There's a common fear for most 14 and 15 year old boys who are about to enter their freshman year in college. It's something that many of us had tried to deny, despite the horror stories we had heard from our brothers and other older boys. Call it going into denial of what was undoubtedly going to happen before it happened. Deep down, we all knew that it would eventually force us into a world of suffering and degredation, where we were not cool enough or good enough, and I'm sure some of us have never fully recovered.
What were we scared of? There are many things that kids are scared of going into their first year of high school. The freshman year, when you were at the absolute bottom shelf of the pecking order. You were going to be the plastic bottle of Vladimir Vodka in F. Scott Fitzgerald's liquor cabinet. Was our deepest fear that we would be shoved into a locker by a senior? That we would be tea-bagged in the football locker room after practice? That we would feel small an inadequate?
We were scared of all of these things, but our deepest fear was not any of the previously stated travesties.
Our deepest social fear was an acronym: OGP.
When I first entered high school, we didn't have a name for what would later become OGP. It was just something that happened, like a Bar Mitzvah or death. It was a passage of life. Something that you had to go through in order to enjoy the fruits later on in life. It wasn't until a few years later when I was having a conversation with one of my good friends from another school about the dating of girls in a lower grade than our own.
"You've gotta love that OGP," he'd said.
"What the fuck is OGP?" I'd asked, having really no clue at all.
"Oh, Old Guy Power."
The menace now had a name.
Allow me to explain exactly what "Old Guy Power" is. I'm sure all men that have gone through high school and/or college know exactly what I'm talking about, and I have no doubt that most girls understand it too, though very few of them will admit to such knowledge. Old Guy Power is, essentially, the natural appeal of older men to younger women.
Why exactly this is has never been scientifically proven, though there has been more than a fair share of conjecture on the matter. Some feel that the girls are attracted because with age--usually--comes maturity, in both a physical and mental tense--consider this, ladies: Would you rather date a macho man or a 5'2" kid with the anatomical mass of a paperclip that still pube squeaks? Others believe that the girls are simply tired of the boys that they spent their long and dramatic junior high years with and are looking for fresh faces to alleviate the pains sustained from adolescent love gone wrong. This can also go the other way, as the older guys may have grown tired of the girls that they have previously shared a high school with. Still others believe that OGP only exists because of the social ladder. These theorists would imply that it is simply "cooler" in the eyes of their peers for one in the 9th grade to date a senior, thus elevating this person's stance on the social ladder and, in most cases, their own self esteem (personally, I cannot say that I believe this. That is some pretty shallow shit to ever think about someone, though some have been more substantially effected by the OGP plague than I).
OGP is usually first brought into a boy's life during his freshman year of high school, as I have previously stated. These adolescents almost immediately lose the apple of their respective eyes to older, usually popular, guys. Said boys walk around in a stupor of impenetrable existential angst for the next year or two, or even three, before the circle of secondary education completes itself. It is at this point that these once unhappy fellows are able to take advantage of...no, that is the wrong phrase. They are able to utilize the fruits of OGP and court younger women.
This same cycle again repeats itself in college. The incoming freshmen sometimes cannot even get a word in with their new classmates of the opposite sex before they are snatched up by upperclassmen. They endure the same pains that they had become all-too-familiar with in high school all over again, and then they bide their time until the next year when a new freshman class of girls comes in. Many of my friends and acquaintances are already salivating over the opportunities that they may come across this school year.
Then, after college, when students are released into the "real world," all bets are off. Age is no longer of any consequence, unless the boys are going "cougar hunting" (which would be scouting for older women, more often than not divorced middle-aged women), or the girls are "gold digging." Both are pretty shallow.
Why and when OGP happens is not extremely important. The fact that it does happen is. Old Guy Power has shaped the destiny of countless mortals for as long back as history can document. Joseph was older than Mary, Ben Franklin married a woman much younger than himself, Sid was older than Nancy, and many others (I really don't feel like doing the research right now). Oh, and Jerry Lee Lewis married his 14 year old cousin.
I can't find any legitimate gripe within myself against OGP for one simple and almost terrifying reason: If it were not for Old Guy Power, I very well may not be here. My own father was three grades above my mother, and is two years older chronologically. How can I complain about a force that was strong enough to aid in putting me onto this earth? I wouldn't even know what OGP was if not for my parents, because I would be nothing. I wouldn't have been born.
So, I guess you can say that OGP is sort of a necessity. This is putting it in a comforting way, to be sure. Whether it is necessary or not, it is here, and it is never going anywhere. Even legal age laws couldn't put a dent in the side of the massive ship that is the SS OGP. It's like the Titanic, except it is truly unsinkable.
The only thing that one can do is bear the stress and sadness that OGP sometimes offers, and then lurk in the bushes, waiting for the day that the power truly belongs to them, the day that they become an "Old Guy."
The circle, my friends, it will never end.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I remember the first week of the 2007 baseball season. It was only a few months ago, but that's not why I remember it. The Pirates were doing good. Not good by the standards that most have begun to view them, which would be winning around a third of the games and having two players make it to the all-star game. Not as starters. They were doing good by normal baseball fan standards. I must have heard thirty people say, "Wow! The Buccos are doing good! Did you know that their record is better than the Yankees'?"
I was stoked, to say the least. It had been an up and down year in the city of Pittsburgh as far as sports went. The Steelers had been defending Super Bowl Champions, leaving us with extremely high expectations at the beginning of the season, only to have a less-than-par run at consecutive championships. They didn't even make the playoffs. It only seemed that things would get worse. The Penguins, who had been having a rough go of it for the last few years and hadn't won a Stanley Cup since 1992 were rumored at the beginning of the season to be uprooting and heading for Kansas City or Vegas. This coincided with the onset of my first winter in the brutal climate of Erie, PA. I was far from home attending school with a bunch of kids that supported the Buffalo Sabers. In other words, I was in sporting Hell.
