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Things that lasted we didn’t think would make it

In Other on April 28, 2011 at 11:41 pm

Everything about college is designed to be temporary. At the same time, everyone plays their role in a giant scheme to make it appear that everything from college lasts forever. (Hello Gator Memory Book. No I will not be filling you with photos of the french fry statue and Century Tower.)

Everything about college is just an acquaintance. You get acquainted with a subject, and then forget it. Same with most people. You see someone at a holiday party and realize it’s Tim, the friend of Kevin, who you met in your first class of the semester a year and a half ago when you asked to borrow a pencil. You spent six consecutive Mondays meeting them and their group of friends at Boca Fiesta for movie nights, the most memorable of which was the showing of Arachnophobia. Seeing Tim at the holiday party makes you realize that you used to call and/or text a certain group of people during a certain chunk of time and then it just stopped. And though this does happen in real life, it happens in college life ALL THE TIME. Things finally came full circle when Kevin saw you in the library studying for finals on Monday and asked to borrow a pencil.

Few things are designed to last the entire four years of the thing that is college except for maybe a sturdy pair of rubber boots. If you are a transfer student, like moi, you have two years to participate in the farce that is everlasting friendship and knowledge. (My journalism degree is already six years behind the times.)

So without further ado for a post that is actually supposed to be humorous, here are the things that actually lasted two years that we didn’t think would make it:

Fake Cheese!

When I first got to Gainesville, I had me a craving for cheesy Ramen because who would judge me for that in a college town. I proceeded to buy a stack of individually wrapped slices thinking that somehow I would find uses for the seemingly appropriately portioned fake dairy. Though I knew it was fake cheese, Claire confirmed this with Science by noting that it’s melting point is too low for it to actually be dairy as it began melting to our counter at room temperature. Alas, after a couple cheesy Ramens, my craving was satiated for a few years and we still have tons of fake cheese.

200 square feet of aluminum foil!

Decorating our apartment with aluminum foil seemed like an AWESOME idea around the holidays. I spent a few hours making aluminum foil and tissue paper bunting chains AND aluminum foil wreaths. But still, I had aluminum foil. We wrapped ham in it. We wrapped cookies in it. We baked a bunch of shit with it spread all over cookie sheets. And still, we have aluminum foil. Crazytown, I know.

TOMS!

Most of my friends have busted holes in their TOMS by now. Clearly, I have tried to break these stinkers down, but they keep holding on and smelling bad.

Condoms!

And this is not because I condone unsafe sex. I’m just not that good at that part of college, which in the end, is a good thing(?). Thank you Alachua County County Health Department for giving me massive quantities of little reminders of this fact.

“You’re in college, you must take these.” “Nope, really, it’s fine. Save ’em for the sorority girls.”

Kitten calendar!

I got my roommate this calendar in 2010 to make her happy. We liked it so much that when our friend got us an almost equally awesome zen calendar, we just decided to make the kittens last for two years.

Roomies forever!

While many roommateships don’t last, Claire and I have a real love that transcends “many roommateships.” Seriously, I’m not quite sure what we would have done if we didn’t carpool to visit UF together, only to end up co-signing a lease with a fingers-crossed, “you seem unpsychotic” naive gleefulness. I would have either been a total recluse and driven four hours each weekend to Tampa to visit friends and my mamma. Or I would have made a big ole messy party, courtesy of alcoholism. Claire would have had a more severe mental breakdown during second semester and only talked to chem students. Thanks to me, we talked to a whole variety of batshit crazy, narcissistic journalism students.

But seriously, Claire has become one of my best friends and confidantes, listening to a litany of problems, real or imagined, on a relatively daily basis. We also like to do our make-up together and listen to music. And I shall be a bridesmaid in her wedding this September.

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Brian Posehn hates his only tattoo

In Journalism, Other on April 12, 2011 at 1:55 pm

Brian Posehn lost his tattoo virginity at the tender age of 41.

We talked about popping his ink cherry and other things for this piece in the Alligator. (He’s coming to Gainesville April 13!)

