The View from the Tree

Sometimes, when I should be doing other assignments, I instead work on a little something I like to call The Great American Novel. I realize that thus far my blog has contributed nothing but mediocre humor and swear words, so if this small slice of literary amateurism offends any of my three followers, I apologize. Anyway, here's a passage, it's called The View from the Tree. Thank you and goodnight. 

I couldn’t show my face at the funeral because I’d killed her, but I went anyway. I had climbed up into a towering oak some few minutes after dawn and settled in amongst the branches that were thick enough to conceal me. Around eleven the sun was pinned high in the sky and shone brightly upon the dejected faces of my family. They were all there together but they all stood alone. Last summer at Paw-paw’s funeral Daddy and Uncle John had moved as one person, and they’d stayed by the grave all day with a fifth of Wild Turkey, talking and laughing and crying and remembering, but not today. Today they had all the space in the world in between them, and the boys were scattered on the hillside, and Ms. Andrea was alone, and Mama wasn’t even here. The destruction was gut-wrenching I just didn’t understand how it was my fault.

            But it was my fault. I knew because everyone told me.

            “How could you do this to me?” she’d said as she grasped her chest as if to keep it stitched together. “How?”

            I hadn’t said anything in response. I’d watched as her knees buckled and as she melted into the floorboards and struggled for air and it upset me, it slashed my heart, but the damage had been done and there was nothing more to say. On the ride to the hospital she’d sat in the passenger seat of the truck and cried. First she had sobbed so hard I thought she’d pass out. Then she’d screamed my name and asked why I’d done this to her. And the rest of the time she’d wept silently and stared at me through a mask of bewilderment, like she’d never even seen me before, and that was the most unsettling.

            It didn’t seem to matter that I’d cried tormented tears in the emergency room or next to her hospital bed. In that tiny square room crammed with people I had reached for her hand and she’d snatched it away, and everyone saw. Then as her heartbeats had grown farther and farther apart I’d whispered her name, and though I didn’t see it fit to apologize I’d said I was sorry that I hurt her. Her eyes had abandoned their glaze for just a moment in exchange for a stern clarity, and she’d looked me square in the face and said “Hurt me? Hurt me? You’ve killed me.” And everyone saw that, too.

            So I suppose it was true and I really had killed her, because she was dead in the ground and I was alone and in the tree. But there was still the rusty Chevrolet waiting in the gravel parking lot across the street. There was still the assurance that someone else wasn’t welcome here either, and that someone else didn’t understand why I was to blame, why it was my fault. There was still the assurance that someone else loved these people and hated this place as much as I did, and, like me, couldn’t possibly explain why we’d never be able to leave. There was still that. 

The American Boy Doll

When I was seven, all I wanted for Christmas was an American Girl Doll. You know, the dolls that come with a series of books describing their particular characters and correspond to a certain theme of American history. It was all the rage in the 90's, and I thought the doll named Samantha was a real bad-ass.

Aside from this, I was greatly influenced from by female cousins, with whom I would be spending Christmas morning. The grandchildren on my mom's side of the family consist of me, my brother, Trent, and our six girl cousins. Every single girl in the family was getting an American Girl Doll as their number one gift. I think after being caught in the middle of endless conversations about names, stories, accessories and absolutely no talk of sports, the estrogen took Trent down like a cold, black wind. Peer pressure will fuck you up.

Trent had just turned five at the time, and though he had a season of T-ball under his belt, there wasn't a whole lot he could do to assert his masculinity at the time. This didn't make my father's face cringe any less when Trent told my parents that he, too, wanted an American Girl Doll for Christmas.

My dad tried his hardest to shut this operation down from the very beginning, but as a man, you are perpetually at the mercy of your wife, and my mom had the final ruling. Now it was just a matter of logistics. I'm sure my mom sat in her desk chair for many hours with the phrase "How do we prevent this from being the gayest Christmas ever?" replaying in her mind. As it turned out, I don't think receiving Brokeback Mountain in his stocking could have made this a fruitier holiday for my brother. Here's why.

Nana, my maternal grandmother, was more than on board with Trent's wishes to be like everybody else in the family, and grabbed the bull by the horns. She purchased Molly, the doll whose character was closest to a tomboy (but still wore braided pigtails) and took the inanimate object to the beauty salon, where the two of them proceeded to get their hair done together like old friends. When Molly came home, she looked like a little boy with short, brown hair to compliment the long, thick eye-lashes and fully-developed breasts. I'm kidding about the breasts. The dolls are pre-pubescent.