My expectations for the Pens were not great, but I wasn't ready to turn my back on them and buy a Hartford Whaler's jersey just yet. I was in a state of fierce depression that could only be lifted by some amazing feat that could only come from the sporting world. I snapped out of it really quick whenever the Pens made the playoffs and were promised a new arena in the city.
I was still riding this high when the baseball season kicked off and the Pirates were tearing up. I tried to tell myself not to get so excited, because this happened almost every year. They would start out with a few wins and then fizzle into the bottom of the league, and watching them had become so torturous that I'd find myself flipping a coin over watching my hometown baseball team or a movie starring Queen Latifah.
Though I tried to keep my guard up, I became enamored with the Pirates success. I'd become addicted. I should have been content with the Penguins' success and called it a summer. But I found myself watching whole games in my dorm room every night, and getting excited to go home and go to tons of games. I even worried that since now they were "good," I wouldn't be able to get bleacher seats for ten bucks, and if I had to pay over fifteen, I wouldn't be able to buy my Quaker Steak and Lube wings. They wouldn't fit into the budget.
I didn't have to worry about it for long, though. Things came crashing down before long. They held on for a while, but at this rate they will almost definitely be in last place by the All Star break and Jason Bay will be auditioning for a role in Taxi 2
Ladies and gentlemen, the Pirates suck again.
I still love them, though. I hear so many complaints about their road to less-than-mediocre that it makes me sick. These guys have to be down on themselves if they ever watch tv or listen to local talk radio. What they need right now is some support. They aren't the most talented team in the world, which is why it makes it more difficult for them to come out of a slump than say, the Yankees, who have more money than Bolivia and Colombia put together and doubled.
I know that radio hosts and writers get paid to be critical, and that's what they do, but saying that they only go to Pirates games to check out the new stadium is extremely harsh. It's not even the case. These guys go to games because they love baseball (or they would not be writing or talking about it for a living), and everyday the Pirates take the diamond, they play baseball. You don't hear as much from them as from lots of professional sports teams. None of them are accused of taking steroids (which may be a big factor in their continuous lack of success), they don't publicly lash out at one another, and they don't take their MP3 players into the outfield with them.
They play baseball, for better or worse, and it looks like they may not get better for some time. So, our complaining about it is not going to light a fire under their ass and raise the collective batting average to .500. Things will remain the same.
In a country where you have to pay almost three dollars for a gallon of gas that in turn pollutes the globe causing global warming that will have us up to our necks in floods produced by glaciers in the next five years, people complain about something fun. The American passtime, if you will.
There are higher things at stake right now, I think. Give the guys a break. I know they get paid a lot, but so does the president and he doesn't always to the best job.
Well, at least I can still afford my wings.
I was stoked, to say the least. It had been an up and down year in the city of Pittsburgh as far as sports went. The Steelers had been defending Super Bowl Champions, leaving us with extremely high expectations at the beginning of the season, only to have a less-than-par run at consecutive championships. They didn't even make the playoffs. It only seemed that things would get worse. The Penguins, who had been having a rough go of it for the last few years and hadn't won a Stanley Cup since 1992 were rumored at the beginning of the season to be uprooting and heading for Kansas City or Vegas. This coincided with the onset of my first winter in the brutal climate of Erie, PA. I was far from home attending school with a bunch of kids that supported the Buffalo Sabers. In other words, I was in sporting Hell.
My expectations for the Pens were not great, but I wasn't ready to turn my back on them and buy a Hartford Whaler's jersey just yet. I was in a state of fierce depression that could only be lifted by some amazing feat that could only come from the sporting world. I snapped out of it really quick whenever the Pens made the playoffs and were promised a new arena in the city.
I was still riding this high when the baseball season kicked off and the Pirates were tearing up. I tried to tell myself not to get so excited, because this happened almost every year. They would start out with a few wins and then fizzle into the bottom of the league, and watching them had become so torturous that I'd find myself flipping a coin over watching my hometown baseball team or a movie starring Queen Latifah.
Though I tried to keep my guard up, I became enamored with the Pirates success. I'd become addicted. I should have been content with the Penguins' success and called it a summer. But I found myself watching whole games in my dorm room every night, and getting excited to go home and go to tons of games. I even worried that since now they were "good," I wouldn't be able to get bleacher seats for ten bucks, and if I had to pay over fifteen, I wouldn't be able to buy my Quaker Steak and Lube wings. They wouldn't fit into the budget.
I didn't have to worry about it for long, though. Things came crashing down before long. They held on for a while, but at this rate they will almost definitely be in last place by the All Star break and Jason Bay will be auditioning for a role in Taxi 2
Ladies and gentlemen, the Pirates suck again.
I still love them, though. I hear so many complaints about their road to less-than-mediocre that it makes me sick. These guys have to be down on themselves if they ever watch tv or listen to local talk radio. What they need right now is some support. They aren't the most talented team in the world, which is why it makes it more difficult for them to come out of a slump than say, the Yankees, who have more money than Bolivia and Colombia put together and doubled.
I know that radio hosts and writers get paid to be critical, and that's what they do, but saying that they only go to Pirates games to check out the new stadium is extremely harsh. It's not even the case. These guys go to games because they love baseball (or they would not be writing or talking about it for a living), and everyday the Pirates take the diamond, they play baseball. You don't hear as much from them as from lots of professional sports teams. None of them are accused of taking steroids (which may be a big factor in their continuous lack of success), they don't publicly lash out at one another, and they don't take their MP3 players into the outfield with them.
They play baseball, for better or worse, and it looks like they may not get better for some time. So, our complaining about it is not going to light a fire under their ass and raise the collective batting average to .500. Things will remain the same.
