The hour badly spent

The Manhattan Board of Commissioners voted on that smoking ban. They chose to spite me and my prediction by rejecting the ban, but I’m not taking it personally. Justin Nutter broke it down for us in the Collegian.

The commission gathered for a special meeting at 7 p.m. Tuesday to discuss the ordinance. City Attorney Bill Frost opened the meeting by discussing the possible outcomes.
“We essentially have one of two options,” Frost said. “We can elect to pass the ordinance as it was submitted, or we can pass a resolution to submit the ordinance to a vote on the Nov. 4 ballot.”
Frost said the ordinance did not appear to contain any legal issues in its presented form.
“From what we can tell, there are no constitutional concerns with the ordinance the way it was proposed,” he said.

Umm, parliamentary procedure? Servicey, I guess. But it gets better. After local resident Stan Watt outlined the bill to the Commissioners, Manhattanite Dee Ross expressed disapproval of the proposal.

“How dare you look a soldier or veteran in the face and tell him thank you for his service to this country,” Ross said. “When you say the Pledge of Allegiance, do you forget to say ‘With liberty and justice for all?’” Ross appeared to become increasingly upset as he spoke, and he ended with a gesture that sent the audience into a buzz.
“Let me end by giving you socialist fascists the New York salute you deserve,” said Ross as he waved his middle finger in the air [ed. note: Oh snap!].
The ordinance failed in a 2-3 vote by the commissioners.

The other day I waxed romantic about how indifferent I am on this issue. But I’ve had a total change of heart. This guy is awesome. He’s basically the Marlboro Man, and I’m joining his militia. It’ll be me and Barack Obama’s white siblings, all dressed like Launch Pad McQuack. During the day we’d use Dee Ross’s WWII pistols to shoot down illegal immigrants. At night we’d cook their remains over a bonfire on the prarie.

"I loooove Mexican," I’d say, wiping my sleeve across my mouth.

"Well then eat up, son," he’d chuckle. "No sissy food; no sissy portions."

[source: K-State Collegian]

Silver Bullet’s friend Andy is in at least one band, and last night they played at the Malibu Inn (it’s not an actual inn). We picked up Andy’s sister Greta and made the trek up Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu.

The first act was acoustic; skinny black guy — Emory Davis — and his guitar. A girl chimed in for some duets. I liked her voice — it was operatic — but when she wasn’t singing, which was most of the time, she just sort of sat there. Greta was even more annoyed than I.

Gretta’s Jetta: Didn’t he say "she sings like an angel?"
Silver Bullet:   Apparently angels only sing falsetto.
Silver Bullet:   I don’t know about guys in those low-cut V-neck shirts. It disturbs me.

They finished up and a team got the stage ready for the next band. A guy who looked like Jesus fiddled with some equipment then said "check one check two" into the mic, repeating this about ten times. "All sound guys look alike," Greta said.

After that, Andy’s band — Echo Division — hit the stage.

"I saw them at the Light House a few weeks ago and they were trying to be all pop-ish," Silver Bullet said. "It wasn’t working. They’re ten times better tonight."

True to form, I wasn’t impressed. They sounded kind of dull and the lead singer had this Dylanesque wheezey thing going on.

After a while even Andy started getting bored on the stage, because near the end of their set he started flashing gang signs. Then it was another band’s turn.

"Does anyone know who John Hinckley is?"

The name sounds familiar, but the category I picked tonight was "music for $10" and not "I know something you don’t" so maybe we could get on with the music thing. Hey, just for kicks, why don’t you go ahead and tell us who he is, lead singer? Thanks! Servicey!

Apparently, he shot Ronald Reagan so that Jodie Foster would notice him! It was love! Love drives us mad! That’s what the next song is about! Thanks professor; the lecture was much better than your music. Zing!

"I think these are all church bands," Silver Bullet said.

Makes sense. They all sound like Jars of Clay. You ever hear a rock band in church? They’ve got a captive audience, so they just keep going and going and going with the same languid Guitar Solo Of The Lord until you are begging, begging for the chance to sit down and hear a sermon.

I actually liked the next band. Andy was the drummer in this one. They were loud and upbeat. Then the lead singer wanted to, like, talk to us.

"Who here knows who John Calvin is?"

What is it with these nerdy musicians and their pop quizzes tonight?

Actually, he never explained who John Calvin is; only that "I’m a geek and I write songs about theology." Wankerish, but the music wasn’t bad, although it did not succeed with the stated goal of establishing the moral authority of the church. But this was a tough crowd for that anyway. It’s Malibu! We passed a Scientology church stronghold down the street on the way here.

We just found a new way to stalk you on Facebook. And "you" know exactly who we mean, COUGHCOUGH*sexycommunistspy*COUGHCOUGHCOUGH. Apparently, if you go to the search box and hit the [down] key update: hit the [period] key — Gawker.com), you get a list of five people. Who are they? The following prowlerey theories are circulating.

• five people you’ve searched for the most.
• five people who have searched for you the most.
• five most recent people who have searched for you. Juicy! (we probably show up for The Grey Lady, Saucy Aussie, Princess Glitter Bunny, and Atomic Fireball Candy, and that girl you all thought we would hook up with the other night but didn’t. Did we leave anyone out?).
• five people Facebook thinks you like. We could be wrong, but based on some tinkering and some guesswork, we think they use the following snippet of basic fucking arithmetic to figure this out:

Of course, that’s pure speculation. Just, umm, make sure you throw (= 5) somewhere up in there. Calculus is whatever we want it to be.

Go ahead and scope out ours, just for shits and giggles.

Who’s in your five?

Over Xmas break I worked for this lady — a professional screenwriter — doing odd errands for her and getting no pay in return, a relationship known as an "internship." I thought it might be nice to get the experience of being around an experienced writer blah blah blah, but the more she talked — and she loved to namedrop — the more I realized she was a self-centered drama queen. This weekend I got a Facebook message from her. Things like this make me avoid Facebook.

1. I took A DAY (OMG!) to respond because (A) I had shit to do, and (B) I didn’t feel like resolving a 40-ish-year-old woman’s ‘crisis.’ Since she’s messaging me on Facebook, she must have seen my status update: "I just don’t give a shit." I really don’t.
2. "Negro?" I know we’re both black and therefore we have that unspoken camaraderie that enables us a certain familiarity. Nonetheless, not even my own mother talks to me that way, and you don’t know me like that.

