1.

I remember.

Remember fall semester ending, Christmas beginning, and Crystal and I busy tacking up flyers that would dangle across campus like flimsy scabs, unnoticed. After plastering the dinning hall, we stepped back to admire our work. In bold Franklin Gothic font, the flyers decreed: Got something to say? WRITE IT! PRINT IT! GET IT OUT THERE! Join the newspaper!!! And each one gave a manful try, they really did. With every passing body, those flyers huffed and buffed like a fleet of bodybuilders flexing their man boobies. No one, not even a lonely freshmen, would ever care. I knew that before we started. But there was something I wanted to say, and, rather than WRITE IT! PRINT IT! GET IT OUT THERE!, I asked Crystal if she felt like coffee. When I said coffee, I was really saying nonfat vanilla mocha latte sprinkled with chocolate shavings.

Of course she said yes.

So we hopped in my Maxima and sped off campus. By early December, the suburbs of upstate New York already glitter with snow dustings and Christmas light constellations. I took the scenic drive to the nicer Starbucks on Wolfe Road because I had something important and gift wrapped to give Crystal.

Also, I saw how Crystal gazed at the passing colored lights, how her reflection in the window doubled her softly shinny brown hair (that should’ve been in a shampoo commercial). Her always-minty breath left a small circle on the glass and I was almost tempted to break the silence and give her what she wanted: pop music on the radio.

Instead, the hiss of the radiator filled the void of a mute stereo. Behind my back she’d become addicted to American Idol and stopped listening to bands like Deathcab for Cutie and The Killers. I was hoping to change that, change that with the pink mini iPod.

I had big plans for that pink mini iPod. It had to say a lot, talk for the both of us. For months, she kept repeating: Say what you mean, what you really mean. And what says “I care about you, sorta” better than a pink mini iPod? Sure, there might’ve been things she needed from me. She needed me to look her typo-plagued lab reports over for grammar and style, or she needed me to burn indie CDs to replace the atrocious pop music she loved so much. But that pink mini iPod, that was something I wanted to give her. Even if it was pink and mini and I felt I’d betrayed my manliness buying it, I have no regrets – even still. I figured: if we were going to build a relationship, we were going to build it in MP3s.

I have to know who this hippy who rides his bike around my town is

I’ve noticed him around. With his vagrant’s clothing and wiry beard. I think I’ve seen stink lines emanating from his person, like a smelly cartoon character. He pedals around his Schwinn with a huge, idiot’s smile on his face as if he’s not practically homeless. He’s the hippy bike rider whose identity I must discern.

I see him at strange hours. Sometimes when I’m driving to work in the morning (around 7:30 am) I see him wheeling out in the middle of the street, arms spread with palms up like he’s praising Jesus or getting ready to take flight. Sometimes I see him when I run at night (around 11pm), standing up on the bike and furiously pumping down a quiet suburban street. Even when I only catch a quick glimpse of his flannel-clad back, I know he’s smiling – can practically taste it.

Actually, that’s disgusting. I don’t know what a smile would taste like, let alone his smile, but I have to assume his would be something like a moldy turkey sandwich sprinkled with the dregs of an ashtray.

Another thing. He wears these sunglasses. Like the little round ones John Lennon wore. On him, they’re an absurdity. I honestly wonder if he’s ever had sex in his life. Maybe some hippy bitch (a hipette?). I wonder what sounds he makes when (and if) he’s boning this hipette. Do you think it’s like the normal references to the Almighty, like “God, oh God, yes, yes, God YES.” I sorta don’t. I think it’s more like something utterly ridiculous, like he signs Bob Seger tunes. Night Moves would be my pick. I would NOT pick Against the Wind. Maybe MAYBE something by Thin Lizzy. Not anything by Kiss.

I’m going for a run which means I'm going to hunt this hippy anomaly.

I'm still alive

So one more month of hell as I prep my grad school apps. In the meantime, I wanted to get something on this blog so you guys know I’m still alive. Here’s an article I wrote for Collegehumor. If you’ve seen it already, read it to your boner this time.