But he said some funny things that I wasn’t able to squeeze into the story, so here is the interview Q & A.

Brian Posehn

Brian Posehn (Photo courtesy of Generate)

Talk about the title for your latest album, Fart & Weiner Jokes.
Brian Posehn: You know it was sort of a joke. But I do indeed have a lot of fart and weiner jokes. It was also kind of me making fun of myself, “Lower your expectations, it’s time for the  fart and weenier jokes.” I like to think I do more. It’s just a little self-deprecating jab at myself.

The fact that I’m on a heavy metal label [Relapse Records], I wanted the cover to reflect and have it look like an old-time label album but then with this big goofy joke.

And then having it on radio and making the deejays say Fart and Weiner jokes was a lot of fun for me.

What’s the difference between playing a comedy club and a rock venue?
BP: Nobody goes to a rock club to see comedy by mistake. Even though I’m pretty established, when I play comedy clubs, I still have people who don’t know what they’re in for.

Sometimes I’ll be in Dallas, and there will a 60-year-old conservative lady with her arms crossed saying to her husband, “Is this guy going to talk about fart jokes and his penis the whole time?”

Rock venues are more suited for younger fans. People who don’t want to have to pay a lot. It’s a cheaper night out.

Do you think your jokes are universal or pretty specialized to an audience?
BP: Definitely not [specialized to one audience]. But those people are going to like it on another level. I purposely don’t just dwell on heavy metal. There’s the Slayer joke.

But I feel like I hold people’s hands. Because I don’t want to lose anybody. But on the other hand, you will appreciate it another layer if you do like metal. I think I walk people totally through it.

Can you describe to me a fan who you have seen or met who you never in a million years would have thought would be a fan of yours?

BP: There are people that hit that age range [60s] and love the dirty stuff. Every once in a a while, I’ll look out and see an older woman when I look out there. And then I watch her a couple minutes later, and she is laughing harder than anyone out there.

And the strange thing is the multi-generation thing. Somebody your age [20s] comes out and their parents like it too. I’m like, “I hope that was comfortable listening to that together.”

Do you play metal on a regular basis?

BP: I was right before you called me. Pretty much every day. I listen to other stuff. I’m not just a metal guy. But I’ve always just been obsessed with music. I listen to it morning and night and always in my car.

Occasionally I deviate form the metal. All the stuff I grew up on I like. Rap. Rock. But I’m more of a metal head than anything.

I’ve never played an instrument. I tried and it just didn’t happen.

But I’ve loved [music] since grammar school. Kiss at 9 years old and then AC/DC and Van Halen and then just went heavier and heavier.

My last day job was working at a record store. I wanted to be a metal journalist and then dropped out of journalism. But I have had a lot of writing jobs.

What’s your favorite part about playing a college town?

BP: The kids. I mean, I feel like I do better in those places. There are smart kids, and even though I’m 20 years older than them, I feel like I still have the same interests. Anybody who likes to have a beer and play video games I have a lot in common with.

What do you do about people who are “more metal than you”?

BP: That’s where the song came from. It was me commenting on a thing that I’ve noticed since I was young. Being into Metallica before anyone who was into Metallica and there was a friend of mine in my neighborhood. And you’re already calling me a sellout?

I feel like I sit in the dark [because there are comparatively few huge metal fans] and with some guys you have this instant bond and then some guys just try to test you. Anyone who has spent half of their life listening to metal.

The funny thing is people will listen to that song and not get it. They’ll say, “That song is not even metal.” I’m just like, “Oh god, you don’t even get it.”

You been compared to Snuffalupagus. How accurate do you feel that is?

BP: I love that. That’s the thing I talk about in my act. Maybe not on this record. I have, you know, compared myself to a Muppet. I do the voice. I know when I do the angry voice it sounds like a lot of Jim Henson voices.

When I was younger I kind of compared myself to Eeyore.

My wife would laugh if she heard you say that I am like Snuffalupagus. That is a big part of my persona where it’s just you know lovable and kind of beaten down.

Do you have any tattoos?

