a crisp and die inspired some lady to steal most of his ideas and change them around, so that the same breed of creature can now go out in the sun, but just sparkles. Fuck, Twilight is frustrating.

--I don’t get why people put “living” in the activities on their Facebook profiles. In general, that is a given.

--I was watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show with a great deal of concentration early in December, and I had a hard time figuring out what the huge appeal of it is. I mean, obviously there are beautiful women strutting around in very extravagant outfits of lingerie, which I won’t argue with. That’s something most straight guys would like to see, and some of us even mark our daily planners for such an event (my mom even reminds me every year to watch it). I just don’t understand why girls like to watch it so much. I wouldn’t watch a fashion show for guys unless I wanted to buy the stuff they were wearing, and I’ve been inside a Victoria’s Secret on a few occasions and have never ever seen huge ass wings or any of the other shit that those ladies wear during those shows. I just don’t get the purpose of putting on a fashion show for a bunch of stuff people can’t even buy. I thought you had those things so people could see your clothing lines and would purchase them.

It’s almost as confusing as that new show Jersey Shore. Everyone watches it, but for all the wrong reasons.

Christmas Songs

2009-12-14T19:14:00.000-05:00

It seems like it starts earlier and earlier each year. The celebration of Christmas. Well, more the anticipation of Christmas, actually. If you’re anything like me, the anticipation of the holidays can actually be just as stimulating and exciting as the actual holiday. I feel like I’m always more enthusiastic on Christmas Eve as opposed to Christmas day, probably because right after Christmas there isn’t much to look forward to. (Unless you’re like my little sister and were born on the day after Christmas, which is a birthdate I don’t think I’d really want to have. Jesus’ birthday is a pretty difficult act to follow.) I think this is why I’ve always been an advocate of playing of Christmas tunes before Thanksgiving, which defies conventional wisdom. It used to be some sort of unwritten law that true Christmas festivities wouldn’t begin until the day after Thanksgiving, when people flock to the malls at ridiculously early hours and all of the light music stations begin playing exclusively Christmas music. I’ve always sought to shatter this status quo, and so I was out of my fucking mind excited when I was driving home for Thanksgiving break last month--six days prior to Thanksgiving--and turned off my iPod (because my musical tastes are so depressing that if I listen to it the entire three hour drive home I start to get an urge to drive my car off of a bridge and begin to question my own sanity) to switch to the radio. When I was seeking through the channels, I came across Pittsburgh’s WISH 99.7, the station that my girl Delilah is syndicated on in the area, and they were already playing a Christmas song.

Now, I don’t remember what song it was that I first heard. But I do know that right after that one they played “Little Drummer Boy,” and then after that they played “Silent Night.” I didn’t know what was going on, but I fucking loved it. Then I heard an advertisement alerting me to the fact that WISH was already playing Christmas music all the time. I did a little fist pump in my car, and started hoping they’d play Trans Siberian Orchestra song (more on that later) before I pulled into my driveway--but they didn’t, so I had to play it on my CD player when I got home and was unpacking. And yes, I do own one of their CDs. After that, I went out to the kitchen to cook some food, and popped the Charlie Brown Christmas CD into the really loud sound system we have in the dining room. My mom came home and questioned my early festivity, and I told her that Christmas was getting started fucking early this year. I told her about WISH playing all the Christmas music, and also that I would be listening to almost exclusively holiday-themed music from that point until Christmas day (I say almost exclusively because sometimes I still like to sit in my room and listen to depressing songs, like the 15-year-old inner-emo kid that I am).

I was frightened that I would get sick of this music, and that it might ruin it for me in the future, especially since there aren’t many quality modern Christmas songs coming out anymore. But, I’m a man of my word, and am happy to report that my ceaseless absorption of Christmas music has yet to turn me into the Grinch or this weird dude my mom knows that wants to tell his 4-year-old son that Santa Claus isn’t real (which is completely untrue).

One thing it has done, though, is make me really analyze these songs, just like I do with anything else that I listen to frequently. It’s not really ruining them for me, since I know that holiday songs aren’t really supposed to be searched for hidden messages, but merely enjoyed because they make you merry and shit, but I still do think about it. You can’t really help it when you’ve heard “The Twelve Days of Christmas” for about the 43rd time in less than a month.