In a country where you have to pay almost three dollars for a gallon of gas that in turn pollutes the globe causing global warming that will have us up to our necks in floods produced by glaciers in the next five years, people complain about something fun. The American passtime, if you will.
There are higher things at stake right now, I think. Give the guys a break. I know they get paid a lot, but so does the president and he doesn't always to the best job.
Well, at least I can still afford my wings.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Party Like A Rock Star?
There's a semi-new song out there that was written (ineptly) and is sang by the Shop Boyz--with a Z. It's called "Rock Star," and most of the lyrics are centered around one phrase: "Party like a rock star." This line is repeated again, and again, and again, and again. It starts to melt into your head, and I think that these guys may be in competition with the legendary Mike Jones for the most repetitive rap song ever produced.
I've heard this song a number of times on the radio, and I must admit before I go into all of this that it is a catchy song. You can be driving down the road and it will come on the radio and make you want to bob your head. If Evan is with you, through no real fault of his own (I believe it's pure instinct...the kid can cut rug and I've hated on him about it for years but I feel it's time to give him his due) this may progress rapidly into a lot of moving and shaking that is never really comprehendible or necessary, especially when driving a car.
You start to think, SHIT! I can party like a rockstar...if hip hop artists are now partying like rockstars, why can't I? At least now I don't have to party like a rap star because I really suck at crip walking. That's where the problems begin.
I am a creep. I browse a lot of personal info's and screen name away messages on the internet, which is probably inherently wrong, but don't act like you don't do it. Everybody does. In doing this in the last month and a half, I have noticed somewhere around thirty (slight exaggeration probably, I didn't record stats) middle to upper class white boys and girls with something that has to do with partying like a rockstar on their cyberspace criteria. A lot of them claim that they do indeed party as rockstars do, which is kind of hard to believe. These famous people have quite the reputation for partying hard, but I don't think that most kids have really partied with rock stars or to the extent that they do. Most adolescents and teens don't have two of the things that are required to party in the traditional rock star fashion: 1) assloads of money, and 2) groupies of the opposite sex. Therefore, partying like a rock star just isn't possible for most kids excluding the Jackson 5, Hanson Brothers, Chris Brown, and Bow Wow.
Now if someone were to write a song about partying like rock stars, it would stand as expected that they would namedrop a little bit. Maybe talk about how they did blow with Keith Richards, tripped with Jerry Garcia, shot up with Kurt Cobain, smoked crack with Whitney Houston (I know she's not a rock star really, but I'd accept a lyric about that with open arms), or even just doing with NickelBack whatever it is that NickelBack tends to do.
Instead, they mention the Osbourne family. they say that "they're on a golf course, trippin' with the Osbournes." It's not too far-fetched to think that a member or two of that family may be tripping, but that's not the problme. Can you really envision Ozzy Osbourne on a golf course? I don't think I need to even elaborate.
They talk about how they've seen the Travis Barker show. If memory serves, this show didn't have much to do with partying. It was more like raising a family. And just because you watch a television program about how a celebrity behaves, it doesn't mean that you can mirror them. Case in point: I watch porn, but I cannot do what Ron Jeremy does.
This last example simply had to be saved for the end. In the song, one of the members of the group raps that "me and my band, man/ on the yacht with Marilyn Manson/ gettin a tan, man." They really do say yacht, tan, and Marilyn Manson in one verse. I'm not going to rule out that Marilyn Manson may own a yacht, but I'd hypothesize that it is for some morbid reason...like dumping dead bodies into the deep blue sea off of the coast of California. I'm also not going to dispute that these guys do or have hung out with Manson, but I don't really know. What I am going to throw out there, though, is that the way Marilyn Manson parties is almost certainly not the way that the rest of the rock star world does. He is not normal. Not by any means at all. Also...they say that they are getting a tan with Marilyn Fucking Manson. That fucking guy does not lay out and get a tan. He is one of the palest people I have ever seen, and I don't think it's because he can't add some color, but because he doesn't want to. Anyone that would ever say they'd gotten a tan with Manson on his yacht does not know what it's like to party like a rock star, or in any other normal and socially accepted capacity.
Anyway, most of us, if not all of us, do not party like rock stars party. So why say that you do? Say that you party like a high school senior, or a frat boy, or even an aspiring musician.
I've heard this song a number of times on the radio, and I must admit before I go into all of this that it is a catchy song. You can be driving down the road and it will come on the radio and make you want to bob your head. If Evan is with you, through no real fault of his own (I believe it's pure instinct...the kid can cut rug and I've hated on him about it for years but I feel it's time to give him his due) this may progress rapidly into a lot of moving and shaking that is never really comprehendible or necessary, especially when driving a car.
You start to think, SHIT! I can party like a rockstar...if hip hop artists are now partying like rockstars, why can't I? At least now I don't have to party like a rap star because I really suck at crip walking. That's where the problems begin.
I am a creep. I browse a lot of personal info's and screen name away messages on the internet, which is probably inherently wrong, but don't act like you don't do it. Everybody does. In doing this in the last month and a half, I have noticed somewhere around thirty (slight exaggeration probably, I didn't record stats) middle to upper class white boys and girls with something that has to do with partying like a rockstar on their cyberspace criteria. A lot of them claim that they do indeed party as rockstars do, which is kind of hard to believe. These famous people have quite the reputation for partying hard, but I don't think that most kids have really partied with rock stars or to the extent that they do. Most adolescents and teens don't have two of the things that are required to party in the traditional rock star fashion: 1) assloads of money, and 2) groupies of the opposite sex. Therefore, partying like a rock star just isn't possible for most kids excluding the Jackson 5, Hanson Brothers, Chris Brown, and Bow Wow.
