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!”