So, I have some thoughts about some of the more popular songs I’ve been hearing. And I’d like to share them with you.

The Twelve Days of Christmas: When I was younger, I never really gave a thought to this song at all. It was just cool because you got to keep repeating shit over and over. I never really thought about the items that one lover was giving the other until this year, when I realized that almost all of them were completely absurd. In fact, I’ve studied the list of gifts given over a period of 12 days, and have come to the conclusion that the only ones I would want would be five golden rings (Cash4Gold.com pays a holiday bonus), nine ladies dancing and maybe the eight maids-a-milking, but that one is kind of vague, so I’d have to get a little more information on what exactly was going on with those servants. I can tell you one thing, though: I would not want 11 pipers piping (unless they were smoking something from their pipes), or 12 drummers drumming. That shit is extremely loud, and I don’t have room for 23 people playing instruments in my house. Think about it. If you woke up on Christmas morning to a fucking drum line in your living room, would you really want to date the person that sent those to you anymore? If I were the one singing this song, I would replace “true love” with “first love,” because as soon as some broad sent me 10 lords-a-leaping, I’d have my personal information on Facebook changed to single, interested in women and looking for random play/ whatever I can get.

The rest of the gifts consist of edible livestock and aviary creatures, which I don’t really need because I have access to a grocery store where I can find meat that is already killed and prepared to the point that all I have to do is throw it in the oven (same reason I don’t hunt).

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: I’m not sure what came first, this song or the movie, but both carry the same message as far as I’m concerned: Rudolph is a fucking reindeer, and he’s a million times better at burying grudges than I am. He’s not only the most famous reindeer of them all, but he’s also the most selfless.

Allow me to tell you how it would’ve went down if I was in Rudolph’s shoes (hoofs?). If I would’ve gotten chastised from my early childhood about a physical deformity (red nose, obviously), and pretty much cast out of society as I knew it, I would’ve become pretty embittered. I would’ve met that dentist named Hermey and probably plotted some kind of plot to fuck up the rest of the reindeer. I probably would’ve employed the help of that huge snow monster too. I sure as shit wouldn’t have immediately gone into service for Santa to save Christmas without throwing down a few requests.

Okay, maybe I would’ve, just because saving Christmas would be a pretty important calling that, if one had the opportunity to participate in, they probably would. I definitely wouldn’t have been as fucking chipper as Rudolph, though. He was slighted in a big and unjust way. Nobody should be rejected for physical characteristics, and Rudolph’s immediate concession and joviality with having the responsibility of guiding the sleigh is pretty unrealistic. If I were him, I probably would’ve acted like Bruce Willis in the Die Hard movies: I would’ve agreed to help, because it seemed like something I almost had to do, but I wouldn’t have been fucking happy about it, and I wouldn’t have been too nice to the others along the way. I would’ve probably pulled off the salvation of Christmas, then come back to the north pole and developed an expensive drug/drinking problem. I’d sit in the bar all day and talk about how one year I’d save Christmas for two reasons: to make all the little good boys and girls in the world happy, and to spite those fucking prick reindeer that used to rip on me.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside: I never really got too into this song until this year. The only version I could pick out was the Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey version. (By the way, Nick Lachey is making a pretty tight comeback. I’m watching a new show called “The Sing-Off” right now on NBC. He’s hosting it. It’s basically an “American Idol” kind of deal, except with acappella groups, and Ben Folds is one of the judges. It’s funny, because Spencer and me were just talking about where that guy went, and said he should be like Mario Lopez and start to host shit. We’re clairvoyant. Anyway, I’m glad to see he’s doing better than Jessica Simpson. He deserves it after she cheated on him with Dane Cooke.)

Anyway, it just occured to me this year that the dude singing in this song is a hardcore creep. I mean, listen to it closely, and you’ll figure it out. The girl’s talking about how she has to leave because her parents will be worried about her and stuff, but the guy just keeps talking about how it’s too cold for her to leave, and that she should take off her coat and just keep boozing with him. I mean, it’s obvious that this dude is trying to get the girl ripped and get himself laid. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually put a little something in the woman’s booze to get her a little submissive (the girl even asks “say, what’s in this drink?” at one point during the song).

