"Love Like A Cancer" by Courtney LeMay

Cancer is a very serious thing to me. I lost my stepdad (hereby referred to as “Dad.” My real father is “Daddy”) my senior year of high school after a nine-month fight with esophageal cancer, so I’ve seen first-hand what it can do to a person. I’ve not only watched it consume a person’s body, but I’ve felt its cold, cruel hand reach into its victim’s family to eat away at their lives as well. So when posters about donating hair to Pantene’s Beautiful Lengths program started to line the walls of Glide-Crawford my freshman year, I began to entertain the idea. The only problem was, I had never let my hair grow out enough to cut a substantial amount off and not become instantly bald.

Me and Dad on a family vacation

When the appointed haircutting time arrived that spring, my hair was still too far away from the necessary “Eight Inches from the Neck Down” length to be cut, so I waited. And waited. And waited. Long hair wasn’t so bad, I decided, but I never forgot my ultimate goal, tucked away in the back of my mind as my hair grew its monthly half an inch. By April, I couldn’t wait to cut it all off. When school was out, I made my appointment—it helps to have a step-sister who happens to be a fabulous hair dresser—and counted down the days.

With a few snips, it was all over. Four precisely brown (don’t even try to tell me it’s “mahogany” or “russet” or any of those colors boys don’t know exist) ponytails filled a quart-sized Ziploc, and my hair suddenly looked a lot more like post-“Tangled” Rapunzel for a change. It was a different sense of accomplishment than usual, because there was a feeling of being a part of something bigger than myself or personal appearances. I knew that somewhere across the U.S., five other women were making the same sacrifice in order provide a wig (and hope, if you ask me) for a complete stranger, and this was a beautiful thing.

Little did I know how soon my family would be relying on the kindness of strangers. Less than a month later, I received a frightening call. I should have known something was up when Daddy tried so hard to reach me while I was out of the country on vacation with my mom. Surgery. Cancer in his liver. The words flowed over me as my thoughts sunk farther and farther away from the sandy beaches of St. Maarten. It didn’t sound too serious, but any surgery came with risks. And that was the most surreal part—the surgery was scheduled the day after my return to the States. Daddy and I had been to Europe that month and he was fine; how did things change so quickly?

To cut a long story short, the surgery was a success and the doctors cannot find a trace of any more cancer. My daddy is undergoing some chemotherapy just to be safe, but there is no denying that his healing was nothing short of a miracle. (It is quite a rarity that the cancer is caught early enough for complete removal. In fact, there are so few people in this situation that there have not been any studies on them). God has blessed me in so many ways, especially in this amazing healing, and I will never be able to thank Him enough for keeping my daddy in my life.

"Shakespeare in the Park" with Daddy

But the blessings haven’t ended there. Besides seeing my daddy have a renewed passion for God (and for life in general), I too have found a new perspective, a different way of looking at things. Instead of holding onto my mistakes and the shortcomings of others, I want to let go. There are so many more important issues than fighting over a boy or holding petty grudges, and I don’t want to let that hold me back any longer. I want to love like a cancer, to see God’s love spread through me to His body, the Church, and out into the world. I want to really feel for the people around me, and I’ve been challenging myself to let God have His way in my life. Really, I just reached the point where I felt so helpless, that there was absolutely nothing I could do but turn to the one who can do all things. A coworker of mine last summer shared his testimony with me, affirming the absolute power of prayer in bringing about change; if I wanted to see a change, I knew it had to start with God.

So that’s my goal for the year, to be open to God’s calling on my life and to be sincerely involved in the lives of my fellow students (not the nosy, Facebook-stalking kind of involved, though, so don’t worry). I’m not sure what that will look like just yet, but I know who to ask (Hint, it’s God). I guess I just don’t want to waste what little time I have in this life on stupid things that won’t matter in a week, let alone at the end of my life. And I wish I could tell all of you that I’ll stick to this 100 percent of the time, but I know I won’t. All I can promise is to keep trying, because as awful as actual death may be, dying long before you stop breathing is far worse a fate.

Today, August 16, 2011, would be my dad's 57th birthday. Not a day goes by that I don't miss his smile, the way he made my mom and I feel safe, his awfully corny jokes. But I know deep-down this is how things are supposed to be, how God wanted them to be somehow. God has His own sense of timing. Just a few days ago the "thank you" letter came in the mail from Pantene; my donation had been sent off at the end of May. Even so, I started crying reading that simple form letter. Sure, they had printed it off along with probably hundreds of this same letter to send to hundreds of other donors, but that doesn’t mean my gift had any less value to the sick woman who received that wig, or that her family didn’t feel any less comfort in that donation because I wasn’t thanked in some extravagant way. Recognition has never been what sacrifice is about—it’s about the positive impact in others’ lives.

Asphyxiating on glitter: the tale of a parent dragged to a Ke$ha concert

I was in high school when the obnoxious and ubiquitous "TiK ToK" invaded the ear canal of everyone with... well, ears with canals. "This is garbage," I thought. "I am above such nonsense. As a 17-year-old, educated male, I do not endorse such silly music." My first impression was only reinforced the more it was heard. It was instantly antiquicated by silly white girl rap slang and bratty vocals and--for God's sake--she has a dollar sign in her name!