Now if someone were to write a song about partying like rock stars, it would stand as expected that they would namedrop a little bit. Maybe talk about how they did blow with Keith Richards, tripped with Jerry Garcia, shot up with Kurt Cobain, smoked crack with Whitney Houston (I know she's not a rock star really, but I'd accept a lyric about that with open arms), or even just doing with NickelBack whatever it is that NickelBack tends to do.
Instead, they mention the Osbourne family. they say that "they're on a golf course, trippin' with the Osbournes." It's not too far-fetched to think that a member or two of that family may be tripping, but that's not the problme. Can you really envision Ozzy Osbourne on a golf course? I don't think I need to even elaborate.
They talk about how they've seen the Travis Barker show. If memory serves, this show didn't have much to do with partying. It was more like raising a family. And just because you watch a television program about how a celebrity behaves, it doesn't mean that you can mirror them. Case in point: I watch porn, but I cannot do what Ron Jeremy does.
This last example simply had to be saved for the end. In the song, one of the members of the group raps that "me and my band, man/ on the yacht with Marilyn Manson/ gettin a tan, man." They really do say yacht, tan, and Marilyn Manson in one verse. I'm not going to rule out that Marilyn Manson may own a yacht, but I'd hypothesize that it is for some morbid reason...like dumping dead bodies into the deep blue sea off of the coast of California. I'm also not going to dispute that these guys do or have hung out with Manson, but I don't really know. What I am going to throw out there, though, is that the way Marilyn Manson parties is almost certainly not the way that the rest of the rock star world does. He is not normal. Not by any means at all. Also...they say that they are getting a tan with Marilyn Fucking Manson. That fucking guy does not lay out and get a tan. He is one of the palest people I have ever seen, and I don't think it's because he can't add some color, but because he doesn't want to. Anyone that would ever say they'd gotten a tan with Manson on his yacht does not know what it's like to party like a rock star, or in any other normal and socially accepted capacity.
Anyway, most of us, if not all of us, do not party like rock stars party. So why say that you do? Say that you party like a high school senior, or a frat boy, or even an aspiring musician.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
"I Got My Sweet Chuck Taylors On"
There is a certain phenomena that I have noticed, along with what I assume is most of the American population. This would be the power and popularity of the Converse Chuck Taylor sneaker. They are everywhere in this nation, so much so that it can at times be a little bit frightening, and the strangest thing about it is I cannot decipher what is so great about them!
Chuck Taylor was a great basketball player “back in the day.” I don’t know the years he played or anything like that and I am unable to really research him or his shoes because as I write this I am not connected to the internet (I’ll probably copy and paste this to my page tomorrow, tonight being May 12th). I do know a few things, though: 1) Chuck Taylor’s shoes are considered the first basketball sneakers ever made, and 2) Converse almost certainly would not be in business at all today if it wasn’t for this extremely simplistic shoe that they engineered so long ago.
Actually, I might be all wrong. Rumor has it that Chuck Taylor was an Admiral in the Confederate Navy and he piloted The Diversity, which is an old old wooden ship that was used in the Civil War era.
Chuck’s shoes have made an enormous comeback, rather recently, as they are now considered a staple for any angst-ridden drug-addled teenager that dresses in the “emo” form and listens to Fall Out Boy and Good Charlotte constantly. Most of these adolescents and teens consider Pete Wentz to be some sort of religious deity, which is almost as shocking as it is devastating and terrifying. The Chuck Taylor sneakers are currently in a neck and neck race with tight-fitting girls jeans for the title of “Most Important Fashion Item for People Who Hate Themselves, the Government, Life in General, and People That Dress Nicely.” It’s going to be a barn burner but I have to side with the shoes, because guys wearing girl jeans is something that strikes me as aesthetically wrong and hard on the eyes.
The fact that Chucks are so popular among emo kids is something that I’ve found hard to comprehend, since most of the kids that fit into this stereotype (and I’m sorry, I don’t like to stereotype, but everyone does it) don’t participate in normal sporting activities—I don’t consider hacky sack or mosh pitting at a high school Battle of the Bands to be normal athletic conventions—and the Chuck Taylor was inherently a basketball shoe. Kids that would not hesitate to slit their physical education teacher’s throat wearing basketball shoes does not make for a normal mix. It’s a strange fashion crossover and I wish I knew why they picked this particular shoe. Why not Birkenstock clogs? Or, if a group was looking for an economically sound approach I would recommend Velcro strap shoes, which can be found at any Wal*Mart in a variety of colors for under ten dollars; they are surprisingly comfortable and the durability cannot be matched by any other shoe that comes at such an agreeable price. A basketball shoe just seems inappropriate to me, but it all comes around in the end because it seems like these kids strive to be inappropriate more than anything else in the world. They certainly don’t strive to be socially accepted, do they?
The emo kids are rapidly losing their trademark on the Chuck Taylors, I’m sure much to their chagrin. I guess nothing is sacred anymore. This fashionable item is spilling over into the mainstream and continuing to grow in popularity among a vast amount of Converse patrons. I’ve seen a lot of Hollywood celebrities rocking the Chucks with pride, and I’ve seen a number of college professors sporting them well. I was taking a final last Thursday and my professor sauntered into the room in a pair of off-white high top chucks, and looking very very hip. This man is neither emo, nor young. He’s somewhere in his seventies actually, and he told us that he was going to “run like Hell out of Erie to somewhere warm” when he retired at the end of the semester. I’ve got to suggest California; he would fit in sportingly in Hollywood, since he apparently has the fashion down to a science already. I understand that fashion is half the battle in a place like that where social stance is so extremely important.
Now I have always considered myself to be something of a less than radical nonconformist, so I would ordinarily not jump on this bandwagon. In fact, I made a solemn vow to myself that I would never own or even wear a pair of Chucks, simply because I did not want to be lumped into the emo-kid stereotype. I mean, I’ll throw on some womens jeans occasionally just to frolic in good nature around my house when no one else is home, but I would never dream of going public with it. Oops.