Date rape is not what Christmas is about. I mean--at the risk of sounding absolutely awful--Mary had her kid on Christmas without ever having even gotten laid, right?

Keep it in your fucking pants, James Taylor.

Wonderful Christmastime & Happy Christmas (War is Over): I hear both of these songs by former Beatles members every single year, and I’ve always been a little split on which one I like better. I really amped up my thoughts on this a couple of weeks ago when me and a bunch of my friends had a huge debate/argument that lasted days over which band/artist made better music in a lyrical sense, Kanye West or The Beatles. (We tend to have these arguments a lot, because people have a hard time separating actual talent from a person’s shortcomings as a person--someone actually tried telling me that Taylor Swift was more talented than Kanye West a few weeks ago. I mean, just because Kanye West got up in front of thousands of people and hated on some teenage pop/country star doesn’t mean that he doesn’t write some of the greatest lyrics ever. Just like because millions of young women adored the Beatles doesn’t mean that they weren’t overrated or were the greatest lyricists of their time, because they obviously can’t hold a candle to Bob Dylan or Mick Jagger.)

I’ve always given Lennon’s song the edge, because when I was younger, my mom had this holiday themed screensaver/icon setting on our family computer, and everytime you double-clicked on something you would hear McCartney singing “wonderful christmastimeeeeeeee,” and it drove me fucking crazy. I’m sure part of this also has to do with the fact that I’ve always been a bigger fan of Lennon than McCartney, for reasons I don’t even understand. I spent a lot of time trying to decide which one I liked better (and tried to leave Yoko Ono out of it, since she pretty much marked the end of an era which makes me immediately feel spite for her), and at the end I just came to the conclusion that both songs aren’t really that great at all.

I’d rather listen to “All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey any day.

Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24: Trans Siberian Orchestra is one amazing band, and they make holiday music that is comparable to nothing else out there on the market. This song, in my opinion, is the band’s best work. It’s definitely their most popular. Every time I hear it, I get this powerful mix of emotions. I’m almost overcome with the Christmas Spirit, but I’m also ready to do something extremely epic. If I was ever put into some kind of scenario where I had to fight terrorists that had taken over a shopping mall on Christmas Eve, I would want this song to come in when I was loading all of my weapons and preparing for my last desperate and heroic seemingly-suicidal surge against those haters, I’d want it to be this song.

Seriously. Listen to it once, and see if you don’t imagine yourself cocking a shotgun and saying something like, “Silent night, my ass. Let’s get merry.” Of course, you’d be saying this while crouching right behind the plastic baby Jesus’ manger in the mall’s fake nativity set.

I should write scripts.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: I had to save the most bewildering and ridiculous for last. This is a song that is usually received good-naturedly, and I don’t know why. I mean, it’s about a kid’s mom cheating on her husband with a fat dude with a long dirty white beard (that mommy allegedly tickles!) in a red and white suit. Also, Santa Claus is obviously married to Mrs. Claus, and has been for an astronomically long time. Actually, longer than pretty much any couple I’ve ever known. The fact that this man is going astray while he’s traveling around the country masquerading as this great guy that gives a ton of shit away is pretty unsettling (it’d be Bill Gates or Oprah cheating on their significant others). And, if you think about it, if Santa is getting fresh with this one lady underneath the mistletoe, wouldn’t logic dictate that he’s making time with ladies all over the fucking globe? It wouldn’t be irrational to think that Santa is hooking up with American, Asian, African, European, Australian and Russian women all in the same night, thus completing a gigantic chunk of my bucket list in less than 24 hours. Think about it. How many homes do you think Santa is breaking every Christmas Eve? And the little kid singing the song says, “Oh what a laugh it would have been if Daddy had only seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.” Are you fucking kidding me? This kid must have a strange sense of humor if he would’ve been laughing at his dad trying to pull a morbidly obese man in black leather boots from the fucking chimney.

