Right Off Broadway

I kept telling all the people I was meeting at this party that we were in the greatest city in the world. Over the course of the day I had driven across a great deal of it, where 7.5 miles takes an hour in the car. In that time I drove by famous actors, ate food that makes me sweat just thinking about it, saw a city that truly never sleeps, and best of all, shared it with people I love. I had driven there alone, but was joined by aunts, uncles, and cousins; my best friend from the days of band nerdom; and a newly relocated dear friend from college. The family, they've lived there for all their lives. The friends, they're chasing dreams, moving over a thousand miles to pursue their ideal lives and happiness. I've joined them in the journey, but I'm not with them in that city.

Not yet, anyway. That should probably be the next step. September 2006. I hope to be there. It's the greatest city on Earth, and I'd have great people with which to share it.

Laughter Equals Happiness

None of us had been to the movies in a while, not going to any multiplex since early last summer. This was also the first time the four of us had been together since I moved to Harrisburg, and going to see a well-received family movie like “The Incredibles” seemed like an appropriate outing for some of that ever-diminishing family time. We were all entertained by the movie, jokingly making ourselves superheros as we exited the theatre. It was no longer raining as it had been when we first left for the movie, but my dad still passed the umbrella for me to hold. When I wondered why, my sister remarked that I must be Umbrella Boy, a pun that normally wouldn’t muster more than a smirk of appreciation to the reference.

Instead, the moniker struck my dad as incredibly funny, and he immediately burst into laughter. We would repeat the name of my new alter-ego just to see him continue laughing, which would happen without fail. My samuri swinging of the umbrella finally pushed him over the edge. There we were in the middle of a movie parking lot, my dad laughing so hard he had to bend his head down to regain his breath. By the time we reached the car, he had to wipe tears from his face, which I think is around Level 7 on the laughter scale.

I saw my dad laugh a lot during my brief trip home. He’s always had that sarcastic edge that I’ve been fortunate enough to inherit, and when we’re put together in the same room, it can be very dangerous, particularly for my mom, who can at times be taken aback by our sarcastic remarks. After one particular episode that ended with my mom calling my dad an asshole, leading him to again cover his face in laughter, my mom returned to me and said that my dad laughs a lot more when I’m home. On a drive a few days later my dad admitted that very fact, that he laughs a lot more when I come home. I felt similarly, realizing that I was much more upbeat, energized, humorous, and humored during my trip away from Harrisburg.

5 Reasons Thanksgiving is a better holiday than Christmas

1. Thanksgiving comes and goes, while Christmas fades in and fades out. We know when Thanksgiving begins (on Wednesday, when family begins flying into town) and ends (that moment on Saturday when you refuse to make another plate of reheated turkey, casserole, and pie). It's set over a few days, giving it more of an impact by announcing "Hey, it's time for Thanksgiving!" Christmas is no longer a holiday; it's a season. Christmas arguably begins before Thanksgiving and ends differently for everyone. That's just too long to sustain the true spirit of a holiday.

2. Thanksgiving has stayed truer to its roots. Most of us don't spend the fourth Thursday in Novemeber at an outside table with Pilgrims and Native Americans, but we still sit at an extended table and express thanks for the people with which we break bread. Christmas, if true to its origins, should not be the biggest holiday for Christians (Easter is the ultimate Christian holiday) and would be a non-holiday to the thousands of non-Christians who still celebrate a day originally intended to glorify Jesus Christ.

3. Sucky 90s adult contemporary artists don't make sterile albums about Thanksgiving. Seriously, has anyone heard the four minutes of utter confusion and torture when Placido Domingo shares a performance of "Ave Maria" with... Michael Bolton?!?

4. No gift buying for Thanksgiving. Yeah, the day after Thanksgiving is the busiest shopping day of the year, but we all know what that's for, don't we? It's so you can try to hold in the embarassment when someone you have bought nothing for gives you a semi-decent Christma gift, so you have to pretend you have theirs back home while you're wondering what restaurant you can pick up a gift certificate from during lunch break so you don't look like an inconsiderate prick. Another thing: don't people with December birthdays get ripped off because all their loved ones have spent their money on Christmas gifts? I'm glad my parents conceived me nine months before summer.

5. Thanksgiving is a day of watching and playing football. Ok, so when I finally got old enough to play football, the older generation displayed their moxie over a game of monopoly (one of those moments in my childhood that made me realize we all will get old), but I still get to watch the first quarter of the second game until I fall asleep on the couch while everyone taps each other and quietly points to my closed eyes, tilted-back head, and slightly ajar mouth. That's fun for everyone. Then someone tries to stick their finger between your teeth, and your nap is over. Good times.

Time Crunch

Grad school is very much about work. You and your professors put time limits on you, the student, to complete a certain amount of tasks. You've essentially been hired (though usually you're not the one on payroll) to do research while at the same time learn the basics and the ropes to your professional field. The work piles up, and there's never a break.

Unfortunately, there is such a demand of your work that with only 24 hours in a day, some sacrifices must be made. Some of the cuts are pretty obvious: forget being a regular watcher of a primetime program, and hold on to those distant memories of weekday parties. But your life is school, and this doesn't just restrict your socal life, but also your intrapersonal life. There's not as much time to sit back and reflect, to go for a solo walk, to enjoy a sunrise. Many people in this country live to work, to make that extra buck and get one rung higher on their professional ladder, at the expense of the little things that really make life special. Grad school prepares you for such a life, but you have a choice to live a life of work and joy. It may be hard to juggle both, and you may have to lean one way or the other, but there's always a choice.

I want to always appreciate the little things.

I Like...

• Scallops
• “The Cloud Prayer” by A.C. Newman
• Ass massages
• 50 degree weather
• Properly placed appreciation
• Online poker
• The smell of fruit-flavored lip gloss
• Surprise e-mails
• A store full of food
• Ego boosters
• The drone of a fan as I sleep
• Vibrating couches
• Big patios
• Terrible jokes executed perfectly
• Old men who wear ties with short sleeves
• My back
• Absolute silence
• Olive skin
• The Italian language
• Tara Reid's drunkeness
• Sincere compliments
• BBC
• Drives at sunrise
• Inside jokes
• Really dark pens
• 11 am wakeups
• Kasey Chambers's lower, middle, and upper register
• Smiles for no reason
  

Weak

At my age of 22, I’d like to consider myself indestructible. I am in the best physical shape of my life, can pull an all-nighter without suffering, and drink large quantities of beer and still be ready for breakfast the next morning. Nagging aches, fatigue, and medical conditions are for the old. Their bodies are not as strong as mine. They are worn, and they are weak. I am young, and I am strong.

But recently I have grown very concerned about my health. It started two weeks ago, when in the middle of class my heart began racing and pounding into my chest. I tried to alleviate the feeling with deep, labored breathing, but soon my vision became glassy, my arms felt numb, and periodically I felt as though my heart had literally stopped beating. I whispered to my friend Jess that I needed to be taken home, as I had no idea how to stop my body from freaking out on me. In the middle of class, I had to stand up and leave, whispering to another friend to inform the professor for our next class that I would be absent that night.

My initial feeling was that I had taken too much caffeine during the day and experienced an “overdose” of caffeine. Over about 7 hours I had a cup of coffee, a cup of espresso, and a Red Bull-type energy drink. All this with only a biscuit in the morning, I might add. My parents confirmed my suspicions and suggested a few remedies that helped but never eliminated the symptoms.

Such an overdose is usually completely over in a few days, and I felt better with each passing day. But my body never felt completely normal. Periodically I’d feel shooting pains down my arms, awaken short of breath, or notice slight discomfort in my chest. Over two weeks these problems became less frequent and less intense, to the point where I anticipated a full recovery was near.

This morning I woke up feeling great. After completing a project for class, I felt the energy to go boxing again. I had gradually phased in the boxing to regain the peak physical condition I was previously achieving with these exhilarating workouts. An hour and an incredible workout later, I returned home to shower, eat a few slices of pizza, and go to class. I still felt great.

About five minutes into class, I suddenly felt as though my heart had stopped beating. When I regained my breath, the numbness in my arms returned, and my chest was pulsating. I quietly left to class and paced through the hallway. A prayer to God, Please make this go away, Lord, followed, as did a trip to the water fountain. I felt much better, returned to class, and hoped I could make it though the remaining 50 minutes of class.

The clock creeped as though time itself was low on battery power. After a brief period of feeling 100% fine, the chest attack returned, reoccurring periodically over the next 15 minutes. I felt completely out of control. Secretly I prayed to God to just let me make it through the rest of class. But I couldn’t. I was too scared, and I needed to do something. Two weeks to the day, in the same classroom, I had to excuse myself and escape for home.

I called home, nervous, pissed, embarrassed, and in need of a solution. Something had to be wrong, and this had to be addressed. My parents and I agreed that I would find a doctor to confirm our suspicions of the underlying problem. Most likely the caffeine thing had triggered an underlying problem. The part that humiliates me, though, is that the problem I have sounds pretty ridiculous. The cool medical term is GERD, Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. The sad truth is, this is essentially fancy code for really bad heartburn.

There have been times when I seriously wondered whether I would pass out and die, and all of this has been caused by fucking heartburn?!? Come on, heartburn? This kind of stuff should be happening to forty-somethings whose bodies aren’t what they used to be, not to a 22-year-old who boxes and enjoys hot wings and pizza. I shouldn’t be experiencing “ailments” that plague me constantly and cause me to leave class early.

I’m very embarrassed that I left class early today. I wanted so much to gut it out and quietly leave for home at the end of class, but I felt out of control of my body to the point that I needed to escape. Now I’m the guy who has left class twice because he’s got something wrong with him. It’s not even something cool like some weird exotic disease. My esophagus can’t handle my diet of espresso, red pepper, and tomato sauce. It causes me problems that need to be addressed by a medical doctor.