The reason I addressed her like that is because when a boss is acting like a childish wanker (did I use it right that time?), said boss should have his or her twittery vomited back with a clear explanation as to why it’s coming. As a bonus, I like to throw in a middle finger.

And I wasn’t kidding about the apartment thing. She called me one Sunday afternoon, from Los Angeles, while I’m in Manhattan Kansas — which she knew — and told me she wanted me to find her an apartment by Monday morning. The reason? She had a psycho roommate (her 2nd or 3rd this year — I don’t bother keeping track) and COULDN’T TAKE IT ANY MORE and somehow this was suddenly my problem too.

Part of being a grown-up is learning how to negotiate with the people around you, instead of throwing a shitfit when someone takes a sip of your orange juice or smokes your weed. Right?

See? We’re getting her GOOD SIDE here. Don’t you feel lucky? In her defense, she really did endure a severe personal tragedy last year. Which had absolutely nothing to do with me.

It’s tangential, but this conversation reminds me of an episode of Blind Date I saw years ago. A guy from New York was on with a girl from a small Texas town. The texan was superhot, not a ditz, and she seemed to be putting some effort into the outing. The New York asshat wasn’t having any of it. The whole time, he was all "It’s just that you’re from this small town, where everyone’s so narrow-minded. I’m from New York, where there’s so much going on, so many people from so many different cultures, and it’s really broadened my horizons. Blah blah blah blah, New York is soooo great but your podunk town sucks, ipso facto, you suck and always will." The irony was not lost on the Texan, who kept going "Well, what do you mean? How can I make this date better?"

Of course he couldn’t say what he meant, so I will. "Broadening horizons" doesn’t actually give you a deeper understanding of other people; it just makes you more condescending toward them. In New York, you don’t mix with other cultures. You mix with New York culture. So here’s the question: what is it, exactly, about the Big Apple, that brings out the douchiest in people? That is, of course, rhetorical; I don’t give a shit.

In my crackpot bid to merge my soul with the id of the English department, I started documenting the heroic exploits of the department’s all-stars in a faux tabloidish style on this blog. To my surprise, my wildly inaccurate portrayals of their wit, as well as the gratuitous vagina jokes, have been found and re-googled by some of their subjects (Here’s the drum: whenever you visit The Hour Badly Spent, my site metrics page shows me what search terms you used to find me).

The Saucy Aussie insists - in a funny accent, of course - that I’m upping her street cred, because in truth she is extremely prim and proper, not "tart as a nipple-shaped jawbreaker," as I may have suggested in various bathroom-stall etchings throughout town. Nevertheless, I can’t help but imagine that these hyper-literate googlers get together and peek at the screen over each others’ shoulders and do to my blog exactly what I do to the Collegian - scoff with derisive indignation (No fair! You guys know I can dish it out but I can’t take it), except the bonza English professors probably do it better than me because they use words like trope and metatextual, and I’m deadcert Anne Longmuir likes to make obnoxious literary puns and everyone else has to awkwardly play along like they get the reference.

Anyway, just saying, if you’re going to squiz me regularly, it might be prudent to bookmark The Hour Badly Spent or add it to your RSS reader. That way I won’t see the Google searches on my site metrics page and won’t know it’s you. If, however, you would like for me to know for sure that you’ve been by, feel free to comment the living shit out of this beehotch. Ideally, your responses would consist of:

• backhanded remarks about my personal hygiene.
• wild exaggerations of my sexual prowess.
• well-deserved umbrage whenever I post something stridently offensive or wrong or unfunny or off-limits or just plain too prolix. Fair dinkum?
• witty and pretentious English-majorey jokes as they relate to the post at hand. Because I, too, would like to dust off my L’écriture et la Différence and undo the chain of logocentric binary oppositions that characterize Western thought, but I can’t do it alone. It’s really hard.

Let us be clear on a few things I like. A lot:

1. enormous swank apartments.
2. travelling abroad.
3. kitschy Asian products.
4. food.

1. kids with enormous swank apartments.
2. kids who have travelled abroad.
3. kids with kitschy Asian products.
4. musicians.

Such was my dilemma, at a Saturday evening birthday party, in a massive swank apartment occupied by Daniel, Andrew - a guitarist with a huge wound on his elbow; the Spy; the Man Who Travels With the Spy; assorted acquaintances dressed up like flags, and of course, various Asian tchatchkes: a sushi kit, lacquered chopsticks, and scary Japanese desserts.

"It’s so vaginal," said Andrew, introducing everyone to his elbow slit.

In Russia, vagina wound YOU!

I didn’t really say that. Actually I don’t even know what a vagina looks like.

The food was still being prepared and the kitchen looked like the set of Iron Chef. I feel weird in other peoples’ kitchens; I want to help with the slicing and cooking, etc, but I don’t know where anything is and would probably just look inept (actually I really am inept!), so instead I stay out of the way and just knock back the beer someone offers, which in this case was Tsingtao, by the grace of Daniel. Then Greta finished making her sushi rolls. (How do you make sushi in Kansas? Canned tuna. Mmmm, but yech). The eggrolls the Spy had been frying were ready. Mmmm, no yech. Katie’s curried veggies were ready. Mmm, no yech. The Spy also fried some orange chicken. Mmmm, more mmmm. So I guess there are advantages to obnoxiously young people who have travelled to China and come back with trendy sinophilia. They cook for ya! And if you’re good they’ll even give you a tour of the swank apartment, which is what Slender Starrypants did.

"This shower is ridiculous. It can fit fifteen people. Seriously, we’ve tried squeezing everyone in here just to see if it would work."

"Shower scene?" I didn’t really say that. Err, actually I did.

After the shower scene I floated around for a few minutes, eventually landing on the enormous white couch, and partook of these obnoxiously young kids’ 5000-inch flatscreen TV. The game was on. I’m pretty sure it was basketball. I was getting really really into it when the Spy disrupted my reverie by offering second helpings of friendship (see what I did there?):

"What are you doing over there? Come mingle with the rest of us."