It got to the point to where I would listen to "TiK ToK" for the sole purpose of making fun of it. (This same phenomenon presented itself with Lady Gaga's "Poker Face", as well.) This was not a good course of action, my friends. I began listening to it more and more, in a decreasingly ironic fashion. After weeks and weeks of this masochism, my guard came crumbling down and my mind was opened by this sleazy girl from L.A.

I love you, Ke$ha

My adoration grew exponentially upon the release of "Your Love is My Drug" and "We R Who We R"--two songs that I will unabashedly belt out at any time if you're not careful. I was enamored; so much so that I began talking myself into buying concert tickets to see her in Columbus. Then I saw that she tweeted this:

@keshasuxx: I wish I could give every single one of u a tiny truck stop figurine of a dragon.

"Welp, that's it. Ke$ha owns. I'm buying tickets."

Stockings ripped all up the sides, too

This was my very first concert, and was it was glorious. There was glitter and lights and dinosaurs and American flags and for some reason there was a guy in a Santa Claus costume who sang at the very end. I don't even know what the heck. It was both exactly what I expected and about a hundred times better.

I wore tights and neon blue short shorts, because if you're going to go to a Ke$ha concert, you have to go all out. Right? But not everyone did. Not surprisingly, I was the self-proclaimed "Best Dressed Male" there, and looked down upon anyone who apparently couldn't even be bothered to put on a little eye-liner--except for the parents.

Lots of parents were dragged to this thing. Like, LOTS. A good 10% of the audience were moms on their BlackBerries, chaperoning their pre-adolescent daughters. I don't think they wanted to be there very much. They're the real stars of the show here. They're the ones who drove hours and hours to watch a girl half their age get paid in solid gold to push a few buttons on a keyboard and sing. They're the ones who, for the love of their child, are listening to a song about literally eating a person alive.

["Cannibal" is an amazing song, but Ke$ha seems like the type of person who would have legitimately tried human liver, which makes it a bit unsettling. It doesn't help that she has tweeted a request for her fans' teeth, with which she would use to make a necklace: "So. What I'm getting at is please send me your teeth. I'm dead serious. I need your teeth."]

Ke$ha: NOT a cannibal

I imagine this is how that beautiful July day went for one of those loving mothers:

[9:30 AM] Dear God, that stupid Keisha concert is today.

[9:32 AM] Hey, honey, time to wake up. Do you... still want to go to the concert tonight? Mommy doesn't feel very good a-... okay, no that's fine. We're going. I was just making sure you still wanted to. It *is* a long drive, though, and I know you don't like long drives--no, no, we're going!

[9:40 AM] Mark? Can you take Brittany to the Keisha concert tonight? No, it's just I really don't want to go. I *know* I said I would, but-... ugh, okay, okay.

[10:02 AM] So, what do you want to do at the state fair? No, the fair is *before* the concert. No, we won't miss Keisha, I promise! Brittany. Listen. We are going to both. They have chickens and pigs and lots of games and stuff. You like petting zoos, right? What do you mean they're too dirty? Have you even SEEN this girl who's gonna be singing?

[10:58 AM] Sweety, I know you want make-up, but how about we put it on you when we get to the fair? If you don't wait, it might rub off.

[11:09 AM] Hold still. No, stop. Hold still. I'm almost done.

[11:11 AM] There we go. You look... well, you look like you just crawled out of a glittery trash bag, but that's what we were going for, right?

[11:42 AM] No, we are not going in McDonald's! Not with you looking like that! I'll go through the drive-thru, okay? You want a Happy Meal?

[12:01 PM] No, I'd rather not listen to Keisha on the way there, sweetie. Why? Well, because... it's like waiting until you're older to start dating--it's better that way. Please don't cry.

[12:58 PM] Look, sweetie! Only 166 more miles til we get there. Are you excited yet? Uh, yea, I'm excited, too, I guess.

[3:03 PM] Brittany, wake up. Could you do Mommy a favor and tell her which exit to get off on? Just hit the "next" button. Thank you.

[3:28 PM] Look! We're here! Yaaaaay. Now let's go see some pigs! Want a deep-fried Oreo? Me, too!

[3:50 PM] This is the biggest pig I have ever seen. Oh, Brittany! Be careful around those--Oh my gosh! BRITTANY!

[4:12 PM] Hey, Mark. Yea, we got here a little while ago. Well, um, I'm calling because Brittany was just kicked by a goat. No, no, no, she's fine. EMTs came and checked her out and I think she just had the wind knocked out of her. Well, she said that some glitter got in her eye and she tripped onto it or something. No, I'm serious.

[4:42 PM] Brit, you can't seriously be wanting me to put more make-up on you. No, I'm not gonna do it. No.

[4:53 PM] Hold still. No, stop. Hold still. I'm almost done.

[5:21 PM] Mommy's going to get another Oreo and then we'll go get our seats, okay? Wait, Brittany, turn around, is that a donut burger? It is, isn't it?

[5:23 PM] Sooo good.

[5:32 PM] Let's see... Section L... 22 and 23... here we go!

[6:07 PM] Wait, this starts at seven? Brit, come with me. I'm getting something else to eat.

[7:04 PM] Look, Brittany, it's Keisha! Ooh, you're right. This is a warm-up band, then? And that's a boy? Not Keisha? A boy?

[7:05 PM] Kill me.