Tomorrow I’ll most likely have to nod to my classmates and assure them that I’m ok. It will be a somewhat humiliating task. I appreciate people being concerned, but I don’t want to be the guy that everyone is concerned about. I don’t want to be that guy who’s had to walk out of class twice because of a physical condition. I don’t want to be that guy who everyone secretly wonders if he’ll make it through the rest of the classes. I don’t want to be that guy that gets asked, Are you okay? at the beginning of class because he’s had sudden and severe physical problems in public.

But I am that guy, and I’ll be relieved when I find out how to defeat this problem and am allowed to return to my delusions that I am a mighty specimen impervious to attack.

Quotes that Have Made Me Think No Matter How this Election Turns Out, We're Screwed

"I voted for Bush because I asked myself which ads pissed me off the least."

"(I voted for Bush) because Kerry's an idiot."

"I realized that everyone I know that voted for Kerry is an idiot, and everyone I know that voted for Bush is an asshole."

"If you vote for Bush, you agree with Toby Keith. If you vote for Kerry, you agree with the fat little Dixie Chick. If you vote for Nader, you agree with Ralph Nader."

"The Pope told him not to go to war!"

"Fu-ckin Li-berals!" (Supposed taunt toward Gator fans by Bush-supporting Georgia Bulldogs)

"The funny part is that all you Bush and Kerry idolaters are the same. You just dont realize it."

Win or Lose, We Booze

I almost felt a buzz before even stepping through the revolving doors at Gainesville Regional Airport. We had been talking about this trip for weeks, my return to the old college town, and we anticipated an orgy of crazy times for my weekend stay. It had only been the old college town for a little over two months, but in that time the state had survived four hurricanes, I had begun taking grad school midterms, and the Red Sox had won the World Series. In other words, there was already a world of difference from when I had left.

We knew it would be absurd to think we could exceed the adventures of Florida-Georgia 2003 (when without us saying a word, a friend merely looked at my friends and I standing over him at 5:30 am and remarked, You guys are fucking crazy), but that didn't mean we couldn't have fun trying. This is what was professed the eve before Florida-Georgia 2004. My declaration that I was "going to explode" when I escaped the stresses of grad school life for the weekend. McSuck (my best friend back in Gainesville) annoiting an "Anthony gets a Georgia girl" night. Actually considering a post-exam night at a pub as a "warm up" for the weekend.

But no matter how much hype you put into a weekend, you can't force the good times to achieve a predetermined level. It doesn't work like that; saying this year will be as crazy as last year doesn't make it so. You need a little luck, some open opportunities, and positioning to react to those opportunities. That's how most of college's greatest moments come about: a combination of right place, right time, alcohol, and a mystery variable.

In our first 15 minutes at The Jacksonville Landing, I sensed that I was being put in the position of being personally responsible for making the good times happen. If I hadn't found a girl to talk to within 10 seconds, my friends would direct me to a group of girls and stare at me awaiting a verdict. I'm very rarely (can we actually say never?) in active girl-hunting mode. This is not how I work. It's not me. I had come to Jacksonville to do more than meet girls. My idea of a crazy weekend was combining the effects of 32 ounce beers with bumping into old friends, coming back to Harrisburg with a few long-term stories, not finding a place to sleep until 3 am, and yeah, meeting a Georgia girl.

And once I shut out the urgings of my friends and went about things in my own way, I found my good times. My alcohol tolerance was rebuilt in 2 days. I bumped into old friends (one time, literally) , ramming chests, screaming inaudibles, and playing catch-up in 5 seconds. For stories, among the long-term contenders are the I've been here since Thursday! guy; my normally calm friend belting out a ridiculously long Irish folk song in the middle of the Landing; the drunken Thursday! guy driving a golf cart with a half pitcher of beer in his hand, proclaiming I drink from a big cu-cup!; finding shelter in a rich, gated neighborhood (I didn't know her nor her parents) and being treated to an eggshell mattress, breakfast, and lunch; the Marilyn Monroe dress; and drinking Miller Lites, eating a hot dog, and watching the Patriots-Steelers game as Air Force One flew by. They were good times that were only missing a Gator victory and a cute Georgia girl.

But there's always next year.

Whatever

Movies people think I'm crazy for not seeing that I feel no urgency to watch:

• Pulp Fiction
• Dirty Dancing
• American Beauty
• The Shawshank Redemption
• Star Wars Episode I
• Shrek 2
• A Beautiful Mind
• Gone With the Wind
• Shakespeare in Love
• Citizen Kane
• Animal House
• Raiders of the Lost Ark
• Pretty Woman
• My Big Fat Greek Wedding
• Any Harry Potter
• Any Lord of the Rings

His Real Name is Chris

I guess you could call it a game that Furio and I used to play. Furio was my roommate my first two years of college, a random assignment that turned out golden. We had a hobby of not throwing out our trash in a timely fashion. Beside our mini-fridge and microwave were piles of discarded to-go boxes and freshly browned banana peels, all festering until someone gave in and walked the 50 feet to the trash chute. Usually I surrendered first. Actually I always gave in and threw out the trash, especially when I'd discover meat in one of the styrofoam boxes.

One night I walked through the door and saw something astonishing. On the other side of the room stood Furio, bent over picking up piles of trash. He was taking off toward the trash chute, throwing out our trash. I wondered if I had written "Pick up your own damn trash one of these days!" on our dry erase board and forgotten. I couldn't recall ever seeing Furio throw out the trash before. In fact, he hadn't even allowed the pile to accumulate to its usual 4 feet; it was barely half that.

There had to be a reason to this bizarro world I had entered, and there was. Some girl Furio had told me about was coming over to highlight his hair. She had never been to the dorm room, and Furio didn't want her to see that he slept beside a rotting pileup of discarded food. I knew that for him to throw out the trash for her, Anne had to be special.

Three years later, one of the most well-grounded couples I know are engaged to be married. They are two beautiful people who deserve to find joy and prosperity in this world with one another by their side. For Furio to fall in love with Anne, for Anne to fall in love with Furio, and for them decide to build one life together, it just makes sense. They have a glorious, exciting mystery ahead of them, and I'll be happy and honored to say I saw it from the beginning, when a sloppy, spikey-haired nineteen-year-old threw out the trash.

Overwhelmed (or, I Think "Qualms" is the Coolest Word I've Ever Used in This Blog)

I've always considered myself to be reserved yet open at the same time. What I mean is, I keep to myself and don't usually go out of my way to voice my opinion or discuss my personal life, but I have no qualms about doing so and am comfortable answering almost any question. This is how I have always perceived myself, but that's not the person who came out last night.

I essentially have two true, legitimate friends so far here in Harrisburg. We've gone out as a group somewhat regularly in the month and a half I have been here, and they're two great girls who are fun to be around. Just like with anyone you're just beginning to befriend, you present a polite, likeable front, and this facade serves as your representative until you're gradually ready to open up more and more and reveal your true self. As my friends have gotten more and more vocal and feel more comfortable openning up, my presentation has changed only slightly. This is not from not being ready to open up to them specifically; it's that with me, what you see at the beginning is pretty much what you're going to get. While I get along with people very easily, I'm shy and talk in doses. This can sometimes be mistaken for lack of interest or conceit. It's neither. It's quiet reservation, a trait without a definite positive or negative connotation.

Last night over drinks, my friends were ready to open up more. But apparently girls talk together (you're not fooling anyone when you go to the bathroom in pairs), and they had a mental list of several questions, personal issues, that they wanted me to open up with. I don't tend to go out of my way to answer these questions. At the same time, I am fine with informing people of how many women I've slept with, that I indeed have a somewhat closet risque side and a thing for older women, that I've only had one true, bring-home-to-the-parents girlfriend, that I come from a well-off family who doesn't want to coddle me but is more than willing to make sure I'm taken care of, that I tend to overthink and worry in certain situations.

I had no problem answering these questions individually, but the layer effect of one issue after another began to overwhelm me. I realized that these girls could very well perceive me as uptight (which I can be from time to time) and fear that I was judging them for not being as "pure" or "good" (their words, not mine) as me. I wanted to make them feel better, to show them that I wasn't judging, and that I indeed had my vices too. But I got so focused on that, I let out more than I usually would, and I fell out of my comfort zone. At one point I was beginning to tell a story that they had high expectations for (the high expectations were my own fault), when in actuality the on-paper scenario was wilder than the actual situation. I embellished on my story. While what I said was technically true, I made deliberate hints that the story was far more outlandish than what actually happened. It was an effort for them to feel that I can relate to some of the stories they will tell me, but in the end the story seemed a little unlikely to come from me. I think I got caught.

There were some high times and low times, some heartfelt support and awkward silences. When I have a night as eventful as this, I tend to think about it as I'm in bed. My thinking isn't usually productive, however; it's usually a circulatory recreation of the events in my head. But last night, so many things came out, so many things I'm unaccustomed to revealing in such an open manner, that I couldn't concentrate on one thought. My mind was going chaotic trying to jump from one scene to the next without ever being able to gain composure. That's when my heart started racing. I could feel the thumps against my mattress. My muscles subtly quivered. And when I woke up a few hours later, I was still slightly shaken.

I believe this was true anxiety, and what the underlying cause of it was, I can't say for sure. Perhaps even though my shyness and reservations don't prevent me from opening up and expressing my deepest emotions, they do somewhat limit the rate and intensity of what I can express. Just as I like to prove myself over time, I prefer to reveal myself over time. I have a limit of what I'm willing to reveal at a given time. Before last night, I wasn't aware of that boundary. I only discovered that line by crossing it.

Oktoberfest

At 31 days and 1 hour (thanks to the one-hour tilt back from Daylight Savings), October is the longest month of the year. It's a good thing, because I need that extra hour in this month more than ever. If September was for getting my feet wet in grad school, October is figuring out how to escape from quicksand. It's a bunch of little things, and a few big projects, that just add up to a weighty month. Mornings of distributing surveys to kids who don't want to take them, afternoons of catching up with this week's readings, evenings of attending classes, and nights of studying for midterms and writing papers. Somewhere in this I must find time for the bare essentials, like eating, sleeping, hanging out with chicks, and listening to The Shins.