Ah, but what to wear? It would do no good for Molly to wear dresses and jumpers with her new short hair cut, unless she were imitating Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. No worries, my paternal grandmother was all over it. A talented seamstress of many years, she made several "boy" outfits for Molly to wear- jeans, slacks, button-down shirts, the works. As far as looks were concerned, Molly was officially a female-to-male tranny.

Molly didn't get any accessories, but that wasn't really a problem. The only accessories I had requested for Samantha were food-related, and food knows no gender, so that was covered.

Though I was only seven, I understood perfectly well that the fact my brother was opening anything other than a truck or a ball on Christmas morning was worth everyone's attention, and the fact that his present made a trip to the beauty salon with my grandmother before it was wrapped was nothing short of hilarious. My dad actually left the room when we all opened our presents. My mom was pissed, but it was probably for the best.

Trent is twenty-one and in the Air Force now, and there is no questioning his preference for the female population. I guess childhood toys really don't make you or break you. However, this will in no way stop me from giving my brother a Barbie next Christmas, even if it's just to see the look on my dad's face.

Restaurants: The Way, the Truth and the Light

If you've ever seen the movie Waiting, you probably think it's a fairly accurate but very exaggerated portrayal of what it's like to work in a restaurant. Allow me to clear this up for you. This movie portrays exactly what it's like to work in a restaurant. This may be frightening, but it's true. Working in any facet of the customer service industry is a worthwhile experience, but none more so than in a restaurant; it is humbling, degrading, infuriating, and highly motivating, as it will make you hate your life so much that a fire will magically appear beneath your ass and propel you into the world of ambition.

At least that's what I took away from being a server for a year and a half. I worked at an establishment called Mimi's Cafe which served breakfast, lunch and dinner by the Mall of Georgia. The time I spent there was absolutely invaluable- in the most debaucherous way possible. The thing is, working in this type of environment really does force you to take a close look at your life and most likely reevaluate everything you're doing, but before this moment of epiphany occurs, it's extremely easy to get sucked into the restaurant lifestyle. And, at least for a while, it's pretty freakin' awesome.

It doesn't take long to realize there are certain facts that are true of every restaurant in which the main entrées cost less than $20. For instance, you can be sure that 75% of the employees smoke cigarettes. You can be sure that at least a handful of the employees have drugs in their vehicles, and, without fail, at least one employee has drugs on their person. Also, you can be certain that someone will ask you for a ride home, whether you've worked there for six months or one day. You can be sure that one of the managers is having an affair with one of the servers, that the female bartender has a tattoo, and that there is a bar less than a mile down the street at which 80% of your co-workers will get shit-faced after every shift. Oh, and just like in Waiting, every restaurant has a game.

When I started working at Mimi's it was a new restaurant, and a game had not yet been established. I suggested F.M.K., or Fuck, Marry, Kill. So, for instance, I would say "Brad Pitt, Paul Walker, and Prince Harry" and the other person would have to assign one of these men to each category. It first it was just something to pass the time, but things escalated quickly. The game was spreading like wildfire, and the best part was creating F.M.K.'s that featured fellow co-workers in the worst possible combinations we could think of. It was just the servers at first, but then the bartenders wanted in, and before long, the assistant managers were in on the action, too.

Once, the general manager held a meeting in which my little game was explicitly discussed. It had become controversial since we were including the names of other employees and some people had grown a bit upset, being objectified and all. But, after much deliberation, the GM ruled that the game was great for employee morale and that it was more beneficial than harmful. That's right- a game where you demean the integrity of every single person with whom you work- was decidedly a great thing.

Fun as it is spending all your time with people who don't give a fuck, it does eventually grow tiresome. You can only walk around in a cloud of pot smoke for so long before going into a coughing fit and hocking a loogie into a customer's corn chowder, and believe me, this really puts things in perspective. On the bright side, you won't leave the restaurant business empty-handed; you will leave with determination, a sense of purpose, meaningful, lifelong connections with nefarious characters, and a shit-ton of one-dollar bills.

The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia

If for the rest of your life you could only watch one movie, choose The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia. It's the best decision you'll ever make.

This is a documentary made by Dickhouse productions, which you may or may not recognize as the creator of Jackass. It follows the White family of West Virginia for one year, and the footage will entertain you, blow your mind, make you want to visit Boone County, and quite possibly make you curl up in the fetal position.