I don’t understand why people are giving Tiger Woods so much attention. All that guy can do is golf. He’s not known as this guy that gives toys to every good boy and girl the world over once a year. I mean, if you ask me, Santa is the one that should have his own Gatorade flavor. Well, at least I thought so until I heard this damn song. And this whole thing’s not going to help the children of today at all. No wonder so many people are obese and cheat on their spouses. It’s because they idolize Santa Claus.

An Analysis of Cosmopolitan Magazine, Part 2

2009-12-07T20:42:00.001-05:00

The last time (well the last time that the general public knows about) I read an issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine in its entirety was a little longer than just a year ago. I read it for two reasons. The first is that I just wanted something to write about, and was not adept enough to come up with something that I thought might entertain people without using some kind of outside source, and Cosmo provided that outside source that would give me plenty of material. Basically, I was looking to make fun of something, and since Cosmo is the closest depiction to what a vast amount of American women seek to eventually be in a glossy print format (something I think is very problematic), and since it is their main source of advice concerning things like sex and fashion and comprehension of men, I decided to go with that. The second reason was that I was really really hell-bent on trying to understand women better. I would spend hours upon hours talking to girls that were my friends, just sitting there like the gay best friend that they all wish they could have (I’ve even gone clothes shopping with girls before), simply because I wanted to try and “get” what was going through the mind of a typical woman, because at that time I really, really hated girls (but have since downgraded to “strongly dislike,” based on recent studies that have shown they aren’t all conniving and spiteful whores), and wanted to know just what made them the way they were.

So, this meant that I had to associate myself with them quite often and infiltrate their ranks, kind of get a feel for them. (I was kind of like that dude who was trying to make a documentary about grizzly bears a few years ago, and eventually got eaten by the very mammals he was living amongst. Except that I haven’t been eaten yet, probably because I’m high in fat and low in protein. Girls would not even think about eating me. I’m like a Hot Pocket dipped in ranch dressing.) Part of this--and one I favored because it didn’t actually include being around girls for an extended period of time--was reading that magazine you always (ALWAYS) see gals toting around with them. It’s kind of like how monks are always carrying around bibles , or how Linus is always carrying around his blankey. It was obvious to me that this magazine was something that many girls respected highly, and would take advice from. (This kind of fucks up my Linus analogy, because I don’t think I ever saw an episode of The Peanuts where he was actually getting advised by his childhood play toy, but I’ve always wanted to incorporate that eccentric comic strip character, so I’m going to leave it.)

So, I read it a few times. And I was pretty extremely appalled. Some of the sexual stuff I came across in that magazine they suggested women do to their male partners in the sack was so absurd and disconcerting that it almost made me look at sex the way that elderly religious people and the Jonas Brothers do: never until marriage, and even then with the lights off, a gunshot start and a stopwatch running, with only reproduction in mind. I’m not saying I’m some kind of picky sexual person, or that I’m even a person that knows what the good stuff is supposed to be like, because I’m neither of those. I’m just trying to say that when a girl reads in a magazine--that she highly respects--that she should press on a dude’s taint (I understand that my readership has grown to a few people that are over the age of thirty that probably don’t know what a taint is, so I’ll explain: the middle ground between the male frontal genitalia and his ass) when he is reaching climax, I get a little frightened. This is because I would not press on my taint at any point during my day, and especially not when I’m near climax. That’s a weird area down there, and I don’t want people prodding it. The taint is a bridge, but one that should not be traveled upon. Anyway, that was one of the gripes that I had with this magazine, and so I decided to write an entire little thing about it (last November, it’s on this site somewhere).

This year, I decided to do it again. Mainly because I still feel like I haven’t made much headway at all in the “Comprehension of Females” category, and keep holding on to the hope that either the flaws of Cosmo’s logic in directing young women or its accuracy in actually telling them to do something that the majority of semi-average American males will like--or both--will help me gain just a small fraction of higher understanding about women than what I currently have.

Also, they usually have pretty women on the cover, and I like to smell the sample perfumes they enclose in their advertisements.