BP: A horrible one. I waited till I was 41 to get my first tattoo, I think. It was total peer pressure and being completely hammered with a bunch of my friends. We all got the same thing and now I have this horrible thing on my middle finger. I wear a ring because I hate it so much.

I went home to wife and said, “Honey, I did something stupid?” And she’s all, “Did you sleep with a stripper?” “No, I got a tattoo.” “Oh, good.”

It’s 666, the sign of the devil. It’s so stupid! It’s sort of a reference to the kid in The Omen and Iron Maiden. I hang with out a bunch of idiots so it was someone else’s idea. They are all covered in tattoos so it didn’t matter to them. But I had my virgin skin.

I drive by a laser removal place every day and think about getting it removed.

You passed, Chuck Klosterman!

In Other on April 7, 2011 at 1:09 am

Chuck Klosterman passed the beer test.

The beer test was invented (to my knowledge) by Professor Mike Foley who uses it most often as a yardstick to judge whether or not a profile is adequate. The test is: “Based on what you have read, would you know whether or not you want to have a beer with this person?”

If you did a skillful and professional job of conveying that someone is, for instance,  an eloquent public official and porn-hater, a person sharing his views should want to have a beer with him and a person who does not share his views would not.

At the same time, the subject of the profile should not be offended when he reads it but should find it rings true, at least to some degree.

ANYWAY, I digress. The point is, I wanted to have a beer with Chuck Klosterman after I read his books, and now that I have heard him speak, I really want to have a beer with him.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure that Klosterman was going to pass the beer test. I had seen videos of him during interviews, and he seemed bored and boring. Also, in his books, he talks about being resistive to interviewers, as he is a professional interviewer himself, knows what they are after and is not really into being on the other end of the deal. What I came to realize was that Klosterman sort of absorbs the mood or tone of his interviewer.

This, however, was not an interview. It was a talk. To a bunch of college kids. I thought I would see more j-students. But it was really just the bar crowd from the Toplantic. We can never really get away from each other short of moving (t-minus 24 days).

BUT that meant that he had free reign to do or say as he pleased. Chuck dissuaded all my worries and put on a bully show.

My notes are as follows:

Bad-Acid (He talks about bad acid, which he has never himself had. The cool thing about him saying “bad acid” out loud is that it sounds like “badass-ed.” So it sounds like, “That’s some badass-ed shit.” I’m not sure if this is funny anymore. Now it just seems like an inside joke with myself.)

1) technology fluency

2) humor

3) networking

(Chuck’s tips to me for surviving post-grad.)

Ha, Care Bears! 1:08:08

1/2 sports questions

1/2 journo questions

2 snobby literary reference “questions”

and hipsters murmuring snark for the entire hour and half

The last words he spoke to us were:

“It’t not the quality! It’s the size!”

I have an extra Adderall. Do you want it?

In Other on March 23, 2011 at 4:52 pm

Adderall XRThese were the words I heard walking to my first class today.

The girl offering the pill then proceeded to give a litany of advice, sort of a combination between a pharmaceutical commercial and a doctor, albeit a completely unqualified one.

“It’s XR so it lasts longer. But I like to split it into portions. But don’t take it at night. But you want it right?”

Thought she sounded completely confident in the drug and her role as pseudo-medico, my first thought was that she missed a key question: Was her friend on any other drugs?

I can’t help but remember that Heath Ledger, one among many victims of senseless deaths, died of a lethal drug interaction. That sounds a little too melodramatic, but really, how does a college undergrad know how to dose her friends?

Pre-med knows best?

Adderall: Can't pass without itI thought a senior pre-med student might have a better understanding of the risks associated with under-the-table, co-ed prescription, but that’s not the case.

Before class last week, I overheard a guy talking about his stomach hurting intensely after taking an Adderall to study. Even through work he complained he was in pain and competely wired.

The pre-med replied that was just one of the side affects of the Adderall XR she gave him. She bragged that since she had been taking Adderall since she was a child, it didn’t affect her that way any more. At this point, she doesn’t even like to drive without it because she feels completely unfocused.