And other essentials, like experiencing life, must fall in there as well. It is somewhat ironic that in the month that perhaps gives me the least wiggle room to have a life, I'm living a more rich and productive life than I would, say, during the dog days of summer. The month is 11 days old and I already have countless memories...

1) There's the time the NYC hobo stole a 20 right from my friend's hand, swallowed it, and remarked, "Call the cops, bitch!"

2) There's the time I locked myself out of my apartment, slept on a friend's pullout sofa, and walked over to the front office 10 hours later with morning breath and bed head, all so I could save the $65 they would have charged me for unlocking my door after hours.

3) There's the Saturday night I walked down Broadway with a friend I've known since I was 4, while we pinched our nostrils shut and loudly mocked the suckass nasal singing of the lead singer from New Found Glory.

Countless) There's the time I was on the phone with a girl I truly care about, as sick and nauseous as she could be, taking a brief break from our conversation to throw up in her bucket, but refusing to hang up because "I want to keep talking to you. It distracts me from the fact that I have a bucket of puke by my bed."

You can't make these things up, folks.

I don't know what will come of this month. My lack of terrible study habits could resurface, something I don't think I'd be able to overcome as a virgin to the grad school exam experience. I could write an incredible research proposal that leads to my name being published rather quickly. My bed could be replaced by a computer chair and a cup of espresso every other night. I could lock myself out of my apartment again.

There are some serious implications this month and some serious fun times (I'm flying down to Florida essentially for a party, the Florida-Georgia weekend). But what's actually in store, and what will actually happen, that's writing itself right now...

10 Count

I've always had favorites in every sport I watched. And out of all the favorites, I assumed my favorite of all favorites was the New York Yankees. I'd bask in the glory when the Pinstripes would snatch another pennant and have my Braves fan buddies waiting for the next year. People would roll their eyes and claim I was merely rooting for the team that would win and provide me flase vicarious glory, and then I'd show the cap I got from Yankee Stadium when I was a kid, or my framed card collection of the 1958 World Series champs. I thought the Yankees were my favorite of favorites.

I figured out a few weeks ago that I was wrong. I realized that in fact, the Florida Gators were my favorite of favorites. Rooting for them in a Seminole-dominated city, then attending the university and watching over 15 games in the greatest college football stadium in the world. From the pre-parties to the "It's great... to be... a Florida Gator!" chants, I discovered that the Florida Gators were my favorite of favorites.

But tonight I see that I've been wrong. I've overlooked my true favorite of favorites all along. I knew I was as big a fan as there could be, but we think of football, basketball, baseball when compiling lists in the world of sports. Sometimes it takes a devastating loss, the worst and most painful of defeats, to test your loyalty and fondness. And tonight I figured it out.

When it comes to sports, I can't imagine anyone I've followed and admired more than Roy Jones, Jr.

Roy was the hometown boy, the kid wonder who showed a talent in boxing like no other. You could drive down Quintette Road and catch Roy jogging down the street like a real life Balboa. He had a genuine smile, an awesomely approachable presence that allowed you to easily walk up to him and go, "Hey, Champ!" He'd say hey back, maybe chat for a bit. I saw him fight at the local Fairgrounds 10 years before he was filling Madison Square Garden. There's a signed glove hanging in my bedroom. My dad and I have played him in games of basketball. I've seen the myth, and I've seen the man.

For every Roy fight my family and friends would gather in a room to watch him display an unexplainable greatness. The uncomparable speed of his fists, the "swoosh" as his glove swirled through his opponent's jawline, the cocky flexing he would incorporate into actual boxing strategy. And after he'd throw the final hook that compelled the referee to spare his opponent from further punishment, we'd hoot and holler and then get quiet, because we knew it was coming. Before Roy would answer questions, he always paid 2 tributes. First to God, and then to the city of Pensacola. And then we'd shout in jubilation.

I honestly thought Roy would never lose a fight. I couldn't fathom someone being able to overcome his skill, speed, and elusiveness. But there is a reason I have been telling tales of Roy in the past tense (I didn't realize I was doing so). Not even Roy could escape the grip of Father Time. He creeps on all of us eventually, but it's never so obivious as in the case of an athlete who just can't reach to the heights he had once climbed.

I no longer have HBO and was unable to watch his fight tonight. It was the first Roy fight I can think of that I've missed since he moved beyond fighting at the Fairgrounds. But I feverishly refreshed boxing sites until I could read about the outcome. When I read who had won and who had lost, I thought I read a typo. But as I continued to read the words got worse and worse. Descriptions of my fighter looking suddenly stripped of his speed, struggling to fend off an opponent he would have been dancing around in his hey day, and finally receiving a punch to the head that sent his 35-year-old body down to the ground. He didn't get up. He couldn't get up.

I don't have children, but I honestly felt as though I had just heard that my child had been knocked out. I've rambled here now for over an hour because I just can't fathom that this incredible ride has reached a setting point. Roy has been an entity that united all of Pensacola. I feel a personal connection to his accomplishments. I sincerely care about the man. This is the second time he's been knocked out this year (and second time ever), and tonight will be the second night that I wake up in the middle of the night with an inescable vision of my hero, Pensacola's hero, crippled on the ground, his invincibility gone.

It took a horrible defeat like this to confirm how Roy is, and will most likely always be, my favorite of favorites in sports. I personally care about him, and that's why I can only hope Roy's career and legacy have reached their final count of 10.

Wonderings Only a Few Will Understand

Who scores higher on the Unintentional Comedy Scale: Flavor Flav or Charo?

At this point, you've gotta wonder if Dallas Baker beat up that referee's kid.

When did Troy Aikman lose his Elvis Voice?

I personally believe Dave Chapelle is more Wayne Brady (very good within his niche) than Eddie Murphy (all-around comedic genius).

All You Can Eat Wings is the most underrated meal ever.

I've always been fine with any nickname people call me, but that was before Last Comic Standing.

When I heard some MTV guy say, "I'm sure we all wish Britney the best with her new marriage," I couldn't help but do a half eye-roll, half chuckle.

There's no emotion to describe the feeling when you hear The Late Show band's choice of music for John Kerry, and it's "Sunglasses at Night".

The Ivan Emmys

The Taco Bell Award (for making me feel like I would vomit or crap my pants): CNN, for waking me up to an erroneuos report that my dad's hospital (and where my dad was during the hurricane) had been hit by a tornado.

The Nyquil Award (for helping put me to sleep): My dad, for calling me at 11 am with, "Yeah Ant, I just got back from home. Everybody's ok."

The W. Award (for helping me laugh with a mispronounciation): Orange Raincoat Guy, for reporting major damage in "Pensaloca."

The Amelia Earhart Award (for new milestones in travel): Ivan himself, for managing to flood schools from Florida to Pennsylvania (seriously, Penn State is closed tomorrow because of flooding!).

Hurricane Ivan Haiku

Humbling how quickly
nature's wrath, wind, and waters
hurt yet unite us.

Weekend Highlights

Getting out of the apartment and finding cool girls to hang out with.

Returning home after failing to find a bar in another town, only to discover we were a half block from the bar.

Hearing the musical entertainment at Chick's play "Hey Joe," and having my friend comment, "Oh I love Jethro Tull."

Having a girl clean my kitchen at 3 am while I go into the other room to check the FSU-Miami score.

Confirming that Miami, FSU, and Georgia, individually and collectively, suck.

Two words: Free. Dinner.

Finding Italians who refer to tomato sauce as "gravy."

Boxing until I thought I gave myself a hernia.

Three more words: Dave. Attell. Album.

Realizing I can-- and will-- be just as big a Gator fan 1,000 miles away from the best stadium on Earth.

Discovering that Penn State students get free Napster.

Using free Napster to play the new Jimmy Eat World over and over and over.

Finally killing the kitty litter funk from my apartment.

Anniversary

It feels different this time. There aren't any feelings to shout patriotic cliches or sing a song or shed a tear. Now the reminders bring ill feelings, reminders not only of what happened three years ago, but also reminders of the reality that we are participants in a war, of the mystery of what happened to our quest to take revenge on Osama, reminders that this election has caused us to fight as much with each other as with our enemy. I'm sick of George W., I'm sick of John Kerry, sick of Michael Moore, Swift Boaters, Chris Matthews, Zell "Pistols at Dawn" Miller, and this whole election season.

What happened to the cliche, "United We Stand"?

I Now Know What a Nittany Lion Is

To say life in Pennsylvania is different than my time in Florida would be a gross understatement. In Gainesville, seeing anyone above the age of 35 or below the age of 16 made you do a double take. Now I live in a building that until this year was reserved as a retirement community. I have neighbors with names like Ethel and "Old Bill" who walk together through the parking lot, if you consider the snail's pace they keep walking. You could cast Adam Sandler to do one of his fish-out-of-water comedies circling around my change in scenery, and it would top out at $100 million. Unless the movie sucked, which it most certainly would.

It's not just that I'm dangerously outnumbered by senior citizens. Gone are the sports bars, Ford F-150's, and Baptist churches. They've been replaced by pizzerias, barber shops, and cemeteries. In the three weeks since I left Gainesville, my home state has been hit by TWO biggin hurricanes. Harrisburg has no worries about hurricanes, but we have instructions on how to find out if the blizzard has cancelled classes for the day. The buses I'm accustomed to from UF would have little value here; for Harrisburg, it's either by foot or by highway.

The hardest part of this transition has definitely been my sudden change in social life. I don't yet have friends to just come over whenever I feel like. I return from a long day on campus to a single person apartment, make meals for one, and go to sleep at a reasonable hour. Did this ever happen in Gainesville? Of course not. Here it will be much harder to maintain a social life close to what I had in Gainesville (and I wasn't exactly a Hilton brother in Gainesville, either). Fewer people my age, fewer opportunities to meet these people, and fewer outlets for sophomoric fun with these people.