So, basically I’m going to analyze another issue of Cosmo, but this time I’m going to dig a little deeper, I think. I’m going to start by doing a little analysis of the cover stories (which was the extent of what I did last time), and then I’m going to go back through the magazine and pick out some of the stuff that strikes me as either good, bad or just absolutely off-the-wall crazy, because I’ve realized you seriously can’t judge a book (or magazine) by its cover.

Fergie: Her Naughty Honeymoon Surprise. The first story I read (well, skimmed) is on the cover model, who happens to be Fergie, or Stacy Ferguson, from the Black Eyed Peas. I wasn’t able to read this entire article, because I have absolutely no vested interest in Fergie, and don’t think she’d really help me understand women any better at all. Men, maybe, because she’s married to Josh Duhamel and he is absolutely a stone cold fox. I did find, though, from my skimming, that Fergie doesn’t like it when people call her “fugly,” because “it hurts.” She also gave some advice by saying not to “assume what someone else is feeling.” I learned not to call people names based on their physical inadequacies, as well as the fact that I was not a mind reader, sometime in kindergarten. I guess sometimes Cosmo’s readership needs a little reminder, though.

Apparently, all the naughty honeymoon surprise from the title entailed was that she took a leather feather duster with her on their honeymoon, but she doesn’t reveal just exactly what she did with it. Hopefully she was getting ready for what marriage is supposed to be like and was actually using it to dust shelves and shit.

“He Shoots, He Scores!” Wacked-Out Things Guys Say in Bed: Read it, and think it’s bullshit. I haven’t been in bedrooms when any guys I know (or don’t know, actually) have been copulating. But, I have watched a lot of porn in my day, and even the actors on most of those don’t fit into the categories they list here (and porn is usually greatly exaggerated). I certainly don’t fit into any of the groups they listed, but would like to try one they listed called “The Announcer,” just for a reaction. Apparently, this is a guy that narrates the entire sexual experience like a correspondent for ESPN. I’m almost certain that nobody in their right mind does this, but I also think it’d be the most hilarious thing ever to do to someone. I wonder, if I ever tried this, if it’d be a good idea to bring Jay’s Telestrator with me.

Is Stress Turning You Into a Raging Bitch? The very first sentence of this article pissed me off. It reads: “This time of year can try even the sweetest chick’s patience, what with crowded stores, too many parties (and hangovers), and annoying family demands--and experts are saying this month will be a perfect storm of stress because of financial worries on top of everything else.”

Seriously, give me a fucking break. At this particular point in my life, I’d say I’m at a pretty low stress level. This is not because I’ve been able to stay away from parties, but probably because I’ve been able to do shit like go to parties and have a good time, because I don’t have much gravely serious stuff to worry about. I absolutely hate that this magazine gives girls the impression that Christmas shopping, getting drunk at parties, and good-natured requests from family members during the holiday season are actually legitimate reasons to be stressed and, apparently in-turn, a bitch and a half. I guess I could understand a girl being stressed and a bit uneasy if she’s actually undergoing something stressful, like a family member being very sick or a really serious make-or-break-your-grade test coming up in the next 24 hours. Even then, though, I’ve learned to no longer tolerate a girl being a bitch during these times, because circumstances like these are not my fault, and I shouldn’t have to be punished for them (unless I’m the one that gave the family member genital herpes or am the professor giving the test). I know guys probably do the same thing, but wouldn’t everything be a little bit easier if we weren’t mean to the people that cared for us the most? I mean, fuck, how hard is that to do?

The only thing from that sentence that I can understand being severely stressful is the whole financial worries thing. Sure, being broke sucks, and a lot of people lost a lot of money last year when everything went to shit. But isn’t that common knowledge? I mean, I know that my family was able to talk about it last year. We basically acknowledged that things weren’t as great as they usually were, and because of such we should all tone down our Christmas gift giving. There, problem solved. I mean, I was kind of pissed that I couldn’t get that entire Burberry wardrobe and pair of Christian Louboutin platform pumps (yes, I know what those are...I’ve been around some materialistic people in my day) but it really wasn’t that big of a stresser.