Graduate’s Guide to Re-visiting Your Alma Mater

I know many readers of this site are in college, saw the title of this article, and exclaimed, “I don’t need a guide, I’m never leaving college. NEVER!” Listen up Peter Pan, I want to begin by crushing your dreams of being that husky, balding 27-year-old creep hanging around the frat house claiming to be a magician who makes passed out chicks disappear. That guy already exists and is unhappily doing time in a Nashville slammer.

Thus, ultimately you’re all going to join the real world (what I like to call Never Never-Get-A-Job Land) and eventually you will make the trek back to your former college, expecting to be greeted with an alliterative fanfare of booze and bobbies. So here are some “RE – ”s to re-mind you how to act.

Return – Like your haphazard life, don’t plan anything; go on a whim! Maybe it’ll be a Friday night after your mom threw away your best porno mag and your pop caught you smoking, and he said, "No way!" And you’re like, “That fucking hypocrite smokes two packs a day.” Also, if your dad looks and acts like a white Carl Winslow, he’s totally like my dad.

Response – Be prepared to be bombarded with a chorus of “Didn’t you graduate?” People will not make the intuitive leap that you’re visiting because your real world life consists of sharing a room with your little brother, getting bossed around by white Carl Winslow and sipping Rolling Rocks with 35-year old coworkers who think they’re cool by calling you “dawg” and bragging about the Chingy song on their faggy mini iPod. Therefore, have a witty response when asked if you graduated. I’m not going to tell you what to say, but I will tell you a punch in the face really gets a point across. Oh, and answering with a phrase like “Graduating in five years is like leaving a party at 10 o’clock, dude” will have you leaving the party at 10 o’clock. With a punch. In the face.

Reunion – This will follow right after people ask if you graduated. Reuniting with some people is cool, for example, I enjoyed sucking face with my former college love: Elle McFunnelson. But beware of the exclamations, hugs and awkwardly inappropriate butt slaps from every other asshat you drunkenly bump into.

Retarded – The Cruise baby thing. Sidenote: Am I the only one who thinks it’s really a robot?

Readjust – This was particularly hard for me. Since leaving college, my last big social bender was a summer office party. What's an office party like, you ask? Picture your grandfather with a raging boner; it’s awkward! Imagine a family reunion where your drunk and crusty aunts hit on you and invite you to "explore the experienced side of the company." Therefore, when released back into the wild, you’ll probably be in berserker mode. Planning ahead, I’d recommend slapping a Hannibal Lector mask on your face. I found after slamming my second beer, that voice from NBA Jam started egging me on, proclaiming, "He's heating up." By my third, I was streaking around campus with a trail of fire in my wake.

Rebel Rebel – How could they know? Hot tramp, I love you so!

Relegated – As a graduate, you’re somewhat of an exile, and coming back to your former college makes you a pariah, lower in the collegiate caste system than fifth year seniors and cafeteria food. Sorry Mario, but your awesomeness is in another castle. But…

Rejoice! Rebirth – Your dismal state is nothing to be ashamed of…Play it up! I found by making up ludicrous lies about myself I won all kinds of pity points. I told people I was a senior in high school, a foreign exchange student from France, a Republican. For once, I found myself not emphasizing with the late twentieth century philosopher Skeelo that I would wish to be a little bit taller and possess the skills of a baller. Sadly, I established a greater celebrity being a Make-A-Wish typhoid patient than I ever did as former student.

Enjoy your RETURN!

Sowwy

Dude(tte)s -

My apologies for not updating this blog piece. However, I've been working on fiction for my grad program and would be more than happy to share it with you, if interested. I can't post it on here for school-related reasons, but I will e-mail it to you.

If interested, e-mailed me: BobberOrzXC@Yahoo.com

But not if you're a spam thing. I don't want a bigger penis.

Fuck emo

The other day I was in my undies, flipping through the channels, and watched a few videos on FUSE. Since the FUSE studio is down the block from my job, and there’s always sad misunderstood emo-shits decked out in black (like the color of their contaminated souls), I look on the channel with utter abhorrence. But, being it’s my week off from work, I was so lazy I couldn’t even muster the energy to flip the channel. Hence, as I watched dudes with black lipstick complain about the dads they hate, I started thinking. First, I remembered how Timps theorized that Darth Vader was the ultimate emo icon. Think about it. His entire body is black, he’s always sad, and, judging by the picture above, he can also wail on the guitar (using the Force, knowning a "Sithing"). Furthermore, upon Googling the issue, I came across this music video. Enjoy! Secondly, I was also reminded of an article I wrote from my school paper about emo! Check, check, check it out!

