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
Saturday, August 13, 2011
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.
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!”
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)