After that opening line, I couldn’t bring myself to read much more of the article, but I did find a few of the magazine’s solutions to utilize if you have to wait in a line four people deep to purchase a merino wool sweater for your dad for Christmas or were somehow forced to take a shot too many of grape Three Olives at a Christmas party. One was to work out. The other was to kiss your boyfriend. Also included was watching funny Internet video clips, drinking coffee with your girlfriends and talking slower. These all seemed pretty reasonable to me, and completely self-explanitory. Except for the talking slower one. That’s probably just going to piss off whoever has to listen to you. It’s the holiday season. People have shit to do.

Speaking of having shit to do, I’m sure whoever’s reading this has shit to do as well. I just took a look at the rest of the cover and don’t find much enticing there, except for the last article I’m going to talk about. So, I’m just going to put some little thoughts about stuff I saw and observations I made in the rest of the magazine I’ve yet to cover, then finish with the one article in the entire publication that seriously caught my eye.

--JC Penney is apparently a legit place to shop for lingerie, judging by the advertisement I just looked at. Pink bra and panty set with baby blue lace and whit polka dots? I mean, I’d dig it.

--Estee Lauder Sensuous smells not unlike the elderly woman that used to teach me piano when I was like 8 years old.

--There’s an article called “Why Taken Guys Seem Sexier,” which is kind of disturbing. That’s not the way it should be at all. If it wasn’t that way, then Tiger Woods would probably still have a flawless “driving record” and people the world over wouldn’t know that he likes to bang chicks immediately after taking Ambien. (Because having money had nothing to do with Tiger banging at least 10 women out of wedlock. It was because he’s married.) This article mentions something about the competitive nature of women, which makes sense I guess. I mean, I’d probably pay more attention to a woman trying to snipe a married man than one playing a sport.

--I know I just endorsed an ad in the magazine a few sentences ago, but just like everything else in this magazine, their ads are extremely hit and miss. I would definitely enjoy a woman jumping out of a box on Christmas wearing the aforementioned underwear, but I would be extremely let down if I opened a box from her that contained Tim McGraw’s new cologne. I might actually rather have a container of Bod Man. I just flipped another few pages and saw an ad for perfume by Paris Hilton. She is dressed as a mermaid. What the fuck? Who approves these things? It was like when somebody decided to make a sequel to The Sandlot with an entirely different class. Who in the fuck thinks these are good ideas?

--There’s a little article talking about why guys are scared of marriage. Then, they suggest that you talk with your boyfriend about it, and this will help him come around. If a woman brought up marriage to me, I would simply break out some Ludacris lyrics and say, “Sorry, but I’m married to my music, but we got a pre-nup. So if that bitch don’t act right I’m still gettin’ my cut.”

--There’s a stud meter. And Levi McConaughey is on it. Pretty high up, too. He’s 1 1/2 years old. They also talk shit on Jason Lee and say the Chipmunks movies are annoying. Fuck these people.

--I made it about 2/3 of the way through the issue, and was pretty relieved to have not seen anything about stimulating a dude’s taint. Then, I came across an entire page of the magazine dedicated to suggesting how a girl can use a vibrator with her man. Sure enough, one of them was to put a vibrator on the man’s “perineum.” Fuck. I’m definitely not at a point in my life where I would be able to accept, let alone enjoy, something like that.

Make His #1 Sex Wish Come True: This caught my eye. Mainly, because one of the most disturbing things I’ve seen in Cosmo are the sex tips. I’m always very wary of these, as I said before, but it also hooks me in. I think this is the whole thing that gets guys to skim through this magazine while in the checkout line at Wal-Mart. There’s always something about sex on the cover, and guys see it and want to see what they might be able to expect from their lady. Sometimes it gets downright frightening. This article alleges that what men want the most is “to be wanted,” which I’m not sure is true or not. I think that’s too deep of a question to really get into in a magazine, or on a blog. People are complicated, or something.

-The first one I read says to call him on his cell phone, and tell him that you’re touching yourself in your bed. I would be all for a phone call such as this, I guess, unless I happened to get it at a very inopportune time. Like when I was driving a car or waiting in line at the post office. Waiting in line with an erection is generally not socially acceptable, and nobody wants to do the waistband tuck. Especially if they have jeans on.