[7:06 PM] Brit, did you see if they sold Mommy-Drinks in the concession stand? They did? Okay, come with me.

[7:11 PM] That's better. Brit, did you want to get a t-shirt or something while we're up?

[7:12 PM] Thirty-five dollars for a shirt. Thirty. Five. Dollars. THIRTY-FIVE DOLLARS.

[7:14 PM] Twenty, thirty, thirty-five. There ya go. Thank you. Well, Brittany, you got your first concert t-shirt. It's pretty, huh? I like how Keisha looks just like The Joker. That's cool.

[8:02 PM] So, that's definitely her, right? It is? Whoa, wait, I've been calling her the wrong name this whole time? And she has a dollar sign in her name? You've got to be kidding me.

[8:07 PM] Okay, that was kind of awesome.

[8:20 PM] You having fun yet, Brittany? Yea, me, too.

[8:44 PM] Did I hear that right? Is she singing about cannibalism? Is she--... IS SHE EATING A HUMAN HEART. This is amazing...

[9:04 PM] Ooh! I know this song! "I wake up every morning feeling like Puff Diddy--grab my glasses, I'm out the door, I'm gonna go to the city."

[9:10 PM] Kesha! Kesha! Kesha! Kesha!

[9:12 PM] It's so good to see young, influential artists professing their faith by wearing Jesus necklaces.

[9:16 PM] Heh, look at this idiot beside of us. Wait, that's a boy, and not some weird lesbian? Hahaha! I gotta get a picture of this!

[9:17 PM] To: Mark Johnson
Subject: "guy at kesha concert LOL!"
Attachments:

The gang goes to the beach!

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina was a frequent family destination for summer vacations in my younger years. It would always be me, my sister, and parents off on a whirlwind adventure to some ocean-view hotel. We haven't had one of these in a while (probably due to the fact that my parents are divorced; talk about an awkward drive), but when we did, they always followed a concrete, 10-step template:

1) Everyone fights on nine hour car ride, hates each other upon arrival
2) Check into hotel whose lobby smells faintly of damp laundry
3) Buy two boogie boards and maybe, like, a shark-tooth necklace
4) Go into ocean with Dad
5) Get sunburned
6) Blister, pick off blisters
7) Lose boogie board
8) Almost drown
9) Dry off
10) Go home, yell at family again

That trend was bucked this year, however; the gang was a little bit less conventional. No parents in sight, and, one year ago, I knew none of my fellow vacationers.

So, let's meet the other players!

Fellow writer and best friend, Courtney; has a thing with facial hair

My Mom's boyfriend, James; likes polos and cars

James' son, Micah; is nine years old and acts his age

One of my favorite things about vacationing is getting to try exotic flavors and ingredients. My palette hasn't quite grown immune to the delicious and affordable siren call of Taco Bell, but fast food has become increasingly less appetizing as the years have gone by. My hometown isn't exactly known for its local cuisine, either. So, it was with great pleasure I got to try swordfish at a little place by the sea called "The Captain's House". Now, I don't love eating fish. It's always a little too, well, fishy-tasting for my liking. That being said... uh, well, my dinner didn't really do very much to change my mind. The Caesar salad was delicious, though--ooh, and we got a kid's menu, too, so it definitely wasn't a total loss.

O Captain! My Captain!

I believe it was the following day that we all went for a walk and decided to get some tattoos. We're fickle and impulsive like that. (Spoiler: they were henna.) A nice Italian man, straight out of a future iteration of The Jersey Shore, talked us all into paying our hard-earned dollars in exchange for some paint on our arms. Worth it!

Cooler than you

Let's break down the what and the why of these sick tats...

Feels good, man

Micah
-Tattoo: dragon
-Reason: likes dragons

I just feel like it's missing something

James
-Tattoo: sadly nippleless mermaid
-Reason: likes fish, girls; not a huge fan of nipples, I guess

Watch close; I can make him dance

Zack
-Tattoo: Yipes, the Fruit Stripe Gum zebra
-Reason: wanted a fake tattoo of a fake tattoo; likes zebras

Is it a mustache or an upside-down seagull? NOBODY KNOWS

Courtney
-Tattoo: mustache on index finger
-Reason: so she can fulfill her primal need to have facial hair (instead of simply waiting until she's old)

After the ink had been carved into our sensitive flesh, we set back out upon our original quest: to find the mythical Gay Dolphin. We stumbled upon this oddly named "gift cove" in a directory given to us at the hotel, and there was no way I wasn't going. Upon locating the exact position of said flamboyant mammal, our pace quickened; the thought of visiting such a joyous and wonderful place fed fuel to our steps. Then we got there and...! Wait, this place isn't fun or colorful or anything. "Boo!" I yelled at no one in particular. Micah was especially disappointed, as he, for reasons unknown, had really been hoping to see a genuine homosexual bottlenose.

The most exciting part of the store:

Not pictured: antagonistic "Homophobic Shark" gift shop across street

"I just want to sit in the sand; please sit with me," I pleaded to Courtney. We were walking along the beach fairly late at night, and I wanted to sit back and enjoy the beautiful moonlight. Naturally, being a girl, she didn't want icky sand all over her, however. And, naturally, me being a petulant child, I sat in the sand and pouted until she obliged and joined me in the rising tide. There are few things more beautiful than the ocean at night, and I was enjoying my time with my best friend. Finally, we decided our stay in the sand was over, and I made a move to stand up. And then I promptly tipped into the ocean.