Alex Peak and the rest of y’all think you’re all so stressed in college, probably because in high school you got good grades without studying or doing homework and still managed to be peppy and popular, but suddenly a few years later it’s getting close to finals and the teachers just fucking pile on those exams like Halloween candy and you’ve actually got to study. So listen up kids: that is not stress. Stress is fighting 10 miles of highway traffic to eek into a job where you juggle your coworkers’ backbiting, passive-aggressive bullshit with the demands of a boss whose idea of encouragement is not firing you, and after ten, eleven, twelve hours of that every day you fight traffic again going home so you can catch the last fifteen minutes of Grey’s, which is really all you wanted all day long, and as you nod off for the night, you ponder what your life has come to and has it all been worth it or whatever. Then you wake up three days later in a Mexican jail, with a heroine dependency and a case of the runs, right in front of two middle-aged Federales who are seconds away from cumming in your face, and you think to yourself, "shit, this is just like high school." The awesome thing about college is that once in a while you can just call up someone sexy and interesting, get high and play hookey, and just come back whenever you get around to it. I, unfortunately, am old, and those days are far behind me.

1. Observe a disturbing "trend" among the young’uns. Examples:

    a. Drinking diet soda.
    b. The interwebz.
    c. Fellatio.

2. Google or use Lexis-Nexis to find evidence documenting the spread of this trend.

    a. News flash: lots of us drink diet soda!
    b. News flash: lots of us use Facebook!
    c. Lexis-Nexis didn’t have much to say about this. I had use a different site for my research.

3. Keep quoting the articles until 80% of your column is really someone else’s column.

4. Use your last two or three paragraphs to decry this phenomenon as the downfall of civilization as we know it. Examples:
    
    a. Diet Dr. Pepper does not, in fact, taste more like regular Dr. Pepper!
    b. Facebook is the Diet Dr. Pepper of human activity.
    c. Speaking of Facebook, this really oughta be a Superpoke.

There! Next step: type it up on your mom’s old Smith-Corona (because computers destroy your soul. Not Macs, though). Have your "copyeditor" run spellcheck, and you’ve written Blake Osborn’s next column!

I love it that Facebook now sifts through your dugout of friends, compares it to other people on your friends’ lists, and nicely lets you know who you might have met at that party two weeks ago but were too drunk to remember last names. Either that or Facebook went to the party too, and saw everything. Even the pervy grin you flashed when the tattooed girl walked by in a miniskirt. Good thing they didn’t make that into a status update. OR DID THEY??

In "Hopped up: Mixing energy drinks, alcohol common despite health risks" - a thorough, nuanced article in today’s Collegian, Jonathan Garten provides the recipe for a Jager Bomb (Jagermeister, Red Bull) and then, bafflingly, warns us not to drink it!

"Energy drink cocktails…can cause a lower perception of intoxication, heart complications, and dehydration."

According to Dr. Priyantha Ranaweera, cardiologist at Mercy Regional, "mixing energy drinks and alcohol can cause people to drink for a longer period of time than they normally would. The caffeine in a can of Red Bull or Monster could offset drowsiness brought on by drinking alcohol."

What - you expected some smartass commentary? I’m taking notes! Please doctor, continue:

"It doesn’t make sense for people to mix alchohol and energy drinks," Ranaweera said, apparently unaware that she just explained it.

"I mean, how far are they willing to go to get drunk?" she ponders.

One presumes this question to be rhetorical; but really, in these trying times, I find it takes more effort to be sober.

Earlier today, Collegian writer and looker-awayer Adrianne let us in on her favorite workout songs - angry breakup music! But who wants to think about some douchey ex while you tone up? For me, a healthy part of the grieving process is to ignore the ex and fixate on pornstars. Therefore, I’ve selected a few choice tunes which I think are better suited for pumping iron.

James Brown: "Payback"
I don’t know about you, but something about remembering to walk up to someone and kick his ass really spurs me to go that extra mile in the weight room. Plus, you know, the song is uhh, funky (I’ve gotta practice saying that right).

Duke Ellington: "Sentimental Love"
The reason I go work out in the first place is to seduce hot chicks. What does it matter if I can do so after I leave or while I’m still there? Smooth jazz puts everyone in the right mood. I hate when I sidle up to some skinny blonde Jessica or Megan with my very best line ("Baby, don’t act like you don’t remember me") and she tasers me. Who would taser me to smooth jazz?

Theme song from Terminator 2: Judgement Day
That reverb of solid metal set to a sober military rhythm reminds me of what lies in store for me, and for all mankind: watching Sarah Connor Chronicles on veoh.com. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

Dance Dance Revolution techno music
Because, to tell you the truth, I’m not at the gym. I’m in the Stuni game room. Playing Dance Dance Revolution.

80s Pop music.
Don’t judge me.

Another Collegian columnist recently decried lazy Facebooking young adults as the corrosion that will soon make all of society crumble.

"We could spend our money in better ways," said Mark Wampler. We just need the vision to see those ways — clothes for the homeless, food for the poor and child support for single parents are just a few ideas." Guess he didn’t read Monday’s front-page story about students volunteering in New Orleans, building houses and taking care of stray animals. Seriously, how could you miss it? There was a photo of a hot chick with a newly-adopted dog right with the article. But I digress.

"How many people have "drinking" (probably not bottled water)…as one of their Facebook.com hobbies?"
As far as I know, alcohol predates writing and even Facebook as a staple of civilization. For a good reason: drinking is and has always been the best defense against self-important judgementalism.

At least Mark is doing his part to stem the tide of cultural decay. He sculpts figures out of chicken nuggets! Maybe he even does it while the poor press against the window and look on! And that’s not all! "You might have seen my friends and me a couple Saturdays ago, handing out ‘green party water’ and green cookies in Aggieville. We had a lot of fun trying to be creative by hanging out with people who we felt weren’t making the most imaginative choices with their lives. The most common resonse we got was, ‘Wow, it’s so cool you guys are doing this."

When I think of someone who just met me two seconds ago me passing judgement on my unimaginative life choices, I know without a doubt that person must be the absolute coolest! Thank you for emitting your artistic farts among the peasants, instead of hording them away in the newsroom. They smell baroque, pregnant with technique and dadaism, twinkling like fresh shrapnel on a summer afternoon. They are like nothing we’ve ever experienced before.