The family tree provides an accurate outline of the cast, who are all descendants of Bertie Mae and D. Ray White. This family is a product of the Appalachian Mountain (coal-mining) culture, and they single-handedly account for the majority of the county's crime. Almost every member of the family receives a monthly government check of some variety, or "crazy checks", as the Whites say. They don't work; they drink, fight, and do/sell every pain killer you can imagine. In fact, one of the characters actually shakes a prescription pill bottle in his hand and calls the sound the "Boone County mating call."

Let me give you an idea of what goes on in this family. Kirk, a grown woman who is probably twenty years younger than she looks, is pregnant and gives birth during the shooting of the film. The day after she delivers, while her baby sleeps next to her in the hospital room, she crushes up and snorts lines of pain killers with her friend, and then proclaims that her baby girl will be the next Miss Universe. Oh, and Kirk's shocked and appalled when Child Protective Services takes the kid away from her. This is just the tip of the iceberg.

This is obviously disturbing and at times inconceivable, but there is something about this family that draws you in; an intangible charm and a desire to know them, to figure them out. Their antics, and even more so, their proclamations, are so absurd and over the top that you can't help but be amused. They are all so delirious from drugs that even adventures as mundane as the Taco Bell drive-through become hilarious. Complications arise when one character, Sue Bob, tries to order "fiestas" and mozzarella cheese sticks, then shouts an entire conversation about Child Protective Services at some acquaintances through the glass window.

If you're still not convinced, I'll leave you with a quote from Jesco White:

"I took the butcher knife and put it up to her neck. And I said, 'If you wanna live to see tomorrow, you better start fryin' up them eggs a little bit better than what you been fryin' them'."

Believe me, you won't regret it.

http://www.wildandwonderfulwhites.com/trailer/

Kicking the Habit

It's no secret that girl-on-girl action has grown increasingly popular. I think it was Britney and Madonna's VMA performance that first sparked the action, and Katy Perry's catchy little number that solidified the trend as mainstream. In a college town, especially, you can walk into any bar on a Saturday night and witness straight girls making out with each other.

Surely girls have a variety of reasons for engaging in such behavior. Some do it to impress guys, some do it because it's the thing to do, some because they actually enjoy it. For my friends, this sort of activity has been going on for quite some time. At the beginning of high school we discovered that kissing was fun, at the end of high school we discovered that drinking alcohol was fun, and in college we put the two together. My group of pals is predominantly straight and we usually have a fairly steady flow of men around, so the fact that we're approaching twenty-three and still making out with other constantly hasn't seemed like that big of a deal, but maybe it should. I mean, at what point do we call it quits? What happens when our environment evolves but our inappropriate behavior doesn't? Looking into my crystal ball, I am seeing the potential for some highly awkward social situations in the future.

Example 1: Once you hit twenty-one, it becomes more common and acceptable to drink at family functions. And, once you're an "adult", it's typical for the worlds of relatives and friends to intersect. Let's say I'm at my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary and I've got a super buzz going. Uncle Johnny accompanies his toast with a beautiful speech honoring five decades of faithful, heterosexual love. Everyone raises a glass, and when Grandpa gives Grandma a sweet, delicate peck on the lips, I turn to the right and devour the mouth of my best friend, who is sitting next to me, and also hammered. The next thing I know, everyone is screaming, Grandma has fainted, there is a hand print stuck to my cheek from where my mother slapped me, and the overly pious Aunt Debbie is dousing me with holy water.

Example 2: Perhaps by some unforeseen miracle I have determined myself capable of a commitment longer than twenty minutes and decide to get married. Family and friends are in attendance, of course, and the ceremony is just lovely. The whiskey I downed to calm my nerves has worn off, and I'm not about to watch everyone else drink the champagne my parents paid for, so I drink a couple flutes. Suddenly it doesn't matter that my brand new husband is nowhere to be found, because two of my bridesmaids are waving at me seductively across the reception hall. A few minutes pass before all of the guests start to wonder what happened to the bride. Two hours later, my husband finds me in a coat closet with my hair disheveled and lipstick smeared all over my face and asks if he should start searching for a job in Utah.