-The next one tells the girl to press her chest into the man’s back so it looks like you’re hugging him from behind. Then you’re supposed to rub your breasts and pelvis against him “for several seconds.” I thought about this and started laughing. How fucking awkward would that look? It’s pretty difficult to do something like that in public, I think. It’s like picking your nose.

-One tells a girl to basically simulate fellatio on a bottle. This could be kind of cool, or also very extremely weird.

-“Write him a note, describing, in detail, a hot time you two hooked up. Make the last one read, ‘Think we can top that tonight?’” That’s all good and well, but before you do this, make sure you’re really okay with giving a guy a suggestion to top your craziest sexual experience together. Because you might end up dressed as Marilyn Monroe trying to get it on 60 feet up in the air on a metal I-Beam suspended from a crane at a skyscraper construction sight in the middle of a brightly lit city. Or something like that.

-“Whisper these eight words into his ear: ‘I want to have sex with you--now.’” You’re supposed to do this in line at the grocery store or while eating breakfast. For the first time in my life, I feel that Cosmo is truly onto something.

-“Sneak up behind your guy while he’s on the phone and reach around to grab his penis.” This would be okay if said guy was not talking to his boss or mother. Also, make sure he has a strong heart. Something like that could be extremely startling.

-“Take off his underwear with your teeth.” Yeah, and watch him cackle uncontrollably.

***Okay. The rest of these are too blatantly sexual for me to talk about on here. I’m starting to get the dumb chills, and have made the decision that, if I ever have a daughter, she will not be allowed to read this magazine until she is at least 18. Who would’ve thought that people might be becoming more promiscuous at a young age because of reading? I didn’t think anybody read anymore. Maybe my career aspirations aren't that fucked after all. Thanks, Cosmo.

Hey, it's a party in the USA

2009-12-01T20:05:00.001-05:00

It’s a Friday night, and I’m probably going to be going out to the bar at some point, just like I do most every Friday night. Just like I did last night, and just like I did the Thursday, Friday and Saturday prior to that (where I’m at there’s really not much else to do on a social level). In that time, something has come to my attention (and it’s definitely not that I’m a better dancer than I’d previously thought): The astronomical hit song by teenage sensation Miley Cyrus, called “Party in the USA,” is all over the place. I haven’t been to a bar for more than two hours since I came back to school this fall and not heard that song at least once. The DJ at the bar my friends and I usually go to on Thursdays normally plays it twice, and people go absolutely crazy both times. It’s almost like it turns some kind of switch on in people at the bar that just makes them want to dance. It inspires people to dance slightly more than ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” and maybe even Men Without Hats’ seminal classic, “Safety Dance.”

Normally, I don’t really get too excited about these kind of viral songs that absolutely everybody is listening to (“The Macarena,” “Who Let the Dogs out,” that song about Applebottom jeans and stupid fucking boots, most everything by Michael Jackson since his untimely passing except that song he made for Free Willy, etc.), but this song really, really has impressed me (I’m saying that I like it enough to put it on my iPod), and it seems significant because nothing about this song fits the mold of music that I usually find impressive. It’s a song that doesn’t make a lot of sense lyrically, the singer doesn’t really have a captivating voice or any other extreme talent that I can discern (I don’t think the song would be much different if it was sung by someone like Gwen Stefani or Lady Gaga) and it doesn’t seem like the instrumental portion of the song is very complex either. I’ve even been told that Cyrus said she didn’t know which Jay-Z song she was talking about in the song because she didn’t write it and doesn’t even listen to Jay-Z. That makes her and my Mother the only two people in the entire nation that don’t listen to Jay-Z--my Mom would rather get down with Nas. Or Bob Carlisle and/or Kenny Rogers.

So, I’ve been really thinking a lot about why I like it so much, and two definite things have come from it: 1) It truly is a pretty solid song regardless of true artistic merit and 2) My life is the biggest fucking waste of time ever.