But oh how the mighty have fallen. As I said, nothing is sacred anymore. When I saw Ryan Reynolds and Adam Brody wearing Chuck Taylors, it was all over for me. They are man-crushes of mine (see previous entry) so I feel a need to wear what they wear and do what they do. I purchased a pair. I guess I’m terrible at being a non-conformist. I may as well start watching Oprah and playing guitar hero until I am stricken with carpal tunnel, like the rest of America.
And as far as stereotypes go, I felt that I was safe. Surely these shoes were no longer considered an emo thing, because Van Wilder is absolutely not an emo-kid! I was sorely mistaken. The day I got my chucks and waltzed into my dorm room with them on, my roommate took one look at me, which turned into a deep scowl that bordered on hatred and absolute betrayal, and said “Hey Scott, are you going emo now?”
Oh well, stupid is as stupid does, right? Actually, Forrest Gump wore Chucks too. It’s a small world. Happy summer everyone, and send your mothers my warmest regards.
Chuck Taylor was a great basketball player “back in the day.” I don’t know the years he played or anything like that and I am unable to really research him or his shoes because as I write this I am not connected to the internet (I’ll probably copy and paste this to my page tomorrow, tonight being May 12th). I do know a few things, though: 1) Chuck Taylor’s shoes are considered the first basketball sneakers ever made, and 2) Converse almost certainly would not be in business at all today if it wasn’t for this extremely simplistic shoe that they engineered so long ago.
Actually, I might be all wrong. Rumor has it that Chuck Taylor was an Admiral in the Confederate Navy and he piloted The Diversity, which is an old old wooden ship that was used in the Civil War era.
Chuck’s shoes have made an enormous comeback, rather recently, as they are now considered a staple for any angst-ridden drug-addled teenager that dresses in the “emo” form and listens to Fall Out Boy and Good Charlotte constantly. Most of these adolescents and teens consider Pete Wentz to be some sort of religious deity, which is almost as shocking as it is devastating and terrifying. The Chuck Taylor sneakers are currently in a neck and neck race with tight-fitting girls jeans for the title of “Most Important Fashion Item for People Who Hate Themselves, the Government, Life in General, and People That Dress Nicely.” It’s going to be a barn burner but I have to side with the shoes, because guys wearing girl jeans is something that strikes me as aesthetically wrong and hard on the eyes.
The fact that Chucks are so popular among emo kids is something that I’ve found hard to comprehend, since most of the kids that fit into this stereotype (and I’m sorry, I don’t like to stereotype, but everyone does it) don’t participate in normal sporting activities—I don’t consider hacky sack or mosh pitting at a high school Battle of the Bands to be normal athletic conventions—and the Chuck Taylor was inherently a basketball shoe. Kids that would not hesitate to slit their physical education teacher’s throat wearing basketball shoes does not make for a normal mix. It’s a strange fashion crossover and I wish I knew why they picked this particular shoe. Why not Birkenstock clogs? Or, if a group was looking for an economically sound approach I would recommend Velcro strap shoes, which can be found at any Wal*Mart in a variety of colors for under ten dollars; they are surprisingly comfortable and the durability cannot be matched by any other shoe that comes at such an agreeable price. A basketball shoe just seems inappropriate to me, but it all comes around in the end because it seems like these kids strive to be inappropriate more than anything else in the world. They certainly don’t strive to be socially accepted, do they?
The emo kids are rapidly losing their trademark on the Chuck Taylors, I’m sure much to their chagrin. I guess nothing is sacred anymore. This fashionable item is spilling over into the mainstream and continuing to grow in popularity among a vast amount of Converse patrons. I’ve seen a lot of Hollywood celebrities rocking the Chucks with pride, and I’ve seen a number of college professors sporting them well. I was taking a final last Thursday and my professor sauntered into the room in a pair of off-white high top chucks, and looking very very hip. This man is neither emo, nor young. He’s somewhere in his seventies actually, and he told us that he was going to “run like Hell out of Erie to somewhere warm” when he retired at the end of the semester. I’ve got to suggest California; he would fit in sportingly in Hollywood, since he apparently has the fashion down to a science already. I understand that fashion is half the battle in a place like that where social stance is so extremely important.
Now I have always considered myself to be something of a less than radical nonconformist, so I would ordinarily not jump on this bandwagon. In fact, I made a solemn vow to myself that I would never own or even wear a pair of Chucks, simply because I did not want to be lumped into the emo-kid stereotype. I mean, I’ll throw on some womens jeans occasionally just to frolic in good nature around my house when no one else is home, but I would never dream of going public with it. Oops.
But oh how the mighty have fallen. As I said, nothing is sacred anymore. When I saw Ryan Reynolds and Adam Brody wearing Chuck Taylors, it was all over for me. They are man-crushes of mine (see previous entry) so I feel a need to wear what they wear and do what they do. I purchased a pair. I guess I’m terrible at being a non-conformist. I may as well start watching Oprah and playing guitar hero until I am stricken with carpal tunnel, like the rest of America.
And as far as stereotypes go, I felt that I was safe. Surely these shoes were no longer considered an emo thing, because Van Wilder is absolutely not an emo-kid! I was sorely mistaken. The day I got my chucks and waltzed into my dorm room with them on, my roommate took one look at me, which turned into a deep scowl that bordered on hatred and absolute betrayal, and said “Hey Scott, are you going emo now?”
Oh well, stupid is as stupid does, right? Actually, Forrest Gump wore Chucks too. It’s a small world. Happy summer everyone, and send your mothers my warmest regards.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
A Crazy Gambling Saturday
There are few things in life more satisfying to me than achieving victory as an underdog. It's an amazing feeling to win when you were not expected to, but you can even take it up a notch by saying that it is even more of an intense emotion when you win and people didn't want you to. Bragging rights are often hard to come by, but they are usually long-lasting and well worth whatever it took to get them.