Example 3: I am married with kids. My son, who will obviously be a phenomenal athlete, just finished his first season of little league football, and my family and I are at his team's pool party. I've befriended a few of the other players' moms, specifically the ones who still enjoy beer as much as I do, and we hit the cooler pretty hard. Before you know it, I'm in the deep end playing tongue-hockey with the coach's wife while the other parents gasp and frantically shield their kids' eyes.

These examples are just off the top of my head, and simply imagining the awkwardness of each one makes me grimace. I don't think my high school or college behavior has been wildly inappropriate, but I'm fairly certain the frequency of same-sex make-outs are expected to fizzle by your early twenties. The trouble seems to always stem from alcohol, so if I cut out the drinking, it should be a piece of cake. Unfortunately I love drinking, and I've never been a fan of cake.

The Stakeout

My father, Tim, like most red-blooded, Southern men, is a die-hard sports fan. He enjoys watching most athletic events- football, basketball, golf, you name it- but baseball has always been his passion. Tim played through childhood, high school, and even did a brief stint in the minors. However, that shit is competitive, so instead of pursuing his own field of dreams my dad went to college, started a family, and became a ballin'-ass salesman.

He's in his mid-fifties now and past his prime- and by prime I mean nothing more than running from home plate to first in under a minute- but he plays in a men's baseball league (fastpitch, none of that church league crap) and his commitment to watching the Braves rivals the one he made to my mother on their wedding day. I suppose it's to be expected that merely becoming an adulthood and having kids does not mean abandoning your personal hobbies, but rather equates to projecting these hobbies onto your offspring. This is exactly what my dad did with me and my younger brother, Trent.

Before I fully embark on telling this story, let me set the scene. It's important to understand just how seriously Tim takes baseball. I knew what the infield fly rule was before I could write my name, and my name only has six letters. When I was in preschool and my dad came home from work in the evenings, he'd have Trent and I fielding grounders, and at the dinner table, my mom would roll her eyes and groan as Dad quizzed us with MLB trivia. Trent and I started playing rec-league baseball (softball for me, unfortunately) at age five. Trent played until he was fourteen, and my dad coached him every single season. Oh, and now, as I am twenty-three years old, I receive a text every year in the middle of February that says, "Pitchers and catchers report" in reference to to start of spring training. So that's what we're dealing with.

When my brother was six- that's right, six- his T-ball team went 18-0. Under Coach Tim, they had a perfect season, which had never before happened at George Pierce Park. This is ridiculous, because it's T-ball, but still impressive, because they went undefeated, and the record-breaking season put my dad's coaching skills on the baseball community's radar. He kept coaching and his teams kept winning. As Trent grew older, the games grew more competitive, and my dad began to gain a new reputation. To date, my father holds the record for most rec-league ejections at George Pierce Park. If Bobby Cox weren't a man, he and my dad would be a couple. Okay, if Bobby Cox weren't married he and my dad would be a couple.

So, one particular argument with an umpire landed my dad a one-game suspension on top of his ejection from the rest of that game. This infuriated him, as the next game, the one from which he was banned, was the first round of the play-offs. Not only were my brother and his teammates in high school, the team was also stocked with two assistant coaches (my dad's friends). Would it really make a lick of difference if the head coach misses the game? We'll never know.

An hour before the game began, my mom and I drove to the very back of the park where the adult softball fields were located. This was about a mile and a half from the field where my brother's game was, and this is where we dropped off my dad. He was dressed in camouflage from head to toe. He told us to "act natural" and that he would see us after the game.

Just before the game started, Ken, the assistant coach, approached the umpire, who was a friend of my dad's and was thoroughly amused by his heated antics, to give him the batting line-up. The umpire scanned the field and said, "I know Tim's out there somewhere. I can feel it." He was right. My dad spent the entire two hours hiding out the the woods behind the field, watching every single play. Not only this, but he actually called both assistant coaches from his cell phone, advising them of adjustments that needed to be made throughout the game. When they stopped answering, he called the team mom (who was drinking margaritas) repeatedly until she hung up on him.

Luckily, Trent's team won the game 5-0. Who knows why they played so well? It could have been that they were pumped up knowing their coach was watching and expecting great things from them, and it just as easily could have been that the other team played like shit. All I know is when we drove to the other end of the park, my dad sat waiting for us on the sidewalk- dripping with sweat, covered in pine straw, and bearing scratches on his arm, muttering that he hated squirrels.