There had to be 20 pounds of sand in my swimming trunks. And I mean in the lining, too; this stuff wasn't coming out without a fight. I stand up in the surf and try to no avail to remove the mud from my shorts. The waves hit me hard and knock me over repeatedly. "Help! I'm going to drown because I have so much freakin' sand in my pants!" I may have yelled to Courtney. She assisted in removing the obstruction over the course of a 15-minute wringing session that almost definitely looked sexual to any by-standers on the dark beach. But it wasn't, I swear. I didn't enjoy it at all.

The sea was angry that day, my friends

On our last day, we journeyed to the NASCAR Speedpark--something James had been looking forward to for his entire adult life. As you can imagine, there was lots of racing memorabilia, names I didn't recognize, and stuff about cars. But forget that boring crap; we did fun things!

Like golf...

"James lines up for the putt. He appears to be using the
Meineke, AMP Energy Drink, Goodyear putter today."

... and dominating carnival games...

Courtney is way fatter than she looks

... and getting astronomical wedgies...

I am now a tenor

... and racing...

The only competitor over the age of 10

... and losing.

NO BUMPING!

NEXT TIME: With glitter on my eyes and stockings ripped all up the sides, I go-oh-oh to a Ke$ha concert; promptly die of glitter inhalation

Tales of Summer: I need a vacation

College summers are the best. Three months straight of doing whatever you want to do; vacations, concerts, roadtrips, sleeping in, not putting effort into anything, etc. It's all fun and games--unless your parents have anything to say about it.

Actor/comedian/musician/smiling man Will Smith once offered this profound observation: "Parents just don't understand." They don't understand why I wouldn't want to be a cashier at Walmart. They don't understand why I would drive all the way to Columbus to see Kesha in concert. They don't understand how to send private messages on Facebook.

Luckily, however, I am understanding. I humored them by working for the world's largest private employer for six weeks before quitting and taking advantage of the rest of my time off... But not before the monotony of retail took its toll on my mind, body, and soul.

Guess which month I worked at Walmart

Seriously, though, it's been a great few months. This has definitely been one of the most enriching, fun, profitable, and exciting summers of my life. And all jokes aside, I was the one who decided to take the job, and it certainly wasn't as bad as I make it out to be. (More about my adventures and spiritual revelations as a cashier in The Collegian.)

So, let this be a celebration of a summer well spent; my first college summer.

I always enjoyed going to VBS (Vacation Bible School for you heathens out there) when I was younger. It was always a fun week where I got to hang out with friends and eat peanut brittle and make glittery doorknob hangers with the phrase "JESUS LOVES ME" plastered across it. It was fun, and I got to learn about God, too. But helping set everything up and being part of it later on? No, no, no. Hated it. Way too frustrating and way too much work.

So much time and effort is required for any VBS to flourish and have results--and this past summer, my church's was especially elaborate (especially for a church our size). It involved a 20-page scripted play and an entire set to be built in our sanctuary. I was asked to be a part of said production and decided it was high-time to get involved and show off my acting chops, too.

A friend and I prepare for the performance of a lifetime

Name: Theodore Tweedle
Occupation: Sheriff of Discovery City, CA
Purpose: Comic relief

That's pretty much all you need to know about my character. It was so much fun getting to act and make little kids laugh, and, when I wasn't on stage, get to tell them about Jesus. (These kids would literally laugh at anything. Did you forget your line? Just trip over something!) I really couldn't be more proud of our production, but, more than that, how receiving the kids were to the message.

Something like seven kids were saved by the end of that week. Now, I don't pretend to think that it was me or anyone at the church that saved them, but what we did mattered. We planted seeds of scripture and love and watched them in just a few days sprout and maybe even grow a few leaves. And it was such a blessing to see the fruits of our labor.

NEXT TIME: Tattoos, gay dolphins, and twenty pounds of sand in my pants. It's Myrtle Beach, baby.

Farewell to Fearless: A Poem

Flowers are blooming, spring is now here
May is upon us—the best month of the year
“Why?” you may ask. Well, the reasons are plenty
For one, my birthday does fall on day twenty

There’s the Kentucky Derby—the thing with the horses
And May is the month with the lowest rate of divorces
(Okay, that’s not true; I just said that to rhyme
I should probably check my stats better next time)

“Wish he’d get to the point, what’s his deal with this month?”
You ask, knowing that no English word rhymes with ‘month’
Try to mess me up, do you? You can’t get me off track!
And now, to the matter at hand I’ll go back

May is the time school comes at last to an end
We say hello to our mothers and goodbye to our friends
Some may go home, others on a French tour
But let me tell you, my friend, this one thing’s for sure:

The seniors are gone in a handful of days
And it’s time to say “bye” to their fun-loving ways
For they have been here for two plus two years
And they have been Fearless when facing their fears

So here is your “props,” your tip of the hat
Before you start your career (yeah, good luck with that)
To you psychology majors, who know stuff about heads
Let me say thanks in advance for all of the meds

To my media peeps, one day on the big screen
Who’ll be working on films and making that green
Remember one man when you’re rich as Don Draper
That sweet, lovable scamp, Zack, from the paper!