I found myself in a situation yesterday that falls into the latter category, when my indirect achievement of victory was not wanted by the masses. This indirect victory would come via fan support, and I was supporting the boxer Floyd Mayweather who fought and beat the most beloved boxer of his generation, Oscar De La Hoya, in a split decision.
I found myself supporting Mayweather for a few reasons. I admired his confidence, which is actually more accurately put as cockyness. Normally i loathe cocky people, but he was very charismatic about it and he added a level of comedy to it that you usually don't see. In other words, he was cocky but he wasn't Terrell Owens. It was, I suppose, mainly because of his arrogance and personality coupled with the sheer love of De La Hoya by the masses that I felt like I had to support Mayweather, to sort of swim against the stream and not go with the popular opinion.
Oh, and he was also favored to win...
I had made some small-time bets with a few of my friends dealing with this bout, and there were more than a few of them willing to go with "Golden Boy" De La Hoya because of their own personal bias. There was a lot of trash talk going on dealing with the fight for a few days prior, and we were all hot on gambling since a group of us had placed some terrible bets on the Kentucky Derby earlier in the day. If there is room for personal profit, it obviously elevates the excitement of viewing any sporting event, and boxing is traditionally a very heavily-wagered on sport.
We planned to order the fight on pay-per-view, and we all pitched in money and went over to my friend's house for some good rivalry and boisterousness (I don't know if that's even a word). I knew when we left for the house that many of the occupants were very heavily against Mayweather, and these were some loud loud men. I didn't think it would be so lop-sided, though.
I took a seat next to my good buddy Spencer who had also bet on Mayweather and was a pretty big fan. We found out quickly that we were severely outnumbered and were the only kids in the entire place out of about twenty who were rooting for Mayweather.
There was a lot of screaming and select words thrown out during the fight, and at times it was hard to figure out that Mayweather was indeed getting the best of the fight because every time De La Hoya would blink an eye everyone in the room and in the arena would shout their approval.
The fight went the full twelve rounds, and Mayweather got the victory. I was sitting on the couch in the corner and Spence and I were preparing to assemble any type of makeshift weapon we could muster, fearing that we would have to fight our way to the door kicking and screaming. Fortunately for us, they forgot about the fight almost immediately and began playing card games.
I made some money from this, but that was not the sweetest thing. The looks on the faces of those whom I had been jabbering and gambling with were worth more than the ten dollar bets that I had won could have ever been. It was great fun, and long live those who are hated by the many and respected by the few. The ones with their backs to the wall suffering disapproving looks are always the most dangerous, for they are the ones with nothing to lose.
I found myself in a situation yesterday that falls into the latter category, when my indirect achievement of victory was not wanted by the masses. This indirect victory would come via fan support, and I was supporting the boxer Floyd Mayweather who fought and beat the most beloved boxer of his generation, Oscar De La Hoya, in a split decision.
I found myself supporting Mayweather for a few reasons. I admired his confidence, which is actually more accurately put as cockyness. Normally i loathe cocky people, but he was very charismatic about it and he added a level of comedy to it that you usually don't see. In other words, he was cocky but he wasn't Terrell Owens. It was, I suppose, mainly because of his arrogance and personality coupled with the sheer love of De La Hoya by the masses that I felt like I had to support Mayweather, to sort of swim against the stream and not go with the popular opinion.
Oh, and he was also favored to win...
I had made some small-time bets with a few of my friends dealing with this bout, and there were more than a few of them willing to go with "Golden Boy" De La Hoya because of their own personal bias. There was a lot of trash talk going on dealing with the fight for a few days prior, and we were all hot on gambling since a group of us had placed some terrible bets on the Kentucky Derby earlier in the day. If there is room for personal profit, it obviously elevates the excitement of viewing any sporting event, and boxing is traditionally a very heavily-wagered on sport.
We planned to order the fight on pay-per-view, and we all pitched in money and went over to my friend's house for some good rivalry and boisterousness (I don't know if that's even a word). I knew when we left for the house that many of the occupants were very heavily against Mayweather, and these were some loud loud men. I didn't think it would be so lop-sided, though.
I took a seat next to my good buddy Spencer who had also bet on Mayweather and was a pretty big fan. We found out quickly that we were severely outnumbered and were the only kids in the entire place out of about twenty who were rooting for Mayweather.
There was a lot of screaming and select words thrown out during the fight, and at times it was hard to figure out that Mayweather was indeed getting the best of the fight because every time De La Hoya would blink an eye everyone in the room and in the arena would shout their approval.
The fight went the full twelve rounds, and Mayweather got the victory. I was sitting on the couch in the corner and Spence and I were preparing to assemble any type of makeshift weapon we could muster, fearing that we would have to fight our way to the door kicking and screaming. Fortunately for us, they forgot about the fight almost immediately and began playing card games.
I made some money from this, but that was not the sweetest thing. The looks on the faces of those whom I had been jabbering and gambling with were worth more than the ten dollar bets that I had won could have ever been. It was great fun, and long live those who are hated by the many and respected by the few. The ones with their backs to the wall suffering disapproving looks are always the most dangerous, for they are the ones with nothing to lose.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
I was just in a stall of my dorm floor's bathroom taking a piss when I looked over at the wall to see the phrase "We love tree" scrawled on the wall in black sharpie marker. I can fairly assume that this was written to advertise a group of person's adoration of marijuana, since it wasn't there previous to 4/20, and I've heard the term "tree" used as a synonym to marijuana on a few occasions, most notably in a Sean Paul song.