I Bought A Good Charlotte Album, Now I’m Going to Dye My Hair Blue with Koolade and Get My Forehead Pierced:

My Reflects on the New Found Glory – Good Charlotte Concert

Well since the newspaper got me a free ticket to the New Found Glory – Good Charlotte show I suppose now I have to write a review about it. Moreover, what would a review from a guy with a column titled “My Atrocious Opinion” be if I did not whine about something? Finding something to gripe about was as easy as beating up an eight year old girl, being the idiocy of pop culture attracted the dregs of society to our collge like Pete Townshend (Blogger’s note: remember when Townshend was caught with kiddie porn on his comp!) to a Chucky Cheese; hence providing me with plenty of gratuitous ammunition to wild out on.

The first abomination I plan to address in this rant is the moronic attire displayed throughout campus. Now I warned everyone in my last article that true high school “punk rawkers” were going to show up and act stupid but even I was blown away by the execratory I witnessed. I mean I can understand venerating your favorite band, but do you really need to embarrass yourself by wearing clothes that have the look of “I-purchased-this-from-a-former-satanic-cult-members’-yard-sale-for-thrity-cents”? Listen dudes, you’re not going to see me grow out a mullet and make out with my sister just because I’m the proud owner of Eddie Moneys’ Greatest Hits: The Sound of Money. These kids need to realize that not only is “punk rock” dead (and has been since they were in diapers), but the actual music that they are “rebelling” with is the MTV variety brand of POP.
So, aside from the ugly mesh hats, painted black fingernails, holes in the body where there shouldn’t be holes, dirty hair and overall dirty people, half the music at the concert earned my approval. Hot Rod Circuit and Less than Jake both effectively rocked off my face among other parts of my body which are not suitable to cite in this article. On a scale from American Idol to Total Awesomeness, I rate those two bands a Zack Morris cell phone and half a McDonalds # 2 value meal.

Even New Found Glory, I find I’m tangled in a Love-Hate relationship with. I do admit to loving their album Nothing Gold Can Stay, a guilty pop punk pleasure that snakes its way into my CD player once-in-a-while. I have also been caught naked, wailing on an air guitar to their cover of the Titanic song. Although, I do hate the fact their sound has become so mainstream as of lately. I hated even more that during their performance of “My Friend’s Over You” some 200-plus pound girl, oscillating like she was convulsing from cheeseburger withdrawals, elbowed me in the face (I still have the bruise).

As for Good Charlotte, it is just a hate relationship, in which I loathe them. To cite one manifesto of their complete hypocrisy, I will allude to a line from “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”:

“Lifestyles of the rich and the famous
They're always complaining, always complaining
If money is such a problem
Well they got mansions
Think we should rob them”

This lyrical virtuoso (sarcasm), while its’ grandiose versification is awe inspiring (sarcasm) there is a radiating double standard. You see, before the concert, as I was killing time (with my face still attached to my head) prior to Hot Rod Circuit and Less than Jake rocking parts of my body to China, I perused the swanky Good Charlotte clothing line. While all their propagandist-clothing defecations were ludicrously over priced, the one item that floored me was a belt buckle for $25. Those power chord-playing hobos actually had the audacity to try and hawk a plastic piece of punk-junk for 25 big ones! How can a band charge all that money for a belt buckle, an accessory to an accessory, and then go on stage and sing (sarcasm) about “The Rich and Famous”. I hope for their sake they don’t take themselves seriously or else they should contemplate mass suicide (no sarcasm).

I don’t mean to sound bitter; well, yes I do mean to sound bitter but all I’m asking for is a good headlining act. I’m not demanding a musical messiah like Radiohead; I’d settle from some drugged out, washed up 80s’ band that would play cheap. You can’t tell me that REO-“friggin’ awesome”-Speedwagon would turn down a college gig; they’d probably serenade us for a rotting chicken patty and a high five from a janitor.