To the mathematics people, I do say goodbye
But apple will always be the best kind of π
For the teachers out there, oh Lord bless your soul!
I’d rather live out my days as a cave-dwelling troll

Foreign language fellows—well you’re just magnifique!
‘Cause you can speak French, Latin, Spanish or Greek
Musicians and authors and chemists galore!
Oh, what will you be when not in school anymore?

Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll do swell
And you’ll leap onto life like it’s a limping gazelle
You’re now on to bigger and much better things
And I hope that one day you’ll be living as kings

And for all of you juniors who graduate early
And for the fifth-year seniors who surely are surly
Congrats to you, too, and you’ll be missed just as much
Just do me a favor and please keep in touch

So here’s my farewell to Fearless, with which none can compete
They’ve got brains in their heads and shoes on their feet
Their awesomeness I hereby do humbly admit
And anyone who disagrees is just full of hot air

A Boy and His Basketball: How a Man In a Bear Costume Can Ruin Your Life Forever

I like sports, and I don’t care who knows. I like football and basketball, and the one with the sticks is pretty good, too ... Curling, that’s it! Though you would never know it based on my March Madness bracket (I’ll give you two hints as to whom I had winning the championship: a) they already lost and b) they ensured that I cannot make fun of that girl who picked the Boston University Terriers to go to the Final Four because she likes dogs, by losing to a team whose mascot is a dog), I devote much of my free time to reading about, watching and occasionally participating in sports.

Whenever I listen to music, there will always be some hipster jerk who is inevitably all like, “Yeah, I have that on vinyl; it’s all right,” (Really? You have Sonseed on vinyl?) or “Yeah, that’s OK, but they’re so much better live”—though, in my experience, this comment has yet to be made of The Black Eyed Peas. I have been to at least one game of every major professional American sport (MLB, NBA, NFL and the other one) in person, and though it may indeed be better live, something strange and horrible always seems to happen when I am in attendance.

As a younger man, I was a huge fan of the Minnesota Timberwolves (a rarity today, unless you particularly enjoy white people who can rebound better than the characters on “Glee”), particularly their star forward, Kevin Garnett. I arrived in Memphis to watch them play an away game in full-on Garnett garb: his number 21 jersey, a Wolves hat and a large sign which read, “KG4MVP.” This was a mistake.

The mascot for the Memphis Grizzlies, a grizzly bear fittingly and creatively named “Grizz,” quickly took notice and came over to my section. He picked me out for the wolf in wolf’s clothing that I was, and had me stand up to a smattering of boos and hisses from the home crowd. Whatever: my team was dominating, and Garnett was putting the punctuation mark on a great, MVP-winning season. Bring it on.

And it was brought—in the form of silly string. In front of 19,000 fans, my replica jersey was sprayed with green, liquid strands from an aerosol can, simultaneously destroying the ozone layer, my self esteem and my wardrobe—how silly. A flamboyant Chewbacca permanently transformed my Kevin Garnett into a Jackson Pollock.

(Fun Fact: Grizz now has a Twitter, which makes things so much worse for some reason. No, I do not follow him, and not a day goes by when I don’t want to send him this truce, condensed neatly into 140 characters: “Hey @Grizz, just wanted to remind you that you ruined my Wolves jersey when I was 10 years old. Also, my life. #thanks #blackbearsarebetter”).

In my one and only experience with the NFL, a game held in the unforgivably cold Cleveland Browns Stadium, a referee made a controversial call at the end of the match that left the home crowd a little bit upset. And by “upset,” I mean “literally wanting to stuff said referee in a box alongside 30 starving schnauzers, rocket that box into a supernova and have the remnants of the explosion pureed and served alongside toast and sauerkraut in a sleazy New Jersey diner.”

Cue thousands of cups of beer and other curiously golden liquids being thrown onto the field and stands (depending on the collective blood-alcohol level of the section), as the Zebras galloped out of the venue and away from their not-so-adoring fans. I, however, was stuck in the ruckus far longer than desired and received a very unwanted shower to ensure that I was even colder and smellier than before.

So, what’s the lesson here? Well, most obviously, you should always do as the Romans do and should never serve alcohol in the second half of a sporting event. And, most importantly, you should be scared of grizzly bears for more than just their banana-sized claws and barbed fangs—not only will they rip your skin off, but they will also rip out your soul and put it on display for all their 750 followers to see. #trustme.

Never swim without a lifeguard

Michael Phelps once said, “Swimming is normal for me. I’m relaxed. I’m comfortable, and I know my surroundings. It’s my home.” He then added, “Hey, hey, smoke weed everyday,” while exhaling a plume of smoke in the shape of an Olympic gold medal.

Personally, I probably do not feel as comfortable in the water as Phelps does, but I do enjoy a good swim every now and then. It’s as relaxing or strenuous as you want it to be, and you can do it practically anywhere there’s water—examples include the Luce Natatorium, a clogged shower, Lake Erie and in the salty tears of your opponents. But no matter where you doggy-paddle, it’s almost always going to be fun. (Unless it’s in the aforementioned shower, as there was probably all sorts of disgusting hair in the drain, and that just grosses everyone out.)

I have recently begun attending Asbury’s swim meets, much to the annoyance of the fundamentalists who insist that no one should be allowed on the deck without a speedo (apparently thongs don’t count). Thankfully, though, you’re generally accepted if you have a fancy camera with which you appear to be taking pictures for journalistic purposes, and use words like “shutter speed,” “aperture” and “wait, do that again,” so I decided to borrow one and take blurry pictures of various abs.