Apparently it is true that weed can damage one's brain cells, because even though I am not a pot smoker, I do happen to know without a doubt that weed does not, under any circumstances, grow on trees. It actually has not a thing to do with trees at all...it is grown as a plant. There is a difference between the two: trees have wooden trunks, plants do not. So I do not understand how "tree" became a slang name for pot. It's all very confusing. One time a kid that I really don't know came to my open dorm room, peeked his head in, and said "Hey, are you guys lookin' to buy some tree?" This kid was obviously very cracked out, so I put two and two together, but I really wish that I was witty enough to say something like "Why? It's not even close to arbor day!" Why would you not just say "Would you like to purchase some plant?" It would eliminate a lot of confusion.
After contemplating this, I began to think about a lot of slang terms that people (including myself) use that make absolutely no sense. It's actually very astounding how weird the dialect of teenagers and college students is. The subject that I think most college kids can talk about are terms that have to do with drinking and partying. I'm pretty sure last night I said something like "Dude, I'm so fucking hammered," meaning of course that I was intoxicated to a fairly high degree. If you consider this term, however, drinking and being drunk has absolutely nothing to do with hammers or any other household tools (excluding the occasional employment of a funnel and plastic tubing or a bucket filled with gin, jungle juice, or even ecstasy if you're really good at picking a party). I've also heard people say that they are blitzed, which I'm pretty sure only ever happens to quarterbacks.
There are countless other terms for almost everything that are totally absurd, but I'm going to focus on the one that I felt was the most enigmatic. This is also a term that I am guilty of using often, and probably too much. This would be saying "tits" when something is considered good. Say, theoretically, that Evan hooked up with a girl and told me about it. I would probably reply by saying "That's pretty tits, man."
Now it can be argued that this is actually not a terrible phrase to use, because breasts are considered by most men to be a very good thing. I admit that I like them and I think they are good.
But why do I think this??
Really, think about this: why are boobs good? Why? I've been searching for an answer to this for years. They're really unremarkable. Just these...things with nipples, yet they turn me and most men on. I'm terribly confused by this (and I'm also going very far away from what I was talking about at the beginning of this whole thing), and I'd like to open it up to discussion. If you have a reason why boobs are good, if you can enlighten me on this matter please send me an instant message (smpbball23). I feel like I need to know.
Until then, I will not refer to good things as "tits," and I will absolutely not under any cirumstances call any amount of marijuana a "tree."
Apparently it is true that weed can damage one's brain cells, because even though I am not a pot smoker, I do happen to know without a doubt that weed does not, under any circumstances, grow on trees. It actually has not a thing to do with trees at all...it is grown as a plant. There is a difference between the two: trees have wooden trunks, plants do not. So I do not understand how "tree" became a slang name for pot. It's all very confusing. One time a kid that I really don't know came to my open dorm room, peeked his head in, and said "Hey, are you guys lookin' to buy some tree?" This kid was obviously very cracked out, so I put two and two together, but I really wish that I was witty enough to say something like "Why? It's not even close to arbor day!" Why would you not just say "Would you like to purchase some plant?" It would eliminate a lot of confusion.
After contemplating this, I began to think about a lot of slang terms that people (including myself) use that make absolutely no sense. It's actually very astounding how weird the dialect of teenagers and college students is. The subject that I think most college kids can talk about are terms that have to do with drinking and partying. I'm pretty sure last night I said something like "Dude, I'm so fucking hammered," meaning of course that I was intoxicated to a fairly high degree. If you consider this term, however, drinking and being drunk has absolutely nothing to do with hammers or any other household tools (excluding the occasional employment of a funnel and plastic tubing or a bucket filled with gin, jungle juice, or even ecstasy if you're really good at picking a party). I've also heard people say that they are blitzed, which I'm pretty sure only ever happens to quarterbacks.
There are countless other terms for almost everything that are totally absurd, but I'm going to focus on the one that I felt was the most enigmatic. This is also a term that I am guilty of using often, and probably too much. This would be saying "tits" when something is considered good. Say, theoretically, that Evan hooked up with a girl and told me about it. I would probably reply by saying "That's pretty tits, man."
Now it can be argued that this is actually not a terrible phrase to use, because breasts are considered by most men to be a very good thing. I admit that I like them and I think they are good.
But why do I think this??
Really, think about this: why are boobs good? Why? I've been searching for an answer to this for years. They're really unremarkable. Just these...things with nipples, yet they turn me and most men on. I'm terribly confused by this (and I'm also going very far away from what I was talking about at the beginning of this whole thing), and I'd like to open it up to discussion. If you have a reason why boobs are good, if you can enlighten me on this matter please send me an instant message (smpbball23). I feel like I need to know.
Until then, I will not refer to good things as "tits," and I will absolutely not under any cirumstances call any amount of marijuana a "tree."
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Canadia Hates the Pens
It's an exciting time in the Pittsburgh area. The Penguins have secured a playoff berth for the first time since 2001 due majorly to the town's new savior, wonderkid Sidney Crosby. Prior to this, they secured a deal with the city for a new arena so that they could stay where they have been since the beginning of the franchise. People all over the place are rallying behind the Penguins, and the amount of bandwagon fans coming out of the cracks to support their hometown hockey team is astounding. We've got absolute freak power on our side.
The Pens started their playoff competition last night against the Ottawa Senators, who seized home advantage by commencing to mercilessly beat the shit out of a young and inexperienced (as far as playoffs go) Penguins team. Their physical play and absolute early domination made me think of them not as Senators, but more as Spartans. Due to the Pens lack in skill on the defensive side of the puck (I won't name names) the Senators scored back to back goals early in the first period, leaving the inflated Pens and their fans in total shock and dismay, followed by doubt. Conversation in my dorm room between my colleagues and I consisted of a few positive outlooks, but turned more to things such as "What the fuck?! We just beat these guys like...last week," and "Why is this happening?" Cat also contributed a quip that kind of caught how everyone was feeling when he said that "I think Recchi is drunk."
