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.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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