Drinking age should span all college students. At first, I thought Aubree Casper’s op-ed piece would be shameless, thoughtless cheerleading for the cause of under-21 drinking. But she presented a persuasive, carefully researched argument, backed up by figures (plus, she’s kind of hot): the presence of a university brings people to town; if you allow more people to drink (responsibly), you could also tax their purchases and give some of that money back to the school. That way, everyone’s happy and everyone’s drunk, which makes them happier. We all win! Next round’s on you!

Aubree, I’m sure an intelligent, pretty columnist like you has no trouble obtaining cocktails when the moment is right. However, if you find yourself in dire straits, just, umm, leave me a blog comment. We’ll work something out.

On a related note, what’s with all the cute, smart women writing columns today? The Collegian is kind of making me wet. Thank goodness my martini’s still dry. If the paper hadn’t printed another preachy, unoriginal Blake Osborn column ("As college students we should heed the thrifty admonitions of older generations and not get tangled in the spending spiral that drains so many accounts"), I’d take this as a sign of the end times.

Today’s sex column, Students should improve sex IQ by understanding myths, courtesy of Whitney Hodgin, was written with humor, class, and balanced with sensitivity toward red-state tastes. I’m sure I’ll never see another article like it.

She gingerly reveals the typical deep-seated sexual fears of, surprisingly, men. Do women fake it? I’ve always found their blank, disinteresed expressions; their derisive amusement over my penis length, and their post-coital mantra: "Hey, it’s been real, but I’ve got a better party to hit up" to be extremely convincing. But Whitney meant something different by "it": "toe-curling orgasms." No, I’ve found that they tend to get bored and fall asleep before they can get around to faking those.

Does size matter? Dave, a K-State human sexuality instructor, said "As long as a guy is two inches long, he’ll get the job done." That’s right - this is serious work! Annisa, a K-State senior, did not agree: "I don’t think two inches would do it," which is not good news for me.

"On the other hand," she continued, "a guy could be really big and not know what to do with it, which is worse." I know what to do with mine. When it’s sunny, I hang my wet laundry across it. That way, all day long, it smells like fresh detergent, although I have to suffer the effects of fabric softener.

Full disclosure: I met Whitney at an English-majorey speech or presentation or something last semester. She suggested that I write at the Collegian, and because she is a cute geek girl, I did not disagree. Sadly, after I had been there for a few weeks, Whitney disappeared from the newsroom, leaving me nothing to look forward to except the aloof self-importance of the remaining more dedicated, if mediocre, writers. Occasionally I would look over at the old, un-manned Macintosh by the window and hope a left-wing geek girl would just materialize into the seat, but it just never happened, which is as good a metaphor as any for my time in Kansas.

Criminologist discusses gender, urban inequality among African Americans

If Adrianne doesn’t want me to criticize her, why does everything about her March 14 story, from the headline to the ending quote, sound like it was written by a first-year PR robot?

I’m pretty sure she has, tucked away in her repertoire, a passive-aggressive gesture of disapproval for writers who (1) lead with a quote, and (2) lead with an inflated, verbose block of text. So how does she justify this: "Youths’ descriptions fit quite closely to scholars’ examinations of how structural inequalities negatively impact the ability to generate social ties and protective networks necessary to combat crime."

I’d probably paraphrase thusly: "Experts claim that a in white-male centered society, crime is the only path to social mobility for poor urban ethnic kids, and - surprise! - poor urban kids agree." And confirm it with the expert, of course, who in this case was "Jody Miller, associate professor in the Department of Criminology and Criminal Justice at the University of Missouri - St. Louis."

At the end of the article, a source says "It was really interesting to hear a qualitative interview process and getting to see the actual quotes of what people saw in their communities and neighborhoods."

See that? His reaction to the presentation was "It was really interesting," perhaps as opposed to "It was really boring" or, more specifically, "I sat in the ninth row and felt up my girlfriend." People spew "it was interesting…" quotes when they don’t actually have an opinion or any information. At least he provided a handy, concise summary of the event. Maybe that’s how the lede should sound?

Kids these days! Anything for a thrill! When I was young it was circle jerking. Nowadays it’s auto-erotic asphyxiation!

According to K-State extension youth development specialist Elaine Johannes in Study reveals hike in choking for pleasure, “When there are cases of children strangling themselves or having friends do it, it can be difficult to know if the child is doing it to get a high or if it is a suicide attempt.”

I’m disappointed that Kristin didn’t even mention the OBVIOUS third option in her article: emo S&M. Include that angle and her figures would rise as sharply as the crack of a leather whip.

Blake Osborn in Students should be concerned about, fix unhealthy habits: We all spend too much time surfing the intertubes and eating pizza and it’s making us fat, unlike Blake, who “has learned how much willpower it takes to maintain a nutritious diet.”

Well, I always I worked off the calories by stumbling around hungover to class. Staggering in awkward semicircles is twice as aerobic as making a direct, efficient beeline. Other than that, this is another work of DUH brought to you by a self-promoting windbag. Why not come up with something relevant and topical for your next column? And for fitness’ sake, write it with a quill, on parchment, and then physically walk over to the newsroom and hand it in. If you send it by email, it will just go straight to your thighs.

Hannah Blick offers more evidence that college is the new high school: Parents of new generation more involved in college students’ life decisions.

Running with a report from CNN regarding “hovering” parents, Hannah details the constant contact and influence of overinvolved parents on students. Biweekly phone calls, attempts at frequent updates from the registrar, and even negotiating job contracts.

According to K-State’s office of student life, “This is only crippling the [child] from achieving success on their own.”

Wasn’t it better when you’d flee home angry and bristling with resentment for a distant authority figure and young and dumb and full of come, then return years later still adrift and goalless? It builds character. Not that I know anything about character.