Nothing really went our way the entire game. Sidney scored a goal that would have given us some hope for a comeback...before it was taken away because the officials at the main office in Toronto concluded that he had scored the puck off of his skate in a kicking motion. Toronto is in Canada, just like Ottawa, and just like that our conspiracy theory has begun.
It must be hard for these canucks to accept that a city like Pittsburgh has commandeered two of their three best hockey prospects ever to be born (these two would be Lemieux and Crosby, with the third being Gretzky, who has also relocated to the United States). We've Americanized Sidney and we're taking their game, which I believe has to give them bitter beer face. It'd be like the MLS becoming the premiere soccer league in the entire world. America consists of a bunch of game steelers, and the Canadians are rebelling in their own small way by shaving points from the Yanks in an effort to secure an all-Canadian team Stanley Cup Final.
Or maybe this really wasn't a goal.
Regardless, the home advantage of the Senators astounded me. Their crowd was very much into the game and so was their team. Actually, they sounded not unlike the crowds at the coliseum in the movie "Gladiator." It was all very overwhelming and I can only begin to imagine what some of the Penguins were feeling out there. Crosby is only as old as me, and Jordan Staal is even younger, and both Malkin and Fleury are in their very early 20's. These are kids being put into an extremely intense environment, one that I'm pretty sure I can't deal with. In my opinion, they have it harder than Lebron James, because even though they both play against middle-aged men, in basketball they aren't allowed to hit you and abuse you in the ways that hockey allows.
Anyway, the Pens are going to have to bounce back on Saturday afternoon. They've got to fight fire with fire and they've got to come out pissing some sort of vinegar. It's imperative that they achieve a split in Ottawa before returning to the Steel City to do battle in games three and four, or it could spell an early and abrupt end for the baby Pens. I have faith that they will show some resilience, and I'm looking for a big game out of Malkin, who has all but disappeared from the action as of late, and I'm also looking to the beastly Laraque to throw his body around and take care of his responsibility, which is basically Sidney Crosby. They need to enhance their intimidation factor. I'm also looking for Crosby to do two things: 1) have a huge game and give the world what they've been waiting for...a for real bona fide prodigy, and 2) say the word "fuck" on camera. He's going to do the latter for sure, because, well, he does that every game.
The only motivation they need to win is that they get to come home, and the more games that they win in succession, the less amount of time they will have to stay in Canada, or more specifically Ottawa, where the people may begin to snarl at them like rabid wolves and exact their revenge on us for stealing their boy.
The Pens started their playoff competition last night against the Ottawa Senators, who seized home advantage by commencing to mercilessly beat the shit out of a young and inexperienced (as far as playoffs go) Penguins team. Their physical play and absolute early domination made me think of them not as Senators, but more as Spartans. Due to the Pens lack in skill on the defensive side of the puck (I won't name names) the Senators scored back to back goals early in the first period, leaving the inflated Pens and their fans in total shock and dismay, followed by doubt. Conversation in my dorm room between my colleagues and I consisted of a few positive outlooks, but turned more to things such as "What the fuck?! We just beat these guys like...last week," and "Why is this happening?" Cat also contributed a quip that kind of caught how everyone was feeling when he said that "I think Recchi is drunk."
Nothing really went our way the entire game. Sidney scored a goal that would have given us some hope for a comeback...before it was taken away because the officials at the main office in Toronto concluded that he had scored the puck off of his skate in a kicking motion. Toronto is in Canada, just like Ottawa, and just like that our conspiracy theory has begun.
It must be hard for these canucks to accept that a city like Pittsburgh has commandeered two of their three best hockey prospects ever to be born (these two would be Lemieux and Crosby, with the third being Gretzky, who has also relocated to the United States). We've Americanized Sidney and we're taking their game, which I believe has to give them bitter beer face. It'd be like the MLS becoming the premiere soccer league in the entire world. America consists of a bunch of game steelers, and the Canadians are rebelling in their own small way by shaving points from the Yanks in an effort to secure an all-Canadian team Stanley Cup Final.
Or maybe this really wasn't a goal.
Regardless, the home advantage of the Senators astounded me. Their crowd was very much into the game and so was their team. Actually, they sounded not unlike the crowds at the coliseum in the movie "Gladiator." It was all very overwhelming and I can only begin to imagine what some of the Penguins were feeling out there. Crosby is only as old as me, and Jordan Staal is even younger, and both Malkin and Fleury are in their very early 20's. These are kids being put into an extremely intense environment, one that I'm pretty sure I can't deal with. In my opinion, they have it harder than Lebron James, because even though they both play against middle-aged men, in basketball they aren't allowed to hit you and abuse you in the ways that hockey allows.
Anyway, the Pens are going to have to bounce back on Saturday afternoon. They've got to fight fire with fire and they've got to come out pissing some sort of vinegar. It's imperative that they achieve a split in Ottawa before returning to the Steel City to do battle in games three and four, or it could spell an early and abrupt end for the baby Pens. I have faith that they will show some resilience, and I'm looking for a big game out of Malkin, who has all but disappeared from the action as of late, and I'm also looking to the beastly Laraque to throw his body around and take care of his responsibility, which is basically Sidney Crosby. They need to enhance their intimidation factor. I'm also looking for Crosby to do two things: 1) have a huge game and give the world what they've been waiting for...a for real bona fide prodigy, and 2) say the word "fuck" on camera. He's going to do the latter for sure, because, well, he does that every game.
The only motivation they need to win is that they get to come home, and the more games that they win in succession, the less amount of time they will have to stay in Canada, or more specifically Ottawa, where the people may begin to snarl at them like rabid wolves and exact their revenge on us for stealing their boy.
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