Full disclosure

Okay, so I know this is getting ranty and one-sided, but this is the only side I haven’t heard on campus.

When I arrived, I still had some sort of WB stereotype stuck in my head that there is a certain type of student that uses Adderall without a prescription to study or for recreation purposes.

Not true. Sorority sisters, club presidents, pre-med and med students, telecomm students, good students and bad students.

Full disclosure: yeah, I was kind of raised by an ex-hippie. So I took antibiotics when I needed to, but that was it. I had my first Tylenol at 21. But I don’t pretend to be some sort of health saint.

The real problem

The two things that bother me are: (1) Controlled substances that are so named because they are dangerous are not controlled at all. (2) Why are classes designed to make people feel like they can’t learn them without being wired, stoned or high?

I don’t really know what to do about one. I think it comes down to a cultural, social and psychological change. Obviously people are trying to be helpful and who would hold out with with a friend? But, I have little faith in psychopharma and wouldn’t care if it disappeared all together. Short of that, can people stop giving away their prescriptions?

The bigger issue is that students feel distracted, unfocused and confused because the material isn’t clear or they are studying it wrong. People are liable to feel distracted if they have no real understanding of the key words of a subject.

I’m taking a Plant Ecology course now where I experience all of the above. There is just too much material to go through with a dictionary and a fine-toothed comb. There were no prerequisites to this course but there really should have been. I understand it sucks, and I hate having to force myself through it.

Bottom line, I want my friends to be healthy, and I want my university to teach me something. Things are falling a little short these days.

Watch out for that Alabama Mudroll!

In Other on March 7, 2011 at 10:32 pm

In lieu of a post that talks about my late onset, life-threatening senioritis and how much I don’t want to do college anymore, I figure a post inspired by an animated children’s movie would be a little more fun.

Because I am one of those cool kids who hangs out with her mom over spring break instead of heading to Puerto Rico, Cancun or Miami, I had the opportunity to see Rango this weekend.

Me during Spring Break.

My mom and I share a common love for animated movies and generally catch the big ones in theaters. (Toy Story 3: mother/daughter public cryfest anyone?)

Unlike most animated features, Rango wasn’t a cutefest.

The desert animals are a crusty bunch and one-for-one have patches of exposed, lifelike, boogery looking skin.

One of the nuggets of joy which I gleaned from Rango occurred during the big Western live action scene during which a group of moles/jack rabbits ride bats mounted with guns after Rango’s gang which has taken control of a wagon being towed at precariously high speeds by a groundhog.

Anyway, the fur and feathers are flying and the animals start slinging insults, which are obviously PG. At one point they need to come up with dangerous-sounding threats, which is when things get exciting.

The formula they use for coming up with these epithets is pure genius.

You add (1) name of a Southern state + (1-2) sort of funny, casual English noun.

And then you get this kind of awesome.

Watch out for that Louisiana Sidewinder!

Comin’ at ya with a Mississippi Curveball!

I’ve got your Kentucky Hotsauce right here!

 

Others that I’d like to try out include:

South Carolina Speedwagon

Florida Frogslinger

West Virginia Highlighter

Tampa Sea Biscuit

Atlanta Hang Low

Texas Backbiter

Atlanta Overpass

Please feel free to contribute. Hopefully someone out there has a thing for a G-rated filth just like me!

Boys clubs and farmers markets

In Other on February 17, 2011 at 12:33 am

I sort of have a thing for boys clubs. Think “Stand By Me.” Think “The Outsiders.”

But by “thing,” I don’t mean the kind that I want to get involved in. It’s pure voyeurism. Being a part of it would just ruin it. Seeing one of the “old ladies” approach with a dirty child makes things awkward for everyone, those watching and those involved. Without these calls back to reality, the camaraderie among the boys and men of the world is something to behold.

Stand By Me

There was a particular set of men today at the farmers market downtown, but it’s easier to call them boys. Next to the brick sandwich place, squeezed in among the greens and crafts, a half-dozen twenty-somethings covered in tattoos had found a spot.