Someone really does read this thing! The Sexy Communist Spy recently pointed out the following: “enough weepy Romantic poetry. You didn’t even finish the story about the birthday bash.” Well, of course I bailed on the story when it was about to get boring and weepy. But, by popular demand, here’s the rest of it: I didn’t really revoke Sexy Communist Spy’s roommate’s pimp card. At her own birthday party. What I did do was ride with her to the hospital and sit in a dark lobby while Communist Spy and Hannah took turns trying to calm down the Birthday girl. In the waiting room there was also a football player and a woman with teeny tiny jeans shorts. When Megan was in the room I think I managed to grunt out a conversation, but when it was Hannah, she just kept text-messaging someone(s), leaving me no choice but to stare at that other girl’s legs.

At 4 I left. So that’s the complete story of last night’s party (from three nights ago). Of course, the complete story sort of gives a portrait of this blogger as a nuanced, compassionate drunk with some sort of caring streak. However, notice that if I leave the story half-finished, it makes me look impatient, shallow, and kind of snotty, which is how I really am. Watch:

Yes It’s Cherry: you can’t stop me. you can’t stop me.
Cheeky Hipster: i will CUT you
Yes It’s Cherry: :-) whatever
Yes It’s Cherry: happy monday, cheeky hipster
Cheeky Hipster: happy monday? no such thing.
Yes It’s Cherry: it is.
Yes It’s Cherry: just not today…
Cheeky Hipster: well, maybe next week then.
Yes It’s Cherry: hopefully
Say It With Wit: i’m gonna disappear into the night and reappear at Hale in 15 minutes
Cherry signed off at 10:55:58 PM
Cherry signed on at 10:56:15 PM
Yes It’s Cherry: be damnd
Cheeky Hipster: i forgot how moody you are
Yes It’s Cherry: :-)
Cheeky Hipster: moody/ whuttt
Cheeky Hipster: well, your internet connection. you yourself are a paragon of stoicism and apathy
Yes It’s Cherry: that’s correct
Cheeky Hipster: ….and on that note, time for me to duck out for the night
Yes It’s Cherry: eh
Cheeky Hipster: ttyl
Yes It’s Cherry: ya

Wheee! Leaving early! Wasn’t that fun? Did you notice her nonchalant “eh” at the end? Do you think she was wondering where a man of intrigue like me would be heading at such an hour? Or was she, as usual, just flashing that vast indifference popular pretty girls radiate so well all day long? Which one, eh? I’ll leave it for you to decide, because I’ve got better things to think about.

My kewgrish Spanish teacher let us know that her novio, on occasion, lovingly calls her "Gorda."

Every single girl in the class - except the 6-foot athlete - gasped deeply with indignation. At this, Ms. Diaz had to actually explain, to a class full of grown women, the difference between an insult and a term of endearment; that in Hispanic culture, "fat girl" falls into the latter. Bravo! At this point, when women fly off into paroxysms of rage over the F word, I get more annoyed than apologetic.

The girls weren’t hearing it. They were BAFFLED that such an explosive term could casually denote intimacy between lovers. In an attempt to step up and get some action, I told both Jessicas that they were hot, skinny, sexy bitches. But I guess my timing was off, because the blonde one unloaded three rounds into my chest. Nevertheless, the question persisted: is vanity really more important than intimacy?

At this point, when women fly off into paroxysms of rage over the F word, I get more annoyed than apologetic. Like, what is so special and so powerful about that one word that reduces everyone to quivering middle-schoolers? I asked the Sexy Communist Spy about it.

"In Russia, fat girl insult YOU!"*

What for; just because I have a freakishly short, slender penis? My left hand doesn’t mind one bit. But seriously, what’s the BFD? Your boyfriends really couldn’t care less. Single gorditas can easily find non-Dbags who are attracted to them. I feel like the indignation is false vanity. Help me understand, Spy!

"Women are insecure and paranoid and need reassurance about men’s affection. I mean, if you’re joking and she knows it, it could be a little different, but it would still hurt a bit."

- Right. But isn’t the point of relationships that you can overcome paranoia and insecurity through, ahem, love? Could it be that so many girls have no idea how to love? Why do I sound like Carrie Bradshaw?

"My theory is nobody has a good self-esteem and those that ‘do’ are just too stupid to realize they shouldn’t"

Wrong there! I have poor self-esteem AND I’m a moron! Explain that one!

 ————————————————————————————–

*[ed. note: this quote was manufactured by the Ministry of Truth]

As detailed in Residents ‘Plunge’ to raise money, Manhattanites and members of Phi Beta Sigma dove into the ice-cold waters of Tuttle Creek Lake as part of a fundraiser for the Special Olympics.

Doesn’t Scrooge Mcduck do this exact same thing, except instead of water, it’s gold? We should try it that way next year.

52nd-annual KSU Rodeo thrills contestants, viewers
To win 2008’s Miss Rodeo title, sophomore Janae Skelton "had to go through a pageant process which consisted of a written rodeo-knowledg test, a horsmanship contest, a personal interview with the rodeo’s judges, a modeling competition and speech."

A model dressed up as a cowgirl, eh? Why in the world did I miss this? Oh, yeah.

Latin is not a dead language, sharpens vocabulary skills
I couldn’t agree more, Blake! In fact, after reading this article, I felt inspired to take a crash course in Sanskrit, because it’s so close to Indo-European - widely considered the origin of so many Western language families. Now, I like totally have a much broader appreciation of modern culture. For example, I can understand the elusive LOLatin tongue:

"I’m in ur Sennit, stabbn ur Seezr!"

"Almust invaded ya…
wit mah invizible leejun."

"Tha die…
I haz cast it!"

Now, if only your column could help me translate the brutal language of love. Ha ha! Thank goodness for Annette Lawless’ advice yesterday: Sex secrets can be damaging, yet add touch of mystery to relationship.

Today in the Fourum, someone predictably called Annette a "prude" because she dumped the grown man who sleeps with high school girls and videotapes it. I had no idea R. Kelly reads the Collegian! Someone else also left this servicey nugget: 

"Hey, Annette Lawless: if you’d like to learn more about mysterious sex secrets, you should come by TKE this weekend."

Cherry had a birthday this week! Friday night she threw a party and everyone showed up. Obviously, no good could come of this, yet I went anyway. I brought her a 3-foot paper-mache rose, a card, and a bottle of Jack (the bottle was really for me. I need it a lot more than she does). Although a dozen people were already there, I somehow managed to sneak the big-ass rose by everyone and smuggle it into Cherry’s room.