But that's a poor reflection of the opportunities I expect to have here. I'm fortunate enough to be getting paid to get my master's and avoid sliding into the red for a few more years. I'm studying stuff that I absolutely love-- real issues-- and am getting the chance to join something at the ground floor. I'm meeting different kinds of people: people from different backgrounds, people in different stages of life, people living different stories than I'm used to. And I've already been on a quasi-date, though I confirmed she had a boyfriend around the time dessert came.

This move is much different than when leaving home for college. In many ways it is similar: I moved to a place I was unfamiliar with but eager to see, and I left all my friends in another city. But while I'm making a similar journey, nobody else is, and that's the key difference. Moving into East Hall in Gainesville, we were all in the same boat. We all had left our homes simultaneously and were grouped together, meeting people from all over the state making the same leap. Now, I'm meeting people whose lives are already established. They have jobs to attend to during the day, and they go home early to spend time with their spouses and fiances. And the people I've left behind, they're not making the same jump either. I won't be going home on Thanksgiving to a round-robin reunion, all of us sharing tales from our first months in this new, strange place. The other guys are either still completing the undergrad step, or they've already found their comfort zone.

My friends can listen and empathize with me, but they're not doing what I'm doing at this moment. I've made this move without them, walking face-forward, carrying my own bags. It's something that needed to be done. This is what I wanted: a journey to call my own.

Changes

My college apartment is barren.

Most of my possessions sit inside a 14' U-Haul.

Tomorrow I drive toward my new home: Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

I have a mini crush on Avril Lavigne (partly because of her new video, and partly from when I heard her tell a guy, "You'll never make oot with me").

To the Next Step: The CD

Jamie Cullum- Twentysomething
John Mayer- Why Georgia
Rosie Thomas- Sell All My Things
Keane- Everybody's Changing
Ben Kweller- Living Life
Over the Rhine- Hometown Boy
Jet- Move On
Fountains of Wayne- Hackensack
Switchfoot- This is Your Life
Rufus Wainwright- I Don't Know What it Is
Coldplay- A Whisper
Shawn Smith- Leaving California
Sondre Lerche- Things You Call Fate
Jimmy Eat World- My Sundown

Characters from My Four Years at the University of Florida

Jerk, the best bud: every epiphany I had was influenced in some way by him
Furio, the spikey-haired roommate: conversations were 45% Simpsons quotes, 100% hilarious
Aaron, the guy with a mustache: had more nicknames than anyone, starting with Punkface
Rob, the creepy neighbor: "Anal" was his middle name
Phil, the imported beer guy: gave me my first imported beer
Big Dan, the German guy who's always in his underwear: that about sums it up
Dave, the Parrothead RA: creator of the luscious Wall of Hot
Spamburger, RA Dave's hot sex partner: discovered the Aaron Toe Penis, and I'll leave it at that
Adam H., the never-home neighbor: lead guitarist for East 3's band effort, Move the Capo
Adam B., the trash can urinator: and future graduation speaker and Cambridge acceptee
Travis, the drunken, bare-assed genius: and future school presidential candidate
Asdo, the UF mascot: couldn't walk 10 steps without being recognized
The Baa Guys, the Bash Brothers of East 3: catchphrases included "Baa!", "Wieeeeerd!", and "Scheisse!"
Brandon, Mr. Florida Football: cussed out a future NBA player until he got his attention
Ronald, the football player turned actor: my drug-partner-in-crime in my one and only play
Ed, the actor with the worst idea ever: dude seriously wanted to start a boy band with me and Ronald
Jemma, my freshmen racquetball partner: cool chick, simple as that
Joy, the pessimistic outsider: probably the biggest case of "name irony" on the planet
Shannon, the bubbly big sister: an incredibly well-rounded person without a flaw
Josser, the All-American redhead: played my coach in the cult classic short "Big Test"
Jason K., the quiet musician: bonded over many a Big Red while asking improper yes-or-no questions
Chasity, deliverer of the Big Reds: will always be my favorite waitress
Jamey, the dessert-making pirate: an outrageous exterior with a wonderfully deep interior
Nathan, the you'll-find-me-at-night-on-the-phone-with-my-woman guy: saw all the Kareem Abdul-Jabbar movies with him
Paulercrombie, straight out of the Abercrombie catalog: gave me my first cigar
Chadwick: the annoying neighbor that won't go away: caused injury with his misuse of the High Five
Anne, the I'm-always-in-your-room-because-your-roomy-is-the-man-of-my-dreams girl: oh sweet Anne, you and Furio deserve each other
Jen and Mary, the East 3 Floor Whores: I served as their East 3 Pimp in name only
Ronnie, the I-don't-give-a-shit RA: couldn't afford bedsheets but wore $170 shirts
Hot Italian Girl, the hot Italian girl in all my criminology classes: found out later she wasn't Italian
Annika, the J-Lo accented bombshell: first girl I fell asleep with
Nanni, the funniest man on Earth: had his dreams of eating pancakes at Waffle House shattered by uncompromising Waffle House nazis
Jerel, the I-get-slammed-for-my-choices-in-females guy: I never saw any of them, so I'll leave the jokes to Nanni
Coke Fiend, the girl with a secret: I hope she doesn't end up like Yasmine
J, the big sexy: gave me the nickname "Cuddles" on Valentine's Day (I wish I were lying about that)
M. Laird, the enigmatic roommate: drank alone in his room, possibly with the lights off and the Morrissey on
Dave, the man with a mullet: a diet of KFC, Arby's, and Easy Mac
Katie, the roommate's-cousin's-girlfriend-turned-roommate's girlfriend: overcame her boyfriend's lack of showering
Will, the deep conversation guy: openly requested to "pick your brain" upon first meeting
Lourdes, the Cuban girl next door: my wine-and-cheese arm candy
The Messiah, Jerk's roommate: could run 12 miles and save 2 lives before 9 am
The Triplets, siblings of The Messiah's girlfriend: nice all-around good people. Also allows me to say I know triplets, which is always cool.
The Kooter, skiing buddy: the best nickname I've ever bestowed upon someone
Jessica, the if-only-her-boyfriend-weren't-around-on-Spring-Break girl: I still say I had a chance
Anna, the 26-year-old cutie: got me partway to my dream
Serbia, the El-Fuego-of-all-that-is-El-Fuego girl: taught me that a chain smoker can still smell like, aw man, I'm gonna need a sec...
Jason R., the 5-foot-nothing Jew: wiseass flew across the ocean when he discovered a no-charge-for-tickets glitch on Iceland Air Dot Com
Chad, my metrosexual sidekick: helped me bail on our buddies entertaining ugly girls in the Vegas suite
The Super Gators, aka The Landings Crew, throwers of legendary parties: most likely to require a liver transplant

Top 3 Absurdities From the Low Carb Craze

1. Low Carb Bacardi. Can anyone honestly say they were deterred from having one more shot of rum because of they had passed their carbohydrate count for the night? Anyone who considers choosing a low-carb alcohol as health-conscious should be shot in the forehead with a BB gun.
2. Low Carb Pizza. Who knew the Freshman 15 wasn't caused by the grease, cheeses, or multiple shredded meats atop those 3-in-the-A-M pizzas? It was the dough, the foundation of our round mound of fats, that gave us love handles!
3. Low Carb Cat Food. I was at a Shins concert when the opening band's lead singer informed us that this product was circulating in Los Angeles. The only reason this isn't number one is I just can't comprehend anyone being fucking stupid enough to buy this.

Thought Process While Lying in a Deck Chair

Maybe I should eat out later today...
But I want to eat healthy...
So maybe Bonefish Grill, the one place I haven't been to on Archer yet...
It would be too expensive...
Maybe I'll go one day for lunch...
Like when Mason and I go to Ballyhoo...
Last time was pretty good, the raw oysters...
He picked up the bill because I paid last time...
Otherwise, I would have had to deduct those meals from the rent I owe him for July...
Wait, it's already July, and I need to pay him...
Ok, it'll be cheaper this time because he owes me 50 bucks from when Dave gave him my 50 accidentally...
But that utility bill was unbelievable...
$145!...
I could charge him and Jamey $47 or $48 apiece...
Why should I pay the extra dollar?...
That wouldn't be fair...
Like that time Dave came up and said we shouldn't pay for the digital cable for the summer...
But we still have it...
I love digital cable...
I'm trying to imagine surfing the channels in the living room without the cable info from the cable box...
I might have to do that in my apartment in Harrisburg...
Or I could call and tell them I need at least HBO and Showtime for boxing...
Well, not Showtime. I may miss some fights, but oh well...
That apartment could look empty with only the things I have now...
The 20" TV standing on a similar size end table...
White walls, a green couch, and lots of floor space...
I could put my little TV/VCR combo in my bedroom...
I wonder if someone's put a cable outlet in my bedroom...
Either way, Mandy said I could just do it myself if they hadn't...
I'll ask them if I can paint in my apartment...
That could kill some time at the beginning...
Maybe I'll lay the UF throw rug on the floor in my bedroom...
It never fit in the dorm room, so it just collected dust under my bed...
But we had that football field mat by my bed...
That thing always lifted and moved around whenever you hit it...
I didn't bring it back sophomore year...
Now it sits by my waterbed back home...
Hey, that picture I took with the self-timer of me posing on the waterbed senior year of high school...
Wow, how did I get to thinking of that picture?...
I'll do that retrace-how-you-thought-of-that thing Crystal and I used to do when we talked about obscure topics...
Thinking about the throw rug in the bedroom of my new apartment...
Empty family room...
Digital cable...
The bills...
Paying the check at Ballyhoo...
Eating at Bonefish Grill...
Eating today...
Woah, that's freaky...
Maybe that would make an interesting blog entry...
It's something I'm sure people can relate to, following a tangent having no idea how you got where you got, but you got there...
Yeah, I'll type it when I return to the apartment...
But I may forget it by then...
I've been in the sun long enough...
I'll go ahead and do it now...

Aisle Love

I had ventured into Publix just to pick up a steak for tomorrow's 4th of July barbeque, but it appeared as though I had committed some market faux paux by not sporting a date on my hip.