Seeing these athletes perform such incredible feats reminded me fondly of my pool back home and doing flips under its shallow surface. On the eve of the day on which I would take the written portion of my driver’s license test, I was having a particularly fun time splashing around with pool toys and seeing what was the dumbest thing that I could do that wouldn’t quite result in me drowning.

I like to be able to see when I’m underwater so that I can pretend to be an exotic fish or sea monster, but I hate the feeling of chlorine eating away at my retinas. So, naturally, I wear goggles (Momma didn’t raise no dummy) when I swim. However, the only ones available were giant, yellow ones that covered half my face and were a bit too tight. Whatever, swimming isn’t about comfort—it’s about the sensation of being wet and afraid for your life. Kind of like birth.

Now, don’t get me wrong, smacking my face against the bottom of the pool wasn’t fun, but I was elated that I didn’t accidentally swallow a pint of water when I screamed like a little girl who had just smacked her face against the floor of her pool after trying to do a flip underwater. Apparently, I had finally outgrown our above-ground, four-feet-deep collection of liquid. I just found out a bit late.

The next day, I awoke looking like a victim of spousal abuse (but, thankfully, without the added pain of having a spouse) and readied myself for the big exam. “Finally,” I thought, “I’ll be my own man. No longer will the oppression of my parents and the laws of my government hold me back from driving to and from school or Taco Bell. No longer will I submit to the wishes of this world, and its warranted fear of me behind the wheel. Today, I become a man.” Then, due to the slippery cotton of my Spider-Man slippers against our wood paneling, I fell butt-first down the stairs, and each step made its own distinct impression onto my battered bottom—which is only slightly worse than a buttered one. I cried like a little girl. With pigtails.

So there I am: broken nose, black eyes, the need for a donut pillow, and I am about to be forever immortalized on a laminated card to be held on my person for years. “Cheese!”

The Golden Goodell Awards of Super Bowl XLV

Super Bowl Sunday is far and away my favorite holiday. It’s the only time of year when sitting on your couch for three straight hours and eating a continuous stream of wings is not only condoned but encouraged! It is truly a day for a man’s man, and the third most “American” holiday—trailing only the Fourth of July and days on which they bring back the McRib. In case you were not one of the 111 million viewers, I am here to recap the night and hand out the much coveted Golden Goodell Awards for the best and worst moments of the program.

The award for “Most Valuable Plate” undoubtedly goes to the chicken wings which kept us fueled through the grueling, several-hour-long process of celebrating the holiest Sunday of the year. My urine was pure, concentrated honey BBQ sauce by the end of the third quarter. Like I always say, a Super Bowl without good wings is like an analogy without a… thing.

The award for “Best Halftime Show” goes to McKinley High School’s performance of Thriller in full (and realistic) zombie make-up. Vocals, lighting, everything was amazing; the only letdown was that the promised human cannon did not propel a cheerleader across the football field and into a flimsy net.

Which leads to my first de-ward: The Black Eyed Peas for “Worst Halftime Show.” Even as someone who is embarrassed just to sing alone in the shower (especially with someone else there), I still feel entitled to say that Fergie’s unaltered voice (hereby referred to as Froggy—because that’s what she sounded like) made me want to kill myself.

The show, brought to you by the element neon, was fifteen minutes of microphone malfunctions—which, though better than those of the wardrobe variety, are not nearly as interesting—and yelling about having a good time, which I wasn’t.

The second is for “Most Offensive Commercial,” which goes to American Idol and its new leathery judge, Steven Tyler. (You probably thought I was going to choose the one that made fun of Tibetans and how impoverished they are, didn’t you? Wrong. That was hilarious.) FOX chose to advertise its flagship program with a montage of the former Aerosmith singer, in what at first seemed to be an anti-cosmetic surgery PSA.

In a short thirty seconds, I lost both my mind and appetite.

The award for “Most American Performance of the National Anthem” goes to Snooki-impersonator Christina Aguilera and her much publicized liberties with the National Anthem, changing the words and such. But who really knows all the words to it anyways? I say God bless you, Christina, for making the song your own and outshining Froggy.

[Side note: there are things called “prop bets” for the Super Bowl, on which one can gamble their hard-earned money away on silly wagers. Examples include “The color of Gatorade poured on the winning coach”; “the number of times Brett Favre is mentioned”; and, my own personal favorite, “Christina Aguilera will hold the word ‘brave’ for more than six seconds.” She held it for twelve. I timed it. She was likely inspired by the reading of—I kid you not—the full Declaration of Independence, in all its glory, prior to kickoff.]

Lastly, and leastly, the award for “Best Football Team” goes to the Greenburgh Packers, as they won a tightly contested match against the Pittsben Stillers wherein many points were scored and downs touched. But nobody really cares about that.

Car Wars Episode I: The Campton Menace

As many of us have come to know by this point in our lives, it is generally a good idea to listen to our parents. They’re older and, though not as smart as us, tend to have a sixth sense—“common sense”—when it comes to knowing when their children are in imminent danger. Warnings of “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!” and “Don’t put that in your mouth!” never deterred anyone, though. But, I guess parents have to let us stick our finger in an electrical socket every once in a while to teach us a lesson the hard way (and that lesson is usually how to finger-paint with only four phalanges).