Cherry’s parents were there - three weeks ago they threw a Superbowl party and Cherry took me along, and so that’s when I met them. They appointed me the Bartender and Keeper of Cover Charges. I carried this out dutifully, except for when I stepped out to chain-smoke with the Poetess, leaving Chelsea to watch the money.

I hadn’t seen the Poetess in weeks and she looked great. We went out to the porch, down the steps, to the driveway, out by someone’s Honda, and lit up.

"So earlier this week when I told you I was feeling great? I totally lied."
"Me too! Grand. So what’s got you down?"
She related detailed information of a sensitive personal nature. "So hon, your turn."
And we talked some more, then disappeared back into the party; which, for me, was a haze of cash/liquor exchanges, with an occasional pause for me to dose up on whiskey. The chaperones had left by now. Life was great, until I saw Cherry making out with someone on the coffee table.

If I could have just vanished, just poof! and a cloud of bats and I disappear into the night, I would have done exactly that. Instead I had to actually go gather my coat, and my scarf, and my man-purse, and collect my dignity (which - ironic on so many levels - was inside the man-purse), and this took long enough for Cate to see me.

"What’s going on?"

I led her through the crowd, to the porch, to the side of the house, and told her everything.

A couple of people must have heard us talking. All the right players, in fact. Arianna! Chelsea! A bunch of other people! Thankfully not the Poetess. I didn’t know what to say to them other than "Hi guys." So I leaned into Cate’s ear. "LookIhaftagothanks."

I think Arianna kind of knew.

"Where are ya going?"

"Home."

"You’re leaving?"

"Yeah, I’m leaving."

And I left.

When I got home, I remembered the cash cup. It wasn’t safe back behind that bar. I called Arianna and asked her to get the cup, grab the cash, put it in her purse, and deliver the money to Cherry tomorrow. She was fairly drunk so I stayed on the phone with her.

"Hyper-literate bastard, I’m sorry. I can’t find it."

Perfect.

The assistant manager in me decided to head back and find that fucking money my fucking self, and of course I didn’t find it, but now of course I’m back stuck at this thing, the most god-awful party I’ve been at since I was in grade school, and I can’t look anyone in the eye; the kid who was making out with Cherry is now making out with the rest of the theater department (kids these days!); Jimbo, another geeky English major, is grinding with Cherry, and no matter how many times I snap my fingers and whisper "beetlejuice" that fucking money still won’t show up. When I see Cherry alone for a second I let her know it’s missing and swear I’ll pay her back (yay! a reason to whore myself!). Then I finally grow a pair and dance with the birthday girl herself. She was wearing a slinky black strapless number and she was sporting that hemlock-laced smile I love and fear at the same time. So, yeah, we danced for a little while and then separated.

The next time I went looking for her she was nowhere to be found. Neither was Jimbo. The porch, around the side of the house, the garage, the kitchen, the living room, her room, nada. Then I remembered there was another door in the garage. I opened it and there they were (what did I expect?), standing together and talking. OhSorry! I said, slamming the door, maybe a little too fast. "Hyper-literate bastard, wait!" said Cherry. I opened it again and she was fumbling through her coat. "Wish I had my cigarettes," she was mumbing. "Iknowwheretheyare!!" I shut the door again, took a breath, dashed off to the living room, grabbed her swank, shiny, fully stocked cigarette case, returned to the yard, handed her one, and put the case in her pocket.

I held the lighter in front of her.

She hates that. She likes to light them herself. She moved to grab it from me, but I have the reflexes of a meth-addled ninja tabbycat. Plus, she’s pretty drunk. I lit it for her.

"I kind of hate you right now," she said.
"Aw shucks, I know you don’t mean that."
Small talk ensues. A minute later:

"Gimme the lighter. I wanna re-light it.
"Don’t be such a baby."
Jimbo and I both laughed at Cherry. Then he went inside.

"So, are you having fun?"
"It’s your party. Are you having fun?"
"I guess." It’s complicated.
It’s pitch black except for the smokes. Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure we’re both looking at each other.
"You seemed like you didn’t wanna talk to us yesterday."
Pardon?
"Me, Cate, and Arianna thought you didn’t wanna talk to us at the play."
Umm, hello, I’ve been lonely, depressed, and ashamed for a few weeks. Errr, I mean:
"I got the opposite impression. That you didn’t wanna talk to me. I mean, I know you were busy with Mud-River-Stone, but you just never called me back or gave me a text."
I continued. "And I missed ya, a lot, but last night I really didn’t know what to say."

"Listen, I was hoping that, after the party dies down, maybe I could - stay? Spend the night? With you."
"Yeah, sure," she said. "A few other people are crashing here, so no problem."
I didn’t mean it in the sense of "crashing here," but whatever.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We went in and danced some more. A few hours later, Liz, a drunken emo townie, went ape shit over I-don’t-know-what and refused to let anyone drive her home. The girls went outside to talk her down. Negotiations lasted about an hour and killed the party. Finally, Drunken Emo Townie came back inside; Cherry’s little sister agreed to walk with her to the car. It was 6am. I was out on the porch, chain-smoking, when they walked by me. Not wanting them to get dragged off and raped, I asked quickly:

"Want me to walk with you guys?"
"Yeah," mouthed Jasmine.

We made it up the street a little ways, to the Townie’s car. Although she’s still drunk, she patently refuses to give up the keys or the driver’s seat. In the end we relented and let her almost kill us swerving up Sunset Avenue (doesn’t this defeat the purpose of coming with her?). But we made it to wherever she wanted to go, and she headed inside and sent us on our merry way. Yay! Everyone’s still alive! Now I get to trudge back to campus in this 20-degree dawn. I am not dressed for a 20-degree dawn. Also: since I’m not from this town I have no idea where the fuck I am. Jasmine led the way, up the street, down the street, across the park, a left on Anderson, back to Sunset, up again, to the left, and presto, Cherry’s casa. The sun is fully up and Cherry is probably completely knocked out, so I bid Jasmine good day and go back home, completely cockblocked by that fucking Townie. C’est la vie.