Brits Have More Fun

Attention, American men with questionable morals, for in my palm lies your golden ticket. For those of you who possess too much integrity to resort to roofies, but not enough to snub the more moderate arts of deception, the solution is quite simple: get yourself a British accent. Yes, I know it sounds incredibly lame, reprehensible and unpatriotic, but rest assured- the effectiveness of this strategy vastly outweighs the ridicule you’ll receive from your accent-less friends. Now I can’t speak on the success rates of foreign intonations across the board, but recent observations from my English poetry class have been nothing short of astounding. Let me explain.

This class is comprised of about 30 students, and the gender ratio is evenly proportioned. As far as I can tell, everybody falls in the category of your typical English major at a public university: overly analytical, unnecessarily angsty, and for the most part, too self-loathing to notice anyone else around them. But this kid…this one gangly, glasses-wearing, subpar-looking British kid has broken the spell, and I desperately want to uncover the mystery.

You see, the syllabus says that discussion is “required” in the class, but it is not technically calculated into the final grade, so I personally take this to mean “zone out and contribute absolutely nothing”. I assumed that most everyone else was on the same page, except for the five or six token know-it-alls who strangely do not have the attention span of a five-year-old, so I guess that’s why it came as a surprise when I realized other people were actually not laying on their desks in puddles of their own drool. You’re probably thinking I noticed this phenomenon upon hearing the British kid- to whom I will apply the stereotypical alias of “Nigel”- but you are wrong. The first time it came to my attention, I was literally startled by the sound of fourteen or fifteen females turning 180’s in their desks to face the back of the classroom. The creaking wood and the shifting feet and the ruffling papers were noisy enough to wake me from my slumber, and all because Nigel had merely opened his mouth.

Nigel quickly proved himself to be one of those attention-span-haver’s I mentioned earlier, so I knew that my daydreams of rainbows and fruit roll-ups would continue to be disrupted and decided to make the best of the situation. I began to observe Nigel and his influence over these ogling young women in every class period, digging for answers. After about a month of this, a few things became apparent.

First of all, Nigel is no T.S. Eliot. Sure, he is competent and for the most part on track with his remarks, but his intellectual donations are by no means impressive, and could be made by any schmuck who read a Dickinson poem in high school. I’ve even matched up Nigel’s talking points to that of a purebred American boy, who we’ll call Bobby, to see how the two compare. Nigel’s ramblings are average and superfluous, while Bobby’s are deeply organized and thought-provoking- not to mention Bobby is, by leaps and bounds and absolutely no nationalist bias, the most attractive male specimen in the class. It doesn’t matter, though. The ladies show no response to Bobby’s palpable charm and scholarly input, as they are too busy swooning at every syllable which courses from Nigel’s beak.

Secondly, I don’t believe in love at first sight, but love at first sound is alive and well. One of my fellow female classmates, Christy, is showing all of the symptoms- and this is no mild case of sheer infatuation. Everybody knows the countenance of a person in love; it’s blissful, it’s elated, it’s nauseating, and it’s invading Christy’s face. Poor girl, her passion for Nigel is already taking a negative toll on her in-class performance. Two days ago when she swirled around to look at him speak she knocked the books off her desk and sent papers flying across the floor- highly embarrassing for her, highly entertaining for me. Then, yesterday, I overheard her telling a friend that she got a D minus on our midterm essay. If I may say so myself, anything below a solid B in this class is the direct result of being in love with a British classmate.

Third, Nigel has a girlfriend; she is gorgeous, she is American, and she is also in the class. I don’t know why, but they kept their PDA hidden for a few weeks, and now waltz in hand-in-hand every day, flaunting their relationship for the world to see. From the consistent array of striking glances it’s clear that all of the girls hate Nigel’s girlfriend, and all of the guys hate Nigel and his false cultural pretenses. I think Nigel’s lady friend had an evil plan. They waited- waited until each and every female, at least those who remain conscious, fell head-over-heels for Nigel just by listening to him speak, until Christy’s grades began to plummet, until he became the best thing to happen to the act of interpreting literature, and then they yanked the rug out from under us. They are now the disgustingly perfect, unattainable power couple of English poetry. But that’s neither here nor there.

To verify my findings I interviewed my 20-year-old neighbor, Abby, simply asking her how men with accents differ from those without them, and this is what she told me:

“I made out with an ugly American boy once, and I was grossed out after. On the other hand, I made out with an ugly British boy once, and I was completely fine with it.”

There you have it.