For one thing--and I believe this is the foremost reason that I and any other person that’s not a girl between the ages of 4 and 14--it’s the catchiest song that I have heard in a very, very long time. It rivals songs “You Get what you Give,” by The New Radicals, and “Shout,” by those black dudes that play at the party in the movie Animal House, and, of course, “Mmmbop” by Hanson. It’s so catchy that the actual intensity of its catchiness makes me want to just frolick out onto the dance floor and put my hands up, because they are indeed playing my song. I also want to nod my head and move my hips, both like yeah! More importantly than that, though, the catchiness of the song makes me forget that I’m a 22-year-old that will be (hopefully) graduating from college in a few months with a bad haircut and little hope of getting a job in my chosen field. It provides an escape that I usually don’t find in the music I listen to, a kind of joviality that--and this could be bad--makes me think that I’m totally capable of busting a few good moves. (I find escape, but when your favorite bands are Brand New or Bright Eyes you kind of just escape to an even more depressed place than you’d previously been, which actually makes me wonder why I listen to that kind of music virtually all the time. Maybe I’m the idiot, along with Jesse Lacey and Conor Oberst, and people like Britney Spears and the Jonas Brothers are the geniuses.)

Another thing about this song is the absolute cunning involved with it (even if Miley herself doesn’t realize it, which I think might be 100 percent true judging by an interview I just watched where she said she didn’t think it would be popular and made it for her clothing line or some stupid drivel like that). Pretty much as soon as she got astronomically famous in the young kids category, it became the cool thing to do to hate Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana and anything else that she was associated with. I don’t know exactly why this is, but it’s kind of like how older kids despised Barney and Power Rangers whenever I was a kid. It’s also kind of like how I hate Nickelback. I mean, when I reached a certain age, I didn’t like Barney and the Power Rangers because some part of society dictated that I shouldn’t, so I went along with it. In reality, I shouldn’t have given two fucks about Barney, because if I didn’t want to, I never had to watch his television show or buy any of his purple merchandise. All of the time that I probably spent in my formative years railing on Barney could’ve been spent doing Hooked on Phonics or improving my right-handed lay-up. I also never have to listen to a Nickelback song if I don’t want to, and I guess they’re going to be around whether I dislike them or not. I’ll just have to keep avoiding them, like I do with people that are bigger than me that I’ve made fun of or conversations about my immediate future.

***Having said all of the above, I would still like to make it clear that I will continue hating Nickelback and being vocal about it until they are completely publicly disgraced to the point that they stop making music.

I think that maybe people see these things and begin to hate them because they’re making assload upon assload of money off of an impressionable market (little kids and whoever it is out there that buys Nickelback records) by doing things that we feel we could do ourselves given the opportunity. I suppose it’s natural to get pissed off about things like that. The fact that I’m actually aware that I fall into this and hate on certain people or entities for these reasons makes it all the more impressive to me that Cyrus broke down mine and many others’ defenses. She has broken into a market of older people with just one song. It’s unbelievable. The same people that have hated this girl are now dancing to her song in places that she isn’t even old enough to get into yet.

Now, I’m not saying that you shouldn’t dislike Miley Cyrus, or that if you do it’s because of her undeserving fame. Maybe it’s because you think she’s a no talent ass-clown with a terrible personality. Maybe you just don’t dig on the raspy voice. Maybe you don’t like anybody that is of the Billy Ray Cyrus bloodline. Hell, I don’t like Miley Cyrus.

All I like is her one song. And it’s a song that shouldn’t be taken seriously (because apparently Cyrus doesn’t even take it seriously). I guess that’s part of the appeal for me, to listen to a song that is extremely dumb but catchy. I don’t give a fuck if the singer is too stupid to tie her own shoes or give timeless classics like “Big Pimpin’” and “99 Problems” at least one try (if nothing else, these kind of songs could keep her from becoming delusional about a woman’s place in society). Like it or not, the sheer fame this song has garnered will make it one of those ones you hear occasionally ten years from now, so you may as well embrace it. I plan to, because it will be a gateway back to my senior year of college, when I had not a care in the world, was listening to really stupid songs while drinking Miller High Life and sweating on a dance floor.

If you choose not to embrace it, though, just take solace in the probability that she’ll be completely addicted to some kind of hard drug by 2020 and will be, as a personality, completely eviscerated from the public eye.