Hello Darkness my old friend…

Evidently, New Haven Police are now expanding their policing efforts to the task of beating white kids about the head and shoulders with flashlights while arresting them. On their front porch of their apartment building. Now far be it from me to blush at police brutality, but this kind of negligence on the offending officers’ part is laughable. Now, I can say on decent enough authority that it’d be fantastic to tune up privileged White boys, but really, I think it entirely more prudent to stick to the disenfranchised Blacks that can’t defend themselves.

I mean, I guess I can see where the cop’s coming from: He had just used his wicked cool loudspeaker to clear a raucous fraternity bender (read: nerds like me standing on the street talking); his little partner (a Black woman) is steadily chirping people up the block. He is the law. So I’m guessing the sight of one particularly slim fellow not leaving the porch of an apartment building made his dick go a little soft. And no one like when their dick goes soft. And what officer could just watch their partner’s dick go soft? Tubbs and Crockett wouldn’t stand for it. So they did the only thing they could do: Took out the old flashlight and did a drum solo on my man’s head. Got that dick good and hard again. Well coppers, I hope it was worth it because your collective dick might just be soft for some time. Because you beat the wrong one. You beat a nice White guy. With lawyer parents. And by golly, seeing cops get taken to the cleaners gets my dick hard, and really, that’s the important thing. Gross miscalculation, party of two?