The point is, for the fellas at least, a valuable lesson can be learned from Nigel. It doesn’t matter if you’re pale, frail and physically unattractive.  It doesn’t matter if, in addition to being unattractive, you have average-at-best intellectual capabilities and minimal game. It doesn’t matter if you use Axe body wash. You don’t need those things that other men have. All you need is to walk softly and carry a British accent, and believe me, the panties will drop. 

Plan B

Ah, emergency contraceptives. We've all been there. Not really, but I feel better lumping all of humanity into the world of poorly-planned premarital sex together. The truth is most young adults out there have probably not used the Plan B pill, but in a college town, the statistics are overwhelmingly comical.

Let me paint this picture for you.

It's Sunday, October 10th, 2010. That Saturday was a home football game in Athens against the University of Tennessee. Drinking commenced at 8 am that morning and did not cease until 2 am on the Sabbath. Oh, and Georgia won. To say you made bad decisions, well, that would be the understatement of the century. So you wake up in a fog wearing an A.J. Green jersey with no panties and ask the vaguely familiar individual in your bed what happened. The two of you attempt to piece things together, he asks if you want to talk about it over breakfast at Waffle House, you say "get out of my apartment", and he hands you forty bucks in fives and ones.

You proceed to text all of your roommates, who are all strewn about the same apartment and within twelve feet of you, until one of them drunkenly agrees to accompany you to CVS. On the drive across town, your roommate asks if he used a condom. You say no. She asks why, and you say you don't remember, but you guess it's because he didn't have one. She asks why you don't keep some extras stored in your nightstand. You glare at her, offended, and say, "What am I, a whore?" And then you go into CVS to abort your baby.

The woman behind the counter says she's sorry, but they have run out of Plan B. The drugstore has RUN OUT OF PLAN B. Supply and demand, folks, supply and demand. As much as this initially terrifies you, it simultaneously puts things in perspective. So many other college kids behaved just as shamefully, if not more, than you did on Saturday night that there are not enough contraceptives to go around. Needless to say, on game day weekends in the SEC, Plan B is Plan A. But this makes you feel better. You and your roommate leave CVS with candy bars, three bags of Cheetos and a giant slurpy, bragging that if Britney Spears can raise a child, by God so can you.

And then you go to Rite Aid in the next county over and invest the most important $50 of your life. True story.

There have been some pretty heated debates over whether the Plan B pill is actually abortion. Whether you're pro-life or pro-choice there's enough mixed opinions out there to support either side. Personally, though, I like to think emergency contraceptives are not abortion, they're just bad execution. Consider the following sports analogy:

You know those times in basketball where you deliberate too long about whether to shoot or to pass, and when you finally release the ball from your hands its a hideous combination of the two that just flies awkwardly through the air at neither the basket nor your teammates? Well, in these moments, you have a choice to make. If you simply allow nature to take its course, the ball is going to be recovered by someone on the opposing team, and they will run down the court and score. However, as long as you acknowledge your mistake immediately, and sprint to catch the ball that you just hurled into the air before it hits the ground, the game is salvaged. Sure, you're going to get called for a traveling violation and the other team will get the ball, but it's okay, because you and your teammates will be prepared and have time to set up on defense. If and when the opposing team does score again, you will be ready, and hopefully in a committed relationship.