“Drive safe,” my mother ordered on the last day of finals. “Yeah, yeah, I will. It’s not like the roads are icy or anything.” I then embarked on what promised to be an exquisite first date, but not before getting into an on-campus fender-bender. Black ice, cleverly disguised as pavement, sent me sliding like Pete Rose into a car at the red light in front of Glide-Crawford. “Safe!” But not from a third vehicle which minutes later met the same slippery fate as I and smashed into my bumper. Though it was a rough night for Sandy and I—Sandy being my car, so named because it is a tan Chevy Malibu, we made it through with only a few scratches, and it was still one of the better dates I’ve been on (and she is supposed to come out of her coma any week now!).

Due to increasingly anti-travel weather, I was unable to make the trek to southeast Kentucky until the following Monday. Now, when I was younger (and by younger I mean myself at literally any point before this is printed), I would do stupid things just because I could. Questions such as, “Am I athletic enough to pole-vault over a bonfire with a flaming stick?” race through my mind often and are consistently answered with a resounding “No!” and a hospital bill. However, contrary to my father’s opinion, leaving from a snowy Lexington at 9 p.m. for a two-and-a-half hour drive was not one of these times.

There are many hazards to drivers on the road at this time of year; chief among them is danceable pop music (anyone who tells you that every single Ke$ha song isn’t catchier than a baseball is a liar and should never be trusted). However, my primary antagonist this fateful night would be ice—and, no, not the ripped chick from American Gladiator, though that would have been slightly less scary. The first two hours of the drive went off without a hitch; the second half was when I really got into trouble.

A mere thirty miles from my home, a particularly bright crew decided that it was the perfect time to use explosives to blast boulders the size of Brett Favre’s ego directly onto the road. “You headin’ to Hazard?” one of the workers asked me. “Follow that car.” He motioned toward a vehicle pulling onto an exit ramp, but that car promptly parked on the shoulder since the next road, too, was closed. “Hello, Dad? You know how I said I would leave before sundown? Well, I have a confession … ”

The Campton Parkway Inn was my next destination, since my father complained that it was “a bit too nippy outside, and ‘Criminal Minds’ is on,” and there was seemingly no way of me getting home that night. The highway was becoming progressively more dangerous, but I finally skidded into the parking lot after much concentration and possibly crying. “Thank you God, Jesus and C.S. Lewis!”

Uneasiness crept over me as I handed my debit card to the hotel manager; its being declined was inevitable. Fate had sneaked its dirty fingers into my bank account and snatched away my chance at a warm bed and free Wi-fi. I had just accepted my fate of spending the night with Sandy when I received a call from an unknown number on my woefully under-charged cell phone. “Hey, this is Loren, your dad’s friend. Hold tight; I’ll be there in an hour and a half.” “I’m sorry, what?”

Loren, a state trooper, arrived on his white steed and swept me away from that dreaded place, through the snowy hills and back to my homeland. On this whirlwind adventure, I learned that my new hero had actually read my column—a feat that few people can claim—and had an affinity for hot chocolate from Double Kwik. I forgave Loren for his poor taste in literature and gas station refreshments as we pulled into my driveway, and declared him “Impromptu Chauffeur of the Day.” Elation spilled out of me as I made my way up the sidewalk and so did blood when I slipped and busted my head open on the concrete. And that’s why ice is dangerous.

How to not be fat over the holidays

People ask me all the time, “Zack, how do you keep your perfect figure? How do you maintain the body of a Greek god when you’ve never lived in Europe? Can you really do ten pull-ups? Can I paint you?”

Actually, no one asks that. But I imagine they would if they weren’t so intimidated by my rippling pecs and more abs than you can shake a stick at (something you don’t want to do, by the way, unless you want a broken stick). This bashfulness is understandable, as my shirts live in a constant fear of being torn in twain if I so much as think about flexing. Heck, I was once told that I looked like Keanu Reeves ... and then I realized that they were referring to the other guy from “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure.” But the fact still remains that I look like a movie star—and I want to help you look like one, too.

Unfortunately, I cannot give individual attention to every last one of you and your exercise regimen (maybe a select few female volunteers?). I can, however, give you some tips and tricks that in the past have gotten me more buff than a newly scratched car. These tips mainly apply to the holiday season, since this is the time of year I find most people wind up eating half their body weight before even moving on to desserts and being least conducive to physical fitness with the temperature being negative ten degrees outside. I guess I should have written this before Thanksgiving ... oh well. You can apply it next year, fatty!

Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino promotes the holy trinity of lookin’ fresh as G.T.L.—gym, tanning and laundry. This is rubbish and only proves true my theory that he draws lines on his stomach with a magic marker to simulate abs. Gym? Ha. Tanning? Nope. Laundry? Let your mom do it. I submit to you that the true path to Herculeandom is B.O.D.—Black Friday, obnoxious attitude and Disney Princess gummy vitamins. (Also, mine actually spells out a word, so there.) Let me elaborate ...