Although I don’t blame SEB or the student volunteers, they definitely did an awesome job. My respect goes out to the dudes manning the pit. Catching crowd surfing fatsos with Mohawks is no easy task, but those beefcakes met the challenge and would have put a proud smile on Hulk Hogan’s face. I know a wiener like myself couldn’t handle a job like that.

Well, to conclude this seething dissertation I would like us all to remember a quote. To personify my nerdom I draw from Star Wars, spoken by Obi-Won Kenobi:

“Who is more foolish, the fool or the fool who follows?”

My Informative Night

Last night I stood over a toilet bowl, lifting the skirt of my toga, peeing. The only difference between this pee and other pees I’ve conducted in the past is that this one was not a solo job. My good friend Nacho also peed next to me as our crossing streams babbled harmoniously like a Chopin waltz in C# (in ¾ time). Our joint joust of jaundice can also be compared to a light saber dual as we battled to the end of our bladders.

Having finished first, Nacho sheathed his guy and headed for the door. Upon opening the door a huge black dude (who looked like Ruben Studdard) looked at Nacho then looked at me and exclaimed, “What were you two doing in there? Rubbin’ dicks?”

Being a question that has no acceptable answer, Nacho cavalierly replied, “Whateva.” At this point, I turned around to see for myself the look of utter disgust on Ruben Homophobe's face. After several seconds of awkward staring silence, Ruben dismissed the situation by informing us, “That shit ain’t whateva.”

I want to ponder for a minute why that shit, in fact, ain’t “whateva.” This presupposes that there are a set standard of things that can be considered “whateva.” Ruben, being the self-appointed judge of all things whateva, decided that the situation at hand, the “dick rubbing” escapades conducted in that bathroom, were not on that list. In fact, I think it’s safe to speculate that the list also contains instructions on how to make keen observations that follow a sequence of Aristotelian logic. For example, in the cast at hand, Ruben was able to deduce that:

Dude + Dude in bathroom = Dick rubbing = NOT whateva

In any case, knowing is half the battle. Thanks, Ruben!

Subject: Tanner, I have some concerns

So after sending 2 letters that still remained unanswered to Uncle Joey and Steve Urkel, I’ve decided to try a new approach, hoping to get a response. I’ve decided to e-mail Danny Tanner of Full House fame. However, rather than e-mailing the neat-freak pansy from the show, I found this Danny Tanner(Find him on the list)(Spoiler: He's actually Daniel Tanner, PhD and professor of History) and dropped him this e-mail from a “concerned” neighbor. Lets hope I get a juicy response!

Mr. Tanner,

This letter is from a concerned neighbor who is fed up with you and your family’s antics. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty patient person. I bit my tongue when one of your Greek relatives came wandering over to my side of the fence and claimed he “married” my youngest daughter after walking her around a kitchen table; I grinned and bared the strange relationship between you and those two other men you keep in your house; I even overlooked the time your daughter crashed a red “sports car” into your house and the debris floated over on my property. But, lately, I’ve just had it up to HERE with you and your damn shenanigans.

Lets get one thing straight, too. The only reason I’m contacting you via the e-mail is because it seems this is the only way to contact you! Normally, I’m the type of guy, when, if I’m having a problem, will get on the horn and holler my complaints and be on my merry way. But, with the racket from that band that keeps rehearsing (led by the black haired, motorcycle rider (Eddie?); I believe the band is called “The Strippers”) I can’t get through to you!

I understand things have probably been hard for you since your wife died. But, keep in mind I’ve been doing all I can for you and your family. Who was the first one over the time DJ had an eating disorder? Was the lasagna I brought over not the best she ever tasted? Did that chubby hussy not fill her fat face with food? (The food I brought, mind you!)

Speaking of which, DJ is another problem I want to address. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll come right out and say it bluntly: She’s having wild sex with her boyfriend, Steve. There it is. Out in the open. While this is fine under your roof (pending your consent), I don’t believe it’s a spectacle fit for broadcast across the neighborhood! When I heard her screaming “Oh, fuck me Mr. Woodchuck” I was downright offended and embarrassed.

Lets work together on this, okay, Danny?

Thanks,

Bill Gibbler