I talked to Cherry again at noon. Hi how are you did you like the party thanks for the rose I might be too busy to see you the rest of the weekend but I hope you had a good time don’t worry we got the money.

"You got the money?"
"Yeah. Earlier, I grabbed the cash cup and I hid it."

Relief.

It occurs to me that I’ve gone slack on shitpicking at this paper. I haven’t paid attention to the ambiguous headlines, the typos, and the other mediocrity on these pages. And picking on you guys always makes me feel better about myself. So without further ado:

Just kidding. There will be some ado, regarding the candidacy of Pirates and Ninjas: Elise Podhajsky’s interviews cleared a lot of things up for me. While both sides have put forth excellent candidates, and either of them will most likely reinstate the right to duel at dawn, anywhere, I’m gonna have to throw my endorsement behind the Pirates. Ninjas, although you’ve got mad skillz, your ultraconservative anti-rum rhetoric bothers me a lot. Additionally, although you believe ninjas can offer students the best security, I don’t think you’re in any position to fend off the invincible Armada. There; it’s done. Now go disembowel yourselves with honor.

No more bra-burning: Movements have progressed much since 70s. Seriously, as a reader, all the information I need is right there in the headline. Had I known that beforehand, I wouldn’t have had to snooze through "The types of organizing that typefied social and political protest in the 1960s and 1970s have been supported and sometimes supplanted by technological advances and increasingly complex cultural identities."

I say the types of organizing that typefied social and political protest included more fucking drugs, which made everything look more colorful, and color is exactly what this article needs.

K-State Rodeo starts tonight at Weber Arena
"…K-State will compete well in goat tying, barrel racing, and calf roping, and….there is a member of the team that is good at the team roping event. The girls are in really good shape as far as being where they need to be."

They sure are.

Coulter uses shock, biased language to remain in spotlight
A minor objection: Coulter hasn’t been in the spotlight for some time. Why don’t we discuss someone more immediate and relevant to K-Staters, like Brigitte Brecheisen - the Ann Coulter of this very campus? Yeah, call her out and get right up in her grill and put the smack down. What, are you scrrrd?

4 local restaurants lend support to cancer-research fundraiser

"Booyah" is the term chosen to represent the recent community effort to combat cancer, according to Amanda Keim.

Amanda’s loose, fluid writing style is a dollop of pure in-your-face exuberance, which is exactly how a word like "booyah" feels. Sort of like hearing Robocop explain nipple rings. Please Amanda, go on.

"Booyah is a term that represents feelings of euphoric celebration upon fighting through extreme adversity and overcoming daunting obstacles, and we’re using it in this context to emphasize our belief that we will conquer cancer in our time," said her source, who could barely contain his own feelings of euphoric celebration.

I think what Amanda’s trying to say is that Booyah is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That’s what Booyah is, when we’ve all got to be tough enough and rough enough to fight cancer. From the hip. Get it?

According to Brett King’s latest right-wing ejaculation, gun control was a measure Nazi Germany took to ensure ethnic minorities were powerless when the government wanted to haul a bunch of them off to death camps. Gun control in America will be like Nazism in America. Get it? GUN CONTROL = NAZISM.

Brett, if you vote Democrat and elect a leader who’s black or a woman, you won’t have to worry about it.

Nevertheless, the central issue remains: will violence be stamped out if we let students with conceal-and-carry permits take guns around school and into classes? You bet it will! It’s like with the atom bomb; when only one nation had it, those white people basically blasted whatever Asians they wanted to; now that a whole bunch of people have nukes, the world is a much safer place! Still not convinced? Consider this chart:

As you can clearly see, the more guns in circulation, the fewer deaths. Until everyone gets them and we all kill each other. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. The important thing is to take the first step and arm as many people as we can.

Enough quibbling over figures. Why stop with just letting students pack heat? I say we split the campus up, let the elites carrying concealed each be responsible for a different "territory," and the rest of us can just pay protection money!

Also: thanks for sharing that "Hearty Stew" recipe. But I’m kind of a city boy, so instead of venison, I use the flesh of urban schoolchildren. The only drawback is that it tends to be high in crack. On the plus side, it’s high in crack.

Hyper-literate Bastard,

I worked very hard with you last semester and helped you when you were new at the Collegian. I stayed at the paper one too many times too late waiting on your content to come in. I did my best to work with you and how am I repaid? With rude blog comments about my reporting and writing, which I pour my entire heart and soul into. Did I ever insult your writing and reporting? Nope. I respect your decision to exercise free speech via your blog, but realize that your words are hurtful. I’ve worked my ass off for four years at K-State and at the Collegian, and while I’m not perfect and not even a "real" journalist yet, I don’t appreciate your words.

-Frustrated Editor

————————————————————————-

I believe all the problems with the Fourth Estate are right here in this self-indulgent "complaint." To illustrate:

1.    I didn’t criticize her personally. I didn’t even criticize her overall writing style, which is so bland it makes me want to slit my own throat just to make sure I can still feel. I criticized a specific element of a specific article she wrote. I also criticized other specific elements of other specific articles other Collegian staffers wrote. BFD. Yes, my tone was breezy and irreverent. Hello? That’s my writing style. She’d know that if she exercised any reading comprehension skills on the rest of my post; all my remarks were made in a catty, condescending voice. I’m not trying to tiptoe around the tender feelings of these so-called "writers." I’m trying to make fun of them. I won’t flinch. And I’ve got A LOT of material.

2.    She tried to work hard with me? That’s up for debate. Yes, I was extremely late on several articles. Not that she cares (she made it quite clear that her own crankiness is The Most Important Thing In The World), but when deadline came around, I was also studying for 18 credits worth of midterms AND working on ways to scrape up enough money to, you know, stay in school (out-of-state fees are a bee-hotch). I’m fairly sure this has happened to lots of Collegian staffers. Whenever I tried to talk to her, she’d act like she didn’t have time (BTW, impatient supervisors are a real pet peeve of mine. You sign on to a position of authority only if you have enough patience to sit down and engage other people. If you’re gonna sigh like you’re too important to be bothered with the paeons, well, grow up. "Working with people" implies a certain measure of patience and helpful, friendly advice, not arrogantly forcing people to pussyfoot around your frazzled nerves). She’d edit the story without reading it; moving chunks of text here and there, changing the flow of the story to make it suck, then leaving me to clean up and make new transitions so it did not, in fact, look like it was edited by a careless snob. The best part: whenever I turned in a story early and left it there for editors to review at their leisure, the next day, the story would appear in print with EXTRA GRAMMATICAL ERRORS (We copied and pasted but left out the prepositions! Oops!) or factual errors (copyeditors should probably not work their "magic" on numbers and figures).