Cracked Note

We were best friends in high school and could still be considered that four years later. Long after my parents had gone to bed, we potatoed on my couch and sat staring in astonishment at the TV. We had attached the camcorder to the television, and on the screen were hormone-laced skits we had produced as voice-cracking 14 year olds, the faces of classmates who now seem like more than a distant memory, and recordings of our high school band concerts.

One particular concert I wanted to skip. I hadn't watched any tape of it since it had happened, and not because I had yet to pop in the archived video. I live on home videos and am the type to rewatch them to the extent one would watch their favorite movie: to the degree where every scene is memorized and little hidden moments emerge. For me, that concert was one I wanted to erase from memory, to never relive those cracked notes again.

As I reached once again for the fast forward button, the friend sitting next to me-- the same friend sitting next to me during that very concert-- laughed off my actions and told me to "face my fears." He did so in an obviously lighthearted and joking matter, but beneath the sarcasm and hyperbole stood some truth. I joked about the trauma that came from cracking and flat-out splattering poorly executed notes during my first classical trumpet solo in front of an audience, but the truth was that reliving the embarrassment still proved uncomfortable.

Had it merely been a goof-up that was easy to get over, I wouldn't have my post-reaction to the disaster so vividly still in memory (I stared blankly at my sheet music and remarked to Andrew, "Oh my God."). The tape should have been played long ago, but I had not allowed myself to see the incident beyond the eyes of a grandiose 14 year old. Everything is either utopian or catastrophic at that age. Your hormones are manic just as you're beginning to experience that real world your parents told you about. There's little room for grey.

We watched the full 25 minutes of that concert, and at about the two-thirds mark we knew it was coming. You could see me increasingly rock in my chair and flutter my lips in preparation for my first classical trumpet solo. The first 3 or 4 notes came out as planned, but the next 10 or 11 did not. They were too low, they were too high, they didn't come out at all.

But this wasn't the disaster I had convinced myself had taken place. It will never go on my highlight reel of musical performances, but it was little more than an inexperienced trumpet player making typical novice errors at an unfortunate time. Perhaps looking at the situation outside of the kid with clear braces and three zits on his forehead helped me put the mishap into proper proportion. It's just always been easier to deal with failure by burying it into subconscious and not dealing with it. Easier, not healthier.

The Golden Retriever

We had entered the same venue that was home to the previous night's amazingly tight Shins concert, but time had not been frozen, and this was not the previous night. Being that our group consisted of a recently married couple, an unemployed college graduate, and a student intern who had yet to be paid for his 45 days of work, we only had the funds for one beer apiece. Sadly, twelve ounces of liquid hops and barley couldn't come close to inebriating the mind enough to enjoy the suckass acoustic stylings of Lloyd Cole, who somehow has a cult following of lobotomotized middle-aged Europeans. Fifty-eight and a half curdling minutes later, we faked applause and mocked our "entertainment"'s queasy song titles (who names a song Rattlesnakes?).

We were granted music salvation in the form of Ron Sexsmith, who choked me up during his song dedicated to the memory of Jeff Buckley. The four of us walk through the exits redeemed and uplifted after Sexsmith's performance. Before we could turn the corner, the recent bride stopped to glance at the poster advertising the concert we were leaving. On the poster were a few quotes from various reviews praising Sexsmith's latest release. To our astonishment, one of the chosen quotes came from my friend, her husband. With very little persuasion needed, a security guard unlocked the case securing the poster and gave it to us. We waited outside as the husband returned to the venue. He chatted for a while with Sexsmith, who thanked him for the wonderful review and promptly signed the soon-to-be framed commemorative.

But not before the picture of Lloyd Cole was sliced off.

Maybe It's Mental

Why are there handicapped parking spaces at Sonic?

A Few Things, 10 to be Exact

1) Holy crap: the first installments of "I Love the 90s" air on VH1 next month. Bring on the BK Knights, Saved by the Bell, and the flat top hair do's!

2) Number of prints taken from a roll of film during my first two years of college: 300-plus, easily.

3) Number of prints taken from a roll of film during my senior year, 6 months after getting a digital camera: zero.

4) Boxing is my new tennis.

5) I heard Jessica Simpson's brand-spanking-new single, yet another cover song. Never have I seen an attempt to force someone into superstardom this blatant and lazy at the same time.

6) Why isn't it *1? *9? Who in the name of Billy Madison chose *69?

7) First words my mom called me with during her 25th Anniversary celebration in New Orleans: Your father is d-r-u-n-k!

8) A girl actually used the "where do I know you from?" line on me. I swear on all things holy.

9) Seven years late, I'm asking myself what could have been if Jeff Buckley hadn't been compelled to take that fateful swim.

10) If we were born with only nine fingers and toes, would 9 be a more satisfying ending to lists (Top 9 reasons, etc.)? or is it the whole double digit thing?

The Best Part of Getting Up North Will Be...

...joining people who understand that walking is mostly a means to an end and not a meticulous craft in need of careful execution. A trip to Wal-Mart today was pure torture as I tailgated behind several plodding senior citizens and indecisive parents who seemed like they were actually contemplating e-a-c-h s-t-e-----p. I would accelerate past these stumbling blocks at the nearest opening, only to almost crash into yet another shopping cart going at snail pace. I could tell I annoyed them by breathing down their necks, but I like to get to where I need to get, and they were in my way.

Like a Butterfly

Tomorrow my muscles could experience new dull aches like nothing they've ever felt. For the first time I participated in the sport I love that no one else seems to get. One hour later it required conscious hand-eye coordination to open the door and enter my car. But I loved the experience so much that not only am I interested in continuing throughout the summer, but I already found a gym for it in my fall home of Harrisbug, Pennsylvania.

Last month ESPN gathered sports scientists, athletes, and journalists to determine the most difficult sport, the one with the most potent combination of physical and mental abilities and toughness. The conclusion: boxing is the toughest sport to master. Boxing is a misunderstood sport. There are so many complaints and grievances about it, I wouldn't know where to being my retort.

It's an incredible demand on your physical body and brain. Even one second of betrayal from either can completely alter the course of outcome. There's no one to back you up when you make a mistake. And try to stand there punching and weaving for three straight minutes! It's incredibly draining to your legs, shoudlers, and arms after the first minute!

A beautiful craft when done right. An invigorating workout even when not.

Music Makes Me Come Together

People see my family music collection and one of the first questions to come after how the hell do you listen to all that? and how much do you think all of those cost? is:

So which one's your favorite?

My dad can spit it out immediately, and it's a somewhat predictable answer: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Beatles. As for me, it used to come out just as easily. I'd say MoodSwing, Joshua Redman and never express the slightest bit of doubt. It's the album that got me into jazz, he's my favorite artist, and it still receives somewhat regular rotation after 10 years. If I'm still playing an album at age 21 I listened to at age 11, it's a keeper.

That album-- and favorite artist status for that matter-- has been seriously threatened since Rufus Wainwright released Want One last fall and my recent discovery of Grace and all that was is Jeff Buckley. For the first time in a while I can't honestly say what my favorite album is. Everyone should have one album that stands to them above the rest. There must be one musician out there who compiled enough excellent songs together in one package so eloquently that you couldn't imagine someone doing you a better job for you even if they personally worked in the studio thinking of your musical likings.

Picking a favorite song to me is much trickier. A song usually recollects on a certain theme, with a certain emotion, in a certain style. There will be songs with melodies that will never leave my head, chords and high notes that give me physical chills on my arms, and lyrics that I wish I had thought of first so I could post them as a blog entry. But it would be a mighty task to come up with 4 minutes of music that could capture half of what my entire self stands for. I can't imagine finding a song, one song, that could unequivocally represent all that is wonderful to me about music. An album can elicit many feelings across many colors, but a song is merely too compact and focused to accomplish that to the same magnitude.

I've never had one favorite song. Whenever asked about my favorite song, I used to recite a Top 5 list, but nowadays my Top 5 list has about eight or nine bullets. I feel no shame, because my dad's favorite song list is a top freaking one hundred, and he doesn't even include any Beatles songs ("There are too many. They'd take up too much of the list.")!

With that, I've decided to compile a list of my favorite songs, songs that I couldn't imagine skipping over if I heard them on the radio. Perhaps this will become an evolving list with additions and subtractions in the future. And who knows, maybe one day I'll reach an even 100 and call it a catalog. I'm almost halfway there anyway.

And if I had to pick one at gunpoint today at this time, I'd say the Rosie song. Or Jimmy. And maybe Josh.

My Favorite Songs

"Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers
"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" by The Temptations
"Airbag" by Radiohead
"All Apologies" by Nirvana
"Amsterdam" by Coldplay
"August in Bethany" by The Juliana Theory
"Beautiful Child" by Rufus Wainwright
"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen
"Born in the USA" by Bruce Springsteen
"BPD" by Over the Rhine
"Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison
"Con te Partiro" by Andrea Bocelli
"Crystal Village" by Pete Yorn
"Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot
"Dawn (Go Away)" by Frankie Valli and the 4 Seasons
"Drops of Jupiter" by Train
"867-5309/Jenny" by Tommy Tutone
"Faith" by Joshua Redman
"Fast as You Can" by Fiona Apple
"Free Falling" by Tom Petty
"Go or Go Ahead" by Rufus Wainwright
"Good Lovin" by The Rascals
"Grace" by Jeff Buckley
"Gratitude" by David Murray Quartet
"Hands Down" by Dashboard Confessional
"Hear You Me" by Jimmy Eat World
"I Alone" by Live
"Into the Dark" by The Juliana Theory
"Last Goodbye" by Jeff Buckley
"More Than Words" by Xtreme
"Nice to Know You" by Incubus
"Norwegian Wood" by The Beatles
"Politik" by Coldplay
"Poparazzi" by Xzibit
"Runaround Sue" by Dion
"Salt Peanuts" by Joshua Redman
"She's Not There" by The Zombies
"Simon" by Lifehouse
"Standing at the Edge of the Earth" by Blessid Union of Souls
"Thugz Mansion" (acoustic) by Tupac Shakur
"Two Way Monologue" by Sondre Lerche
"Wedding Day" by Rosie Thomas
"What the Fuck are We Saying?" by Lenny Kravitz
"Who We Be" by DMX
"Yesterday" by The Beatles

Things I Could do With a Summer of Solitude

Write songs
Practice trumpet/sax/piano
Read books
Write a book
Become a runner
Drive around the country
Work on my cooking
Become an online poker player
Make lists in my blog

Things From the Past Week

Right now I'm out of school, have no job, no girlfriend, and very few friends around. And somehow this feels strangely appropriate. I can't explain it, but I'm content with this summer slowly becoming a time where I wander alone. Maybe I can explain it after all: I'm fine dedicating some time to, for, and with myself and only myself. We rarely find such opportunities.