There was a smaller one with a weak mustache who braced himself under a tree as he sadly ogled women of all types. Mothers carrying wheatgrass toward their juicers. Professionals in pencil skirts, black stockings and 5-inch heels who had come straight from work for a beer with some other women.

There was a bigger towhead with a barrel chest and thick neck who grasped a skateboard easily in one hand and swiveled it under his leg as he people watched, or maybe more accurately, stared them down.

The one who looked like he talked the opinions of the group sat on the edge of the bench with a bright and multicolored messenger cap. He wasn’t the biggest but he probably had the biggest mouth.

The attractive one arrived shortly on a pink and green road bike. His face was shaved, and it made him look cleaner than the others, though he probably wasn’t. The tattoos on his shoulders emerged just below the sleeves of his purple tee.

The fat one stayed close to the small one.

The Outsiders

All of them smoked cigarettes. It wafted back towards me but smelled good.

Then my people-watching digressed. A big man with a red beard and glasses held a chubby blond toddler. She walked by me and bravely stared at me several times. She looked like her father, and I imagined her as a linebacker.

A boy of ten with long brown hair and a body grown in the sun stalked from the fields of children to the adults he knew on the patio. He was shirtless and had jeans he would grow into in a few years if they hadn’t already started to tear.

Providing a satisfying break from drudgery, among the organics and the fruit, it is also possible to absorb some humanity.

Just give me the drugs please, ma’am

In Other on February 16, 2011 at 2:00 am

Considering I live in a petri dish of a college town, it’s not surprising I got sick about a month ago. Sore throat, swollen glands: the works.

Vitamin C, garlic-packed multi-vitamins that seemed sized for horses instead of humans, and Zicam weren’t doing the trick. I did not feel better.

After two weeks, I visited he Student Health Care Center hoping for an easy prescription for antibiotics. The symptoms were all the same as an earlier upper respiratory infection, thus I felt almost assured of a Z-pack.

I arrived at 3:55, ten minutes after my scheduled 3:45 appointment.

“Hi. I have an appointment.”

“You had an appointment,” the receptionist said.

“What?”

“You’re more than ten minutes late.”

“It’s 3:56.”

“Exactly. You’ll have to make another appointment.”

“Seriously? And is there a charge for this appointment?”

“Oh, just a moment, looks like I can pencil you in for 4:15. There would have been a charge if I had canceled your appointment, but now you’ll just need to fill out this form.”

And so I pouted my way to the waiting room where it was clear that my odds of recovery were better if I had decided not to expose myself to the kids who were really getting it taken out of them and subsequently hacking all over the walls and furniture of that tiny, tiny room.

At 4:05, I was called into the back where I was asked a battery of standard questions and told to wait for the doctor.

I was clearly in the wrong place. People behind the curtains were dying. I was just dragging ass a little bit.

Overheard conversations:

Nurse: “I was trying to draw blood doctor, but I can’t get any.”

Doctor: “You’re clearly dehydrated son. You’re blood is dry.”

Nurse: “I’ll just keep trying. I know I’ll get it soon.”

Patient: “Unnnggghhhh.”

—–

Nurse: “Just spit as much mucous as you can into this tissue, and we’ll test it. I know you can feel a bit silly, but just go for as much as you can.”

Patient: “Waooocccchhhhh...”

—-

Finally it was my turn.

“Do you still have your tonsils?” the doctor asked.

Expecting a diagnosis of tonsillitis, I quickly answered that I did.

“Oh, haha, I can’t find them. They’re small.”

Relieved that I didn’t require any major or minor surgeries and please that I had small tonsils, which I took as a compliment, I figured I was overreacting. The doctor told me my throat wasn’t that pink, but I could take Tylenol for the pain if I wanted. I explained that I had the same thing a year ago, and I got antibiotics. She said she would test me for strep (even though I told her I had an infection). A nurse tested me for strep. I didn’t have strep.

The final solution of the day: “Would you like a Gatorade.”

Why, yes, I would. Thank you Gator Nation.