3.    "Free speech?" Don’t be so dramatic. Make no mistake; this is not the Washington Post. This is a dumb blog nobody reads.

Fact is, there was nothing wrong with my specific criticisms. The problem lies in the newsroom. I want to stress that this is not the fault of any one particular editor. They all believe that They Are The Deciders. Therefore, they put out a rag full of dull, misleading headlines, factual errors, grammatical mistakes, op-ed columns made of moronic drivel, and STILL THINK THEY’RE DOING A GREAT JOB! They have no capacity for criticism - from themselves or from the hoi-polloi - because in that newsroom, when heads go up asses and don’t come out, they start to think their stuff don’t stink. But when the rest of us actually read the paper, we can smell it just fine.

My financial hold was finally cleared on Monday! What followed was a mad dash to enroll in classes I need. My advisor and most of my professors were receptive and understanding of my plight. Here’s what I sent the Intermediate Algebra professor: ——————————————————————————–

Professor Hawkinson,

My name is Hyper-literate Bastard; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in the intermediate algebra course (MWF 10:30, rec W 12:30) this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

Hyper-literate Bastard, Kansas State University

Hi. You have been successfully added to MATH010 Intermediate Algebra. 15860 REC T 9:30 CW 023 LEC M W F 10:30 CW 101 Please visit the following web page and acquire a copy of the syllabus. Regards, Dale P. Hawkinson dph@math.ksu.edu <<< Note Email address… KSU Holton 101E Manhattan, KS 66506 USA (785)532-5386

Professor Sorenson,

My name is Chain-Smoking Atheist; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your Physics 102 course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

Yes, I’m here til 430 and have a meeting at 200. Pick a time within these constraints. CS

Professor Copple,

My name is Nihilistic Alcoholic; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your MWF 8:30 am Spanish 4 course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

Hi Alcoholic,

You’ll need to speak with the instructor, Sandra Contreras, to see if there is room in the class. Her email is: sandrac@ksu.edu . If you don’t contact her before class on Wednesday, then attend class and speak with her there.

Mary T. Copple Assistant Professor of Spanish and Spanish Language Coordinator Modern Languages 005 Eisenhower Hall Kansas State University Manhattan, KS 66506 785.532.1924 mcopple@ksu.edu "Live simply so others may simply live."

Professor Donnelly,

My name is Snarky English Major; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your British Survey course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

Major,

I am sorry to say that the course is full to room capacity, and there are people on the waiting list. Even if that were not the case, adding a course with as heavy a reading and lecture load as this one after two full weeks of the semester have passed would probably be suicidal, academically. We’ll have finished Beowulf and the whole body of Anglo-Saxon literature studied by this Friday, and with on-going assignments, anyone adding this late would have to read hundreds of pages a night to catch up–not to mention that having missed the lectures and discussions would deprive such a student of much essential synthesis which will figure in the exams.

I’m sorry, but surely you will be able to find some class that has room and would present less of an impossible challenge as a choice to fill out your schedule. M.D.

I suppose his response was, however, much better than my brush-off from Intro to Fiction Writing professor Mohammad Rahman, who - I just found out - has apparently gone to New York without leaving a note outside his office or a means to contact him. It’s not like they have e-mail in New York anyway; that’s probably just a San Francisco thing. Text messaging is where it’s at. Duh. So I hit up Screenwriting.
———————————————————————–

Professor Reckling,

My name is Soulless Bricoleur; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your screenwriting course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

Professor Reckling,

Is it still possible to get into your screenwriting course? I’m a creative writing major and I would really like to talk to you sometime soon to discuss the class. Thanks!

Hello,

I’m afraid you’ve missed too much of the class already to join us now. We’re completing our first text book tomorrow and having the first 20% exam. Our syllabus is in place for all the workshopping, as well, based on the enrollment of these past two weeks. I encourage you to think about the course for next spring, and to be sure to sign up earlier. Sincerely yours, Professor Reckling

Professor Reckling,

Please, there must be something I can do. I’m completely willing to skip a whole lotta sleep to do make-up work, if necessary. A financial hold is what kept me from enrolling earlier - I’m from out-of-state and it’s kind of tough. Are you sure there’s nothing that can be done? I’m both eager and desperate. Seriously.

Dear Bricoleur,

Okay. I wondered why you waited so long to decide on this course; now I know. You’ll need to purchase the course packet at the Arts and Sciences Copy Center, which is on the basement level of Eisenhower Hall, just up the hall from our classroom (EH 21). You’ll also need to purchase the two text books in Varney’s. Bring the Smith book to class tomorrow. We’re finishing it, and I’ll be handing out an overview of terms to know for the exam next week. The other book is by Ian Gurvitz, and you’ll need that for later in the course. We’ll be viewing an episode of 30 Rock tomorrow. You will have the teleplay for this episode in your packet, and you’ll be doing work on this teleplay for next week. That work will be much easier work once you’ve seen the teleplay. I don’t generally add anyone this late. If you miss class tomorrow, I won’t add you. I’ll be sending the syllabus on listserve, and other information, as well, so you’ll need to be sure that your e mail address is officially registered with the university (if it isn’t already). The course, as I hope you know, is screenwriting for the small screen, and the focus is on the architecture of comedy in the sitcom. If you’re looking for film or for production, this is not where you’ll find it. If you want to learn how to analyze the elements of comedy in Seinfeld, News Radio, Will & Grace, Frasier, Arrested Development, 30 Rock, and their ilk, and to write original material for 30 Rock, this is the right course for you. You’ll have a lot of catching up to do, and you’ll have to do it rather quickly. We should talk tomorrow after class. Welcome aboard. Sincerely yours, Professor Reckling