I had never seen a waitress charmed by someone who responded "Fuck yeah!" to her question. Until Tuesday.

The Olsen Twin countdown to 18 has to stop. For one, statutory rape laws are different in each state, and some people could already screw them across half of America anyway. Also, whenever someone finally wakes me up with the news that they're legal, I'm still not gonna care. I'm not attracted to the "coked out at the trailer park" look. Lastly, when I see them I still think, "You got it, dude." I don't know which one said it, but they both probably did, and I can't get over that. Is Jessica Alba still legal? Ok, so I'm gonna pass on Mary-Kate and Ashley.

This catchy melody is so hum-worthy it's scary (If only the lyrics were more than ordinary).

I took this online IQ test and got a 148. Sensing it was a little easy and simplified, I went to another site, but the test got hard and I got bored, so I kind of just bubbled in stuff. I got a 91.

My new suit, charcoal grey with pinstripes, was available for pickup today. When I tried it on, the middle-aged lady who altered it said, "Wow, you look really good in that." It was on the border of flattering and creepy.

If I had the powers to kill off one person in music, it would be Ja Rule, although it's looking like 50 Cent might have done the job for me.

You know what? I actually lied before. I'm not fine with this summer solitude. I'm ok with it for the moment, but if this continues into June, I think I'll explode. I need something productive to do. And cash flow wouldn't hurt either. In the meantime, I'm just reading books, watching tv, cooking, and waiting for the damn research project I supposedly have a position with to get off the ground and actually become a reality.

Very Dominant Genes

Raise your hand if you have such a strong family history of kidney stones that even your dog gets them.

Learning

Almost three weeks ago, I was sitting in the library equipped with two paperback books, a spiral notebook, and a trusty Number 2. Friends Ben and Nick sat with me at a private study desk against the wall, all of us freshly rejuvenated from a recent trip to the coffeehouse for Americanos, Iced Mochas, and whatever Nick drinks. Twas a late night for all of us. As Conan O'Brien's opening monologue aired across college television sets nationwide, the three of us were studying for final exams.

The notes in front of me were a culmination of facts and theories taught to me over the course of the semester. I scanned across my notes many times that night, reviewing things I had learned in the past days, weeks, and months. None of the material was novel to me. I would never receive any more education at the University of Florida. They were done teaching me, and I realized that whatever I had in my head at that moment was all the knowledge I would intake as an undergrad. My college education was complete.

I found it scary, to think that on May 1 I would be receiving a Bachelor's degree from a highly regarded university.

And this is what I have to show for it?
This is all I learned?
What I know now, that's a college education?
That's all?
What the hell?

For the rest of the night, I would ponder on that during study breaks. I felt puzzled and almost angry over my college education. I felt I hadn't learned much. And not to sound conceited, but I was an exceptional student, and if this is all I had to show for four years of college, I could imagine how easy it was to get a college education. Suddenly a college degree meant significantly less to me.

But luckily for me, college has helped me better examine myself and others, and over the following days I realized how ignorant I was to disregard all I had learned here at UF. It hit me as I was reading over my resume. There were several invaluable experiences listed on that single sheet of paper. The time I debated PhD and law school students on legal policy, helping firsthand with studies run by one of the founders of Behavioral Analysis, writing a professor's literary review, working in a facility for the criminally insane: these are all things that would have been unattainable to me if not for UF and my professors. I wouldn't be one-third the person I am today, scholastically or otherwise, without these last four years.

If anything, I realize now the most important lesson my professors taught me here: do not settle. Don't settle for anything less than whatever is needed to fulfill your potential. I haven't. This is why graduation didn't feel like a culmination of my accomplishments. When I walked across the stage, that merely felt like an award ceremony for making it this far. When I shook the president's hand, I didn't just stop there and retire. I kept walking. I'm not done yet. There's more for me to do, more to learn in the ivory towers before my venture into the real world.

The next stop is Penn State.

Pomp and Circumstance

I'll get back to you after graduation.

20 Questions Disc

Do you realize?
Do you believe in magic?
Where have all the cowboys gone?
Have you ever seen the rain?
Do you love?
What the fuck are we saying?
What's the frequency, Kenneth?
What ever happened?
What am I to you?
What are we fighting for?
Can I borrow a feeling?
Are you ready for the fallout?
Are we ever gonna have sex again?
Why don't we do it in the road?
Who is he? (And what is he to you?)
What is love?
Why do fools fall in love?
Is it wicked not to care?
You and whose army?
Why do they leave?

Thank You

The same professor has won our Criminology Professor of the Year Award for every one of the 16 years it's been awarded. Again tonight, he approached the podium to loud applause and a few "Woah, big surprise!" cracks from the audience of criminology students and faculty. He had no written speech in front of him but was very focused on his message.

His tears in the closing moments of his message were genuine. A man who has been told year-in and year-out how great he is would be expected to have an enlarged head, shouldn't be surprised to win a vote he has never lost. I wouldn't have thought any less of him had he gone up to the podium with a swagger, issued some half-hearted thank-you's, and returned to his seat unaffected by his plaque. But tonight he taught me a valuable lesson about how important it is to keep a connection with those that have helped you get to where you are today, and how the most simple showing of appreciation and gratitude can be both poignant and humbling... as long as the giver truly means it, and the receiver has truly earned it.

On Monday, I'll knock on his office door and thank him for the past two years.

Update Soon

My life is changing.

Meet Lorraine

I drove home last Wednesday through the mind-numbingly dull stretch of road that is I-10. Just like I always do, I hummed "Old Folks at Home" as I drove across the Suwannee River. Little did I know, this would be the final time I would share this tradition with Russ Camaro, the green 1995 Chevy Camaro I've had since I turned 16.

Russ Camaro started to die on me about a year and a half ago. He'd have a new problem every other month, and the expenses piled up. I decided that when I graduated college, I would say goodbye to my Camaro in exchange for something more reliable. I once pleaded with him, "Every time you give up on me, I want to give up." Well, I had finally given up. When I told Russ Camaro this, he responded, "Antilock Brake System Disabled."

I had an idea that my dad and I might look at cars last weekend, but I didn't know I would fall in love so quickly. There's an unwritten rule in the car-shopping business that you never show your true excitement over a car, for the sake of reaching a good business deal in the future. And me, I never let on throughout the afternoon, not even to my dad. But out of all the cars I drove Friday, none came close to that second car, the Toyota Solara that glided me through the streets as though I were saddled onto a moving cloud. She had to be mine.

The drive home was a treat, surrounded by comfort, style, and that new car smell. When I crossed the Suwannee River, I performed "Old Folks at Home" with new pep. It was at that point, though, that I realized that my car still had no name. I could tell she was a girl (you just know these things). But none of the names that came out quite clicked. Sarah, Vivica, and Jessica Alba are all great names; they just weren't the name of my car.

As soon as class ended Monday, I went driving through Gainesville. I put in some Sinatra, and my car loved it (you just know these things). As "I've Got the World on a String" flowed through the speakers, I escaped my body, saw the scene from the outside, and thought, "I am so money right now." That's when it hit me: Swingers! What was Heather Graham's name in Swingers?

Her name is Lorraine. My car's name is Lorraine. You just know these things.

Great Monday

There are so many to thank for this awesome Monday, so if I forget you, I'm sorry. Thank you to:

Whoever cancelled Crim Theory today
The jolly bus driver who looks like Santa Claus
John Corson
Sonic Cherry Limeades
Frank Sinatra
All You Can Eat Wings
God
Lorraine (you'll learn about her tomorrow)
The Penn State admissions office
The Penn State assistantship nominating committee
Penn & Teller
Phil Mickelson's wife
The deejay who played "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" this afternoon
The people at Toyota
My parents

How About This?

My new compilation idea is "The Questions of Life." Every song title must be in the form of a question and must have a question mark in the title. If the artists did not place the question mark in the title, forget it; that's a disqualification.

Any suggestions are appreciated, just make sure the song has a damn question mark in the title. For now, here are the questions I have...

Why don't we do it in the road? (The Beatles)
Why? (Andrew Bird)
What is this thing called love? (Frank Sinatra)
Have you seen my love? (Rosie Thomas)
Why bother? (Weezer)
How deep is the ocean? (Doc Cheatum and Nicholas Payton)
Have you ever seen the rain? (CCR)
What the fuck are we saying? (Lenny Kravitz)
Can we find a reason? (Lenny Kravitz)
Are you lonesome tonight? (Elvis Presley)
What ever happened? (The Strokes)
Do you sleep? (Lisa Loeb)
Is the answer in the question? (MxPx)
Has anybody seen my boyfriend? (The Angels)
What am I going to do without you? (Barry White)
What'cha gonna do about it? (New Kids on the Block)
Who is he (and what is he to you)? (Bill Withers)
Are you in? (Incubus)
Can I borrow a feeling? (Kirk van Houten of The Simpsons)
Why do fools fall in love? (Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers)
Where my girls at? (702)
Where have all the cowboys gone? (Paula Cole)
Do you realize? (The Flaming Lips)
Sister, do you know my name? (The White Stripes)
How do you? (Radiohead)
U got a problem? (Ludacris)
What's my age again? (Blink 182)
Who am I? (What's my name)? (Snoop Dogg)
Who's got my back? (Creed)
Why can't I? (Liz Phair)
Do you wanna dance? (Beach Boys)
Can you be true? (Elvis Costello)
What are we fighting for? (Live)
What happened to us? (Hoobastank)
How do you sleep? (John Lennon)
How? (John Lennon)
Why Vienna? (Billy Joel)
Is patience still waiting? (The Juliana Theory)
If I told you this was killing me, would you stop? (The Juliana Theory)
What am I to you? (Norah Jones)
Why do they leave? (Ryan Adams)
Why can't you be? (Shelby Lynne)
Do you believe in magic? (The Lovin Spoonful)
Where would I be? (Cake)
What is love? (Haddaway)
What's the frequency, Kenneth? (REM)

It's All Relative

I was thisclose to telling my friend that his sister was cute, until I found out it was his girlfriend.