But unfortunately I will have to turn to Canada for my antibiotics as it’s now been four weeks, and I am still not fully recovered.

Damn you, Albert.

—-

But seriously, it’s annoying that with an extensively systematized operation like we have here at UF, I can’t get properly treated. While I know how annoyed doctors are these days with self-diagnoses and an app for every symptom around, there’s also something to be said for being familiar with one’s own body and the types of illnesses that it is prone to.

To me, modern medicine shouldn’t let treatable conditions linger.

Are my musical choices determined by other people, and if so, how much do I really care about this?

In Music, Other on November 16, 2010 at 12:39 am

1.This train of thought was first piqued by a visit to AuthorStand. It’s a great self-publishing site founded by my good friend Joe, and I wanted to check out his wares and jump on the e-reading bandwagon. And it’s for free.

I selected one of the top titles: “Good Morning, Magpie.” The first line of the PDF under the title and byline reads: “Inspired by the song, ‘Good Morning, Magpie,’ by Murder by Death.”

My first reaction was “Ugh, this is going to be an emo book based on a metal song.”

Turns out it’s a ballad by an alt-country band out of Indiana. And the tone of the book reflects the tone of the song in a really touching way.

But of course I judged a book by the song it was inspired by. Harshly. And it made me think, how often do I use the narrowest of filters when judging?

And does it matter? In this case, not really. I didn’t love the book. But it was better than I thought it was going to be. And my lukewarm feelings are due largely in part to format and genre. Though I still think I was right about the author being a gamer in a big way.

2. Then Grooveshark got me.

Normally, I laugh in the face of their advertising. Country music? Ha. Victoria’s Secret? I am not a 13-year-old boy no matter how much I dress like one when the weather gets cold.

But Saturday, they had something for me. Black-and-white retro photo featuring 20-something men with Ray Ban-esque shades and dark, slightly dirty hair. It was a band called The Temper Trap. Alliteration? Yes, please.

The makers of this ad probably knew exactly what I was wearing the moment I saw the photo. They probably know what other kind of music I listen to, what I watch and what I read. They could even guess my major and favorite color.

As I went to type “Yeasayer” into the search bar, I paused. Is it really that easy to sell me something?

Returning to the main page, I clicked the ad and proceeded to sample the band, which I had been sure was from Brooklyn (Melbourne, Australia, actually).

The first song I knew I had heard before. A little wikisearch told me it was the soundtrack to 500 Days of Summer.

Oh boy, I had rediscovered something I already liked. I had already been sold!(?) I was going to tweet the world.

But I waited.

After listening to about ten more songs, I was a little bored. Maybe they’ll be right at another time, just not now.

Would I still tell people about this band? Probably the single I liked.

Will I tell people about Murder by Death? Nope.

3. Then I thought about whether or not I cared where I found out about the music I listened to. I don’t think so. I’m pretty happy about it because I was a pretty incompetent musical explorer for most of my life.

My earliest musical tastes that I can remember leaned heavily in the direction of Eric Clapton and Styx, thanks to dad.

Then it was Boyz II Men, the Spice Girls, Britney Spears and Sarah Mclachlan. Followed by an obsession with Gaelic Storm due to a gift from my aunt who owned the now defunct Fitzpatrick’s Irish America.

In 2004, I started listening to The Cranberries’ 1996 album “To The Faithful Departed” which I borrowed from a friend.

My world turned around in 2006 when I moved in with my best friend. He introduced me to Deerhoof, Headphones, Metric, Sufjan Stevens, Blonde Redhead, Regina Spektor, Mates of State and musical theater (which I immediately rejected but kept the rest).

4. It’s been a long road but a happy one. So while I shouldn’t be shallowly limiting myself to a certain “popular” musical dogma, it doesn’t really matter how or where I find out about it as long as it does the job of scratching that itch.

Fun with friends and Friends

In Other on April 24, 2010 at 5:48 pm

Those of you residing in Gainesville may know that there is a massive used book sale twice a year.

I am lucky enough to have friends who will wake me up in the morn with coffee and take me along with them.