Coffee: Easier Said Than Done

        Perhaps the greatest thing about morning classes is that you never have to attend them hungover, you simply attend them drunk. For some people, the last thing they want to do is get up after a week night of excessive drinking and go to school. For me, though, it's far more enjoyable to face the day's academic challenges if you've still got a buzz going. Think about it. You'll make friends with other students you previously acknowledged as nothing more than blank faces. You'll be super enthused by every point of your professors' lectures, and say things like "right on!" when you agree. You'll chat up the hot brunette that clear-headed you was far too intimidated to creepily tap on the shoulder. Overall, going to school with a fuzzy brain and minimal motor skills is far superior to, well, sobriety. The hardest part is simply getting there, which brings me to my anecdote.
       It was ten o'clock on Friday morning, and I was hammered. Thursday is $1 margarita night at El Patron, and coincidentally, $1 beer night at a bar downtown. Like I said, it was ten, and I was hammered. I'm twenty-three and in college, so naturally the looming anticipation of piping, delicious coffee is the only thing that gets me out of bed. I got up, dazed and confused, and stammered into the kitchen. I guess tequila promotes ambition along with promiscuity, because not only did I plan to make coffee, but I decided to make it a mocha. That's right, I set the bar high. And then fall miserably short of it.
       I had coffee grounds, an easy-to-use coffee maker, instant hot chocolate powder, and somewhere between six and eight brain cells. Looking back, this should have been a sure thing. The hot chocolate was instant, for God's sake, and all I needed to do was add it to the coffee while it was nice and scalding. But as we all know, a sure thing doesn't exist. So I poured the hot chocolate powder on top of the coffee grounds in the filter and pressed start.
       About ten minutes of me stumbling through my room fiddling with various articles of clothing passed before I returned to the kitchen. To my immense disappointment, I found a thick cloud of steam, a disgusting, overflowing filter and a pot filled with half a cup of what looked like the Swamp Thing's bath water. I took a sip anyway. I gagged. I made another pot- strictly coffee this time.
       Somehow I had managed to dress myself, inhale a granola bar and brush my teeth in just enough time to head out for the bus. All I needed was my coffee to accompany me. Clearly it would have been far too easy of a day if there had been clean thermoses in the cabinet, so I cheerfully resorted to Plan B, which was a red Dixie cup. This alternative actually seemed rather appropriate, as now my drinking accessory perfectly matched my Blood Alcohol Content. But looks aren't everything.
       The plastic cup was scalding hot- thank God I had little to no feeling in my extremities when I first tried to pick it up. OK, this was a problem. I quickly reviewed the facts of which I was completely sure: I had to leave. I had to leave right at that moment.  The coffee was too hot to carry. I could not leave without my coffee. Alright, no problem. My next move was to apply simple, good old-fashioned logic. My coffee was too hot, so I needed to cool it off. Easy, right? I put the Dixie cup of coffee in the microwave. That's right, the microwave. You're probably wondering what button I pressed. It was Defrost.
       The coffee was hotter, the cup was deformed and the kitchen smelled like cancer. I poured the coffee into a different Dixie cup and ran out the door, beginning to feel a bit defeated at this point. It was obviously raining profusely, and I was a hot mess trying to gulp down as much caffeine as I could without drowning or scorching my throat. I knocked out half the cup on the way to the bus, but decided there was too much remaining liquid to waste. Weeks later I still couldn't tell you why I didn't just take the coffee on the bus with me, especially when such momentous drunken effort went into making it. It just seemed...wrong. But I refused to let the day oppress me, so I devised a plan to outsmart the weather. I hid my half-filled Dixie cup beneath a Toyota Four-Runner, tucked safely behind the back tire. After class I'd walk back through that parking lot and finish my drink, and it would be delightful.
       I went to class, rode the bus home, and walked back through the parking lot. The Four-Runner was gone and the Dixie cup was a pathetic crumpled piece of plastic getting pummeled by rain. So much for delightful. Oh, and I puked on the bus.
       So yeah, if you've got the choice, go to school wasted. And take a thermos.


  




       

The Brief and Wondrous Speech of Junot Diaz

       Last Wednesday I did something a bit out of character for myself: I got involved. The UGA English Department brought Pulitzer-prize winning author Junot Diaz to speak at the chapel, and I am so happy I forced myself to go.
       I read Diaz's novel The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao last fall in American Lit, and thoroughly enjoyed it. The book is fascinating in its palpable presentation of intermingling cultures, as the young protagonist (like Diaz) is a Dominican immigrant growing up in New Jersey. Diaz is a bit of a young gun on the literary scene and I really had no idea what to expect from his visit to campus, but he kind of blew me away.
       He did two brief readings, one from a short story and one from Oscar Wao, and spent the rest of the time on Q&A with the crowd. Obviously you assume writers to be somewhat articulate speakers, but I've never seen anyone tackle every answer with such ease and fluidity when put on the spot. He was far more impressive than politicians. The very first question he was asked launched a full-fledged discussion about the nature of art, and Diaz's response was so enlightened that I want to share a few quotes.

''Art challenges the church's authority. If not viewed through a religious prism, art allows people to view the world in a way that would make it very hard to be pushed around by any institution.''

''In a capitalist society, the artist is the first to be thrown off the row boat when the going gets bad.''

And my personal favorite:

''There is no novel that does not have deep within its belly the exact opposite point that the artist is arguing.''

In so many words, Junot Diaz is brilliant. His views on society and art gave me a new perspective. I'm only sorry my lazy ass hasn't attended more campus events the past couple years, but now I know I've been missing.