A Memo to the UConn Huskies (the men, because the women, well at least you try)

Thank you for helping me win all my tournament brackets!

Random Memory

I woke up early one morning and walked into my parents' bedroom. My sister was asleep in the bed with my mom. I decided I would be nice and serve them breakfast in bed. When I asked my sister what she wanted to drink, she put on a goofy 4-year-old grin and said, "pee!"

About ninety seconds later, I returned with a Dixie cup of my fresh naturals. She stared intensely at the cup, until my mom sighed, grabbed the cup, and told me not to give my sister pee.

I'm pretty sure that was the last time I ever did that.

Obvious

For reasons I can no longer remember and probably wouldn't understand, in second grade we had "elections" for our favorite dinosaurs. It was a full democratic process; we even had private booths and ballots to circle our choices. Tyrannosaurus Rex and Brontosaurus were the obvious popular choices for the carnivore and herbivore elections, respectively. They won easily, but I voted for the Allosaurus and Stegosaurus.

In fifth grade, Miss Hunter had us spend extensive time on the Revolutionary War. We read books, watched videos, even performed skits. At the end of the year she had us write a report on anyone from the time. George Washington, Benedict Arnold, and Paul Revere were the obvious popular choices. But I decided to do my report on William Dawes, the other man who rode along warning that the British were, in fact, coming (Unfortunately, these were the pre-mainstream-internet days, and my encyclopedia had a whopping two lines on Dawes, so I ended up writing a last-minute report on John Paul Jones).

My friends and I did a history reenactment project in seventh grade. The three of us were gonna bring the class back to 1969, when man first landed on the moon. At our first class meeting, Garrett and J.D. argued over who would get to be Neil Armstrong. I didn't care. After all, I wanted to be Buzz Aldrin, the second man to walk on the moon. Neil Armstrong was a bit too obvious.

I remember being on a school trip sophomore year of high school, and some kid started talking about colleges. I was at the top of my class at the time, and the inevitable question swung my way whether I was going to apply to Harvard or Yale. Nah, I thought. All the smartest students apply there. I'd set my sights on Duke or Cornell or Brown (Naturally, I ended up applying early acceptance at the University of Florida).

This is what I'm trying to figure out: all these years, have I been going against the grain because I want to be unique and stand out, or do I really want to be the other guy?

Am I tuly unique or afraid of the top?

Alternate Lists

Within an hour on Friday, I had been placed on two alternate lists. If St. John's comes calling, I'll definitely listen. Actually, part of me wants to sit by the phone waiting for their call. But as for the girl, if she calls, fugghedaboutit!

Spring Break, Part 2: New York

Though I had visited New York more than any other city outside of Florida, it was still foreign land to me. It's a city I claimed to know like the back of my hand, but in actuality this was desire and not fact. My olive skin, dark hair, and Sopranos-esque sense of humor stood out in northwest Florida. Blending with the crowd wasn't what I wanted; it's that I never really clicked with Southern tradition and always felt like a Yankee being raised in Dixieland. I preferred toast to biscuits, would rather pay someone to fix my car than work on it myself, and refused to allow the word "y'all" to enter my vernacular (I had no New Year's resolution this year but had made the decision to phase out the frequency of my "hey's" with "hi's" and "hello's".). And I thought my cousins' New York accents freakin rocked.

We were all in the car driving toward E. Broadway when my aunt started with the questions. What kind of program was I applying for? Masters or PhD? What did I want to do with it? Why St. John's University? What other schools were a possibility for me? She unintentionally reminded me that I had not come to New York purely for fun with family. I was on a business trip, interviewing for one of those six spots in St. John's clinical psychology program.

My interview was not for two days, however, and now was the time to embrace the greatest city in the world. It was a somewhat surreal moment when we picked up Andrew and proceeded toward an orgasmic Italian restaurant in lower Manhattan. Andrew is my best friend from Pensacola, an aspiring actor who uplifted his entire life to pursue his dream. And here he was in the car with my New York family, two distinct lives of mine united together.

The only thing better than having a best friend and family together is having them click and become one family right in front of you. Andrew fit right in with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. Over dinner we all laughed together, particularly when I shared one side's incriminating stories with the other (of course, they shared my dirt with each other too). My uncle gave Andrew his phone number "if you ever need anything." And if Andrew did not have a fiancee, I would have been worried when he and my cousin Maria connected over a love for Phantom of the Opera. Of course, that night while walking through Times Square, Andrew commented that "Maria is gorgeous and very cool," and later in the week Maria told me, "Your friend Andrew is very nice. Give him my number and tell him to call if he's ever in the area." Maybe I will have to keep my eye on them; there have already been enough jokes about Andrew figuring out a way to legally become a part of my family.

Two days later I was walking across the snow-dampened grounds of St. John's. I found the waiting room for all the applicants, but being an hour early I searched for a bathroom to check myself out. I barely recognized the person in front of me. His face was clean-shaven for the first time in over a year. His cheeks were beginning to regain the color in them lost from the dramatic climate change. He was wearing a suit and tie. He looked like a man on a mission: confident, poised, and ambitious.

I can think of a hundred reasons for why my interview went so splendidly. I didn't overthink my answers and was honest. I came in not expecting much and was not worried about screwing up. I stood out as the only male and southerner in my group. The faculty were easygoing and attentive. But most importantly, the campus, the students, and the weekend I had spent with family: they all made me feel like I had traveled 1,200 miles to find home.

Spring Break, Part 1: Florida

It was like a soundtrack to my middle school days, the time when I was most musically out of it. Back then I didn't know the words to any Boyz II Men songs, and I didn't understand the big deal about that "Kirk" guy from a rock band blowing his head off. This was the brief period where I regularly enjoyed country music. Here's something I bet NONE of you knew about me: I've been to a Reba McEntire concert. It was 1994. And when she sang "Fancy" as her encore, I stood up and hollered in delight.

All the classics were on the disc. "Boot Scootin Boogie," "I Got Friends in Low Places," "Seminole Wind," "Don't Take the Girl." This was the soundtrack to my drive from the stresses of school to the freedom of vacation. Once "John Deere Greene" blasted through the car speakers, Spring Break 2004 was officially under way.

Dave dropped me off at my front door in Pensacola early in the night. I had just enough time to do my laundry and pack before waking up for my 8 am flight to New York. Between checking in my luggage and the walk to airport security, I vented to my dad about some of my worries over this upcoming trip to New York and Las Vegas. What if I freeze during my interview? What if the guys want to visit the Bunny Ranch and I get scared? What if the bright lights of Sin City leave me with empty pockets? What if someone steals my suitcase full of dress shirts?

It was in the middle of that dress-shirt concern that I paid attention and heard myself talking. I was being ridiculous, overly worrisome, too negative. I told my dad that I thought I needed to lighten up and quit worrying about all the bad that could happen and start focusing on the good. My dad agreed, vehemently.

I stepped aboard my compact jet with the other 4 passengers and slept the entire ride to Dallas (makes sense to stop by Texas when you're going from Florida to New York, right?). For five minutes in the Dallas airport, I thought about my upcoming interview with St. John's University. Eighty people invited for interviews, 12 spots, only 6 in my field. It didn't phase me. I wasn't going to fly thousands of miles and get dressed in a suit to stutter and not show those guys what I can really do.

I had one more plane ride. This time, I had the privilege of sitting next to an obese man... in a suit... dampened with his own sweat... and his fat overriding across my seat... as he wheezed in and out... while reading a Penthouse magazine. I leaned into the aisle-- I'm sure to his awareness-- and read up on my Vegas gambling book (Chapter 6: Craps). In a few hours I would be in a far away place known as New York City, but I would not be alone. My aunt, uncle, and cousins would be waiting for me at the airport, and we'd go to an incredible Italian restaurant in the city, and on the way we'd pick up my best friend from home, who happens to live in Manhattan now. I'd be with the ones I love, in the city I love, eating the food I love. I figured this was a well-deserving way to begin Spring Break, surrounding myself with the things I love.

In case you care...

I'm back and well from Las Vegas. More to come later.

A Test Over Break

We drove over to Alehouse, the twelve of us that actually showed up at our club meeting. Being that tomorrow begins spring break, we didn't expect any bigger of a turnout. We managed to squeeze into two tables, and my friend, the President of our club, promptly ordered two pitchers of Miller, 100 buffalo wings, and two plates of cheese fries.

I didn't want to eat heavily tonight, let alone down a couple of beers. In less than 24 hours I take the mercilessly boring trek to Pensacola, and by that time I must pack for an eight-day adventure, organize my stuff, and study for a Friday afternoon exam. But I stayed at Alehouse for almost two hours, cramming greasy chicken drummettes and frosty mugs of cheap beer into my stomach. When my gut was filled to capacity, I said goodnight to everyone, particularly to Chad and Jason. While I won't see the rest of the group for another few weeks, the next time I'll see Chad and Jason is when my shuttle takes me to the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas, where Chad, Jason, and myself will $pend the entire Monday-through-Friday of spring break doing God knows what.