It’s enjoyable because I have never seen Liz more excited than at the Friends of the Library Book Sale (“Who needs more bags? Do we all have enough bags?”), but I still don’t know how I feel about the sale itself.

After hiding my coffee thermos in a green mailbox with the help of a police officer (the drink Nazi would not let me past even with a closed lid), I ventured forth.

Though it’s a huge room, it is crowded with people dragging boxes and bags of volumes of many muted and studious shades, coughing and sneezing library dust as they go.

And though I have silly, long arms, I tend to surprise people when I reach (I do say “excuse me” to no avail), which often creates a nice domino effect of startled seniors.

But without Mr. Dewey to aid me, the titles seem to blur and congeal so I’m relatively worthless at making any useful selections. Thus I play a little game called “Which of these books would be most ridiculous to read on my flight to Tokyo?”

Winners are:
50 Elocutionary Gestures for Public Speaking with fold-out gesture chart*
Intermediate Spanish for Dummies (Bienvenido a Tokyo)
Basic Shoe Bombs*
The Jesus Storybook Bible: Every Story Whispers His Name
Three Nights of Sin
Any hardcover architecture or art book (“Hi, can I borrow your fold-out tray? Oh, and the one next to you as well.”)

*Titles that I made up. The rest are real.

Actual purchases, totaling $7.50:
3 by Flannery O’Connor
Dubliners James Joyce
Lonely Planet Japan
Into Thin Air John Krakauer
Fodor’s France 2008
Eye of the Needle Ken Follett
The Picture of Dorian Gray and Other Writings Oscar Wilde

Other things that make me uncomfortable:

1. The stereotyping of authors.

Do all Indian writers really write in the same genre. Jewish, African-American and Latino authors were totally separated into their own sections, as well. Weird. Can’t we just mix them in according to fiction, non-fiction, mystery, etc.?

2. Almost every synopsis in the paperback section. Which is why I just let Brendan pick for me.

“This is good.”
“Really? Because I totally would not go for it based on ‘His code name was The Needle. He was a tall, handsome [blah, blah] England’s most dangerous enemy [blah, blah] She was Lucy Rose, a beautiful, young Englishwoman torn between her burning desire and her binding duty [blah, blah].'”
“Oh, yeah. That does make it sound bad. But I liked it.”

The joys of sports broadcasting

In Other on April 4, 2010 at 7:07 pm

I cannot watch sports on TV and pretend that I’m paying attention to the game.

Constantly distracted by commercials and the ridiculous sports commentary that provides endless humor via sexual innuendo (“drive it up the middle hard”), I am only occasionally engaged by a slow-motion replay or spandex (go football season).

Recently, I’ve been more exposed to those of the athletic persuasion as the sports writers and night editors watch on the big screen while I’m working at the Gainesville Sun.

Last night, I caught glimpses of the Duke v. WVU game.

Normally I try to understand what’s happening for maybe an eighth of a second.

This time it totally looked like some big men were going to make out.

I found out later, the couple locked in embrace was WVU player Da’Sean Butler and his coach, Bob Huggins (yessss).

Butler was kind of having a panic attack because he thought he tore his ACL. It turned out to be only a sprain.

Caught up in the drama of the moment, however, we thought Huggins was taking in Butler’s last words mouth-to-mouth.

I especially liked that the camera showed a close-up of three women in deep consternation in the stands, covering their mouths with manicured hands to express their shock.

Well, two of them were. The third one had no idea what was happening, and was gazing around for some sort of cue. Looking to her companions for support, she immediately covered her mouth in what is obviously the only appropriate gesture to display empathy and compassion from a position of complete helplessness.

For a possibly more clear analysis of the game, try sportscasualties.wordpress.com (Cheers Robbie!)

UPDATE:
Robbie actually told me that Da’Sean did end up tearing his ACL, which totally sucks. As an outsider, the quasi-make-out was amusing, but when I was properly educated in the seriousness in the matter, I do feel bad at what a major injury it ended up being.

This does not make the silly people in the audience any less funny.