So, you just spent half of Thanksgiving Day lapping the grease off of a glistening turkey leg and drinking gravy by the glass. That’s okay, but now we’ve got to burn off those calories, Lardo Calrissian! Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the year, is an excellent time to lose those unwanted pounds and also contribute to a failing economy. All you really need to do is grab a buggy and go. Nothing gets blood pumping and carbs a-burning like shoving old ladies out of the way to grab the last Blu-Ray player or Bratz doll. What’s that, an employee doesn’t appreciate your attitude? Rip your shirt off and show him who’s boss with your [fl]abs!

Now that you’ve worked all the fat out of your system or gotten liposuction or whatever, it’s time to build up that muscle mass. Did you know that all of your body’s muscles connect directly to your ego? This is why having big muscles correlates directly with being a jerk. So, the obvious way to build muscle is to build yourself up by being as obnoxious as possible.

The first thing I do every morning is kiss my muscles. Twice. This gives your body a sense of accomplishment and love before you’ve even hopped into the shower! Undoubtedly, your physique will respond by sculpting itself over the course of the day into a model of perfection.

Lastly, we need to keep that muscle—and keep it for good. This is where the Disney Princess Multivitamins come into play. These little puppies will fill your veins with electrolytes and minerals and other scientific stuff. The bottle says you need only take two a day, but you’re American and you can do what you want: eat ‘em all! I’m pretty sure you can’t overdose on the stuff, so go hog-wild!

Plus, they’re absolutely delicious. All the taste of gummy bears, twice the nutrition and only four times as embarrassing to eat in public. But who cares? If anybody brings your masculinity into question, roll up your sleeves, look them right in the eye and say, “I’d like for you to meet my friends, Belle and Jasmine.” Then politely curtsey and prance away to go have a tea party with the other princesses.

Follow this helpful guide and you’ll have all sorts of biceps in no time. Remember that for Christmas the ladies don’t want fruitcake; they want beefcake.

How I gave a concert pianist the clap

 I like to think that I have a healthy appreciation for all kinds of music. From electronica to acoustic rock, from mushy love songs to angry hateful ones, from Broadway musicals to hardcore gangsta rap, my tastes are as varied as my similes are bad. I’ve even recently begun getting into the underground indie-folk-dubstep-skacapella scene. I can always find something to enjoy in every genre, so as long as it’s not country.

Still, my unabashed love for Ke$ha and Lady Gaga may throw my preferences in doubt for the more sophisticated music connoisseurs out there. To prove that I do not have an inclination to always listen to horrific pop music, I make it a point to always name-drop various bands that “you’ve probably never heard of,” that may or may not even exist.

That’s why when an Artist Series involves a musical act, I go out of my way to be in attendance. What better way to boost my rep than to mingle and discuss internationally-renowned artists in a snobby British accent? One such occasion came with the performance of pianist Jerome Rose this past week, which was attended by anyone who is anyone. (Oh, you didn’t go? Well, it’s probably because you’re lame. I’m actually glad you didn’t, in fact.)

It is common knowledge that for every Artist Series students are encouraged to dress up like little kids on Easter morning. Now, I have something to confess: I have a rather peculiar puttin’-on-the-ritz routine. First, I take a two-hour shower (or until I use up all of Trustees’s hot water, whichever comes first) and then slide down the hall in only my underwear, socks, and dress shirt, at least two of which have Spider-Man on them. The next step is to put on way too much cologne and pick out a tie that doesn’t match. Lastly, I blast “Sharp Dressed Man” and dance until covered in sweat. Repeat.

Once I finished the sacred ritual, I was off to listen to the musical stylings of Mr. Rose. Dressed in my favorite vest and a yellow tie with pigs on it, I was feeling suave as could be. And, though my seat was practically in the back of the sophomore section, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the cage in the balcony I’m normally constrained to for chapel. This time, I could at least make out what gender the performer was.

Before I had time to wonder exactly how they rolled in a second one-ton grand piano, the virtuoso launched into “Rhapsody No. 1” of Op. 79 by Brahms (my second favorite, only behind the Bohemian one). He performed the piece in B-minor, which I guess is all right if you’re into that kind of thing. After a few minutes of beautiful pianistmanship, he played the piece to a close with unparalleled skill. The final chord was punctuated with booming applause and much anticipation for what was to come.

Upon finishing the rhapsodies, Rose calmly bowed and strode offstage and through the doors, only to return mere moments later. I like to think that he was just pumping himself up for the five-part piece that would be coming next, or perhaps scolding himself for almost thinking about playing one of the measures forte instead of fortissimo. Either way, he returned to more applause and excited whispers.

The following sonata, composed of several very Italian-sounding words, was flawless. Rose once again ended the song in dramatic fashion, whipping his hands away from the last notes and letting the tones ring out for a moment. After a few seconds, I realized that there was no applause. “Yes, this is my chance,” I thought. “I can be the clap-starter, me!” A full three or four seconds passed again, and I brought my hands together with a loud, meaty slap. “I did it; this one is mine!” Encouraged by my victory, I clapped my hands together a few more times with vigor. Then I heard a cricket chirp and a tumbleweed rolled in front of me. I was the only one applauding. To make things worse, Rose subtly brought his hand up as if to say, “Please, do you not know how this works?” I sank into my seat faster than the Titanic.

From that moment onward, whenever a song came to its conclusion, I sat on my hands and gritted my teeth. No longer would I be tempted to be the first one to clap, and I definitely wasn’t going to start the standing ovation. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you never, under any circumstances, celebrate.