It's the "God knows what" that concerns me about this trip. In the weeks building up to Vegas, I've anticipated that I'll experience things completely alien to my somewhat-sheltered existence. There's been talk of everything from skydiving to hitting Studio 54, all on 3-hours-of-sleep-a-night rest for 5 days. I can handle the talk of it all, but tonight the talk seemed closer to becoming a reality. There's stuff my friends want to do that I'm slightly nervous about, and there are some things I just flat-out disapprove of. I got worried, worried that I'd spend more than planned, worried that I'd feel like an outsider for wanting to play spring break a little safer, worried that I'd sacrifice a part of my character to belong in the group, worried that I'd regret going on this trip to sin city.

I told myself on the drive home that I don't have to do anything I don't want. I'm the only one that must live with my decisions, and if I decide that some of these adventures are too wild for me, then I can choose not to do them. I don't have to do anything I don't want.

But if it's all that simple, why do I have a belly full of buffalo wings and Miller Lite?

Welcome to the Planet

I've never done this before, but a friend of mine has convinced me to promote an upcoming single. When a band I've been following for a long time finally begins to find success, I feel proud of them. It's almost like seeing someone in my family accomplish something spectacular, in that I've seen all the efforts made behind the scenes. I've seen them work hard for something that was never guaranteed. And at some point in time, everyone else acknowledges and appreciates what I had seen coming for a long time.

I've followed Switchfoot since I heard my freshmen roommate playing their music on our stereo 4 years ago. Now a cd they released over a year ago has approached mainstream success. The opening track "Meant to Live" remained a solid Top 10 alternative hit for a few months and recently has experienced some Top 40 airplay. It's the upcoming single, however, that I hope makes it big. It's my favorite Switchfoot song, a song I put on a compilation disc in summer 2001. So when Switchfoot releases their new single "Dare you to Move" in March, listen to it, love it, and get it knocking people like Kelis off the charts.

$pring Break

Before this morning, this is how the itinerary of Spring Break 04 looked:
Sunday, March 7: Drive to Tampa
Monday: Fly to Vegas, win money
Tuesday: Keep winning until the end
Friday: Fly back to Tampa
Saturday, March 13: Return to Gainesville

One letter and five hours of work later, here's my new Spring Break 04:
Friday, March 5: Bum a ride to Pensacola
Saturday: Fly to New York
Monday, March 8: Interview with St. John's, Fly to Vegas
Tuesday: Arrive in Vegas, win money
Wednesday: Kepp winning until the end
Friday: Fly to Tampa
Saturday, March 13: Bum a ride to Gainesville

Election Games

We had reached the student plaza, overflowing with party boosters campaigning for the big student election. This is where we were to go our separate ways. She smiles and says bye, and at that moment I open my mouth, ready to tell her that I'd like to see her outside of school boundaries, and time has come to get her phone number. But I wasn't wearing an "I voted" sticker yet, and before the words can escape my mouth, the Innovate Presidential Candidate taps me and asks me if I've voted. I'm walking toward my voting booth, I say. Without my personal guarantee that I'd vote for his Innovate party, he proceeds to go through his platform, a platform I had heard many times, a platform I needed no further explanation of.

She, with her "I voted" sticker on display, laughs at my predicament, wishes me luck, and runs off. Walking toward the voting booth, I had been on the fence over which party to vote for, slightly leaning toward Innovate's rival, Access, but knowing that I wouldn't fully decide until the ballot was in my hand and I went with my gut. I was seriously considering voting for Innovate. But after this encounter, I promptly went upstairs, got my ballot, rushed to the booth, and darkly marked my votes for the Access Party, because they don't step in on a guy's game.

Weekend Highlights

1) Bowling on 3 different occasions, left with a jammed middle finger
2) Dave celebrating his bowling strikes by screaming "Internet tips!" because he googled "bowling tips" online beforehand
3) Racing down curvaceous Surge Road in Jamey's 1984 Civic
4) Seeing the guy I assisted in a car accident was recovering and out of his neck brace
5) Cleaning my room to where I can finally see my floor again
6) Figuring out a second word in Britney's new video "Toxic" (the first word was "toxic")
7) Almost walking over a dead dog
8) Running 3 miles and tripping over a sign on the way home (I saw the dead dog again, incidentally)
9) New invention: Beer float (Black & tan with Peanut butter cup ice cream)
10) Having a girl find it charming when I said, "Make me some pancakes, bitch!"
11) Discovering Ed Harcourt
12) Drunken walk to Bennigan's at midnight
13) The FSU joke on The Simpsons!

Like a Nine-Year-Old's Birthday Party

The story goes that two roommates went bowling one night. They made a pact to maximize their mediocre bowling talents by setting a goal for combined score. If the sum of their scores reached 250 points, a mere average of 125 per person, they would commence with a preplanned ritual. In the event that they did not meet their set criteria, however, no celebration would take place, and they would merely return home defeated.

The two roommates rooted each other on throughout the game, but they struggled to follow a common plan. When one went hot with strikes, the other would cool with splits. Nevertheless, their combined score of the first game was exactly 250 points. As one roommate cooled his sore finger among the vapors from the vents, the other proposed that they engage in another game. With zeal, the roommate convinced the other to risk the celebration and enter into another game, with the same 250-point criteria.

The flow of the second game shockingly resembled the first, with neither roommate maintaining a stable streak of bowling excellence. In the final frame, Roommate #1 brushed off his first throw of a 1, and knocked down the remaining nine pins. To the alarm of Roommate #2, the scoreboard contradicted what actually happened, recording a game-over 8. After some persuasion, the lady bowling attendant amended the scoring error, allowing the first roommate to knock an additional nine pins down on his final throw and bringing his score to 125.

Roommate number 2 entered the final frame with a 107, eighteen points away from the threshold for jubilation. He stretched to the side, alleviating his sore ass muscle. After another visit to the vapors, he threw his 13-pound bowling ball toward the pins, knocking down 8 in the process. He needed to hit the remaining two pins, or any hopes for celebration would be forever abandoned in the alley. He succeeded by completing the spare, leaving him with one final throw, eight pins needed for a score of 125.

He knocked down eight pins with his final throw. Both roommates ended the game with scores of 125, which added up to a total of 250, exactly 250. With their goal met for a second time, the roommates made arrangements to celebrate their achievement. They returned to their apartment, drank malt beverages, ate a single Reese's peanut butter cup, and watched American Idol.

Life is like a box of Russell Stover

Whatever you call February 14, whether Cupid's arrow has hit you in the heart on Valentine's Day or in the ass on Singles Awareness Day, you can't ignore the rolling around of Valentine's Day. It never fails to exist and provides a boom to the chocolates, floral, and shotgun businesses. You either love someone or hate love, and those feelings are brought to attention once a year, February 14.

I'm actually indifferent about Valentine's Day this year. Last year reminded me of the year before, my only Valentine's Day with someone I truly loved. It was a Friday, which meant that I went to class with girls carrying roses and balloons, every couple discussing their plans-- I vividly remember an Asian couple mention McDonald's. I even had to help my roommate make last-second plans; he was clueless on his first Valentine's Day with a girlfriend. I was on the phone making dinner reservations, looking for cheap roses, all for another couple, reminding me that I had no one to call mine.

Today has been a blur of a Valentine's Day. I have yet to take a shower and still permeate an odor of Arturo Fuente stogies. I've slept all but about 4 hours of the day, my body attempting to recover from last night's and this morning's festivities. Lovefest was my Valentine's. It was a hell of a party, though its potential was somewhat damaged by an early visit from the boys in blue (Lovefest resumed after a one-hour hiatus). I was surrounded by countless spectators and beautiful people, but more importantly, I was with a few hometown boys who I've gradually realized would do almost anything for me.

It will always be that camaraderie that makes Lovefest 2 one of my most unforgettable college experiences, because the fact of the matter is there were spots where I felt uncomfortable and out of my niche. Parties like Lovefest give me moments of fire and exhilaration, but I'm not in my comfort zone. Whenever I'd see one of my friends in the beginning stages of a hookup, part of me would envy them, the part that wishes I were more spontaneous, less reserved, and more risk-taking. But that's not who I am. In the end, I was content to get a couple of kisses on the cheek and didn't expect anything more. People, situations, and dates on the calendar don't compel me to pretend to be something I'm not.

I didn't go out of my way to make plans with the opposite sex on Valentine's Day. I've always felt the day was more reserved for true romance and genuine feelings. I'm still tired and dirty, most likely destined to have a quiet night in my apartment. I am content to leave this night to the couples out there, particularly the ones who sometimes take for granted that love is one of the most unexplainable but marvelous phenomena known to man.

Happy Valentine's Day, and goodnight.

Lovefest 2

One year ago... one party... ruined people's lives!

So goes the legacy of Lovefest, a pre-Valentines bash where the booze, hookups, and memories have no end. This year came the sequel, a party so elaborate it put the standard college kegger to shame. Red and white lighting, bartending, custom-made drink menus, shot glasses made of ice, a champagne room, afterparty Arturo Fuentes... and many cameras. Here are a few stills from my sixteen minutes of sensuous, hilarious, incriminating video footage:


You can find me in da club, bottle fulla Bud...





Jen, Jarrod, and Amber make the sexiest Lovefest Sandwich ever! Which of them was the sexiest component of the sandwich was not the most debated issue at Lovefest, but I'm thinking it should've been.





Jason's mp3 playlist was hooked up to the sound system. His exact words when picking this song: "R. Kelly get the young girls into it." We then proceeded to have a five-minute debate about what constitutes "Old School" rap. Jason won because he's all Westside.





Jen down on her knees in the Champagne Room. Brandon sacrificed his room, his carpet, and his innocence for a champagne room. We thanked him.





I will never forget that Jean Moulin helped lead the Resistance in France, and German Leslie is solely responsible for that knowledge.





Dustin was proud of the fact that these were a size 7, but ashamed that he couldn't figure out how to hold them correctly. Thankfully, a girl who had experience wearing panties showed him the proper positioning.





I was there, and I can say that he was an innocent bystander forced to partake in spilled whipped cream tradition.





It's not a party at the Landings if Jason doesn't berate and disown Frank. At the end of the night, Jason hopped through his living room to U2's "Beautiful Day," celebrating the permanent restraining order he had declared on Frank.





This here, my friends, is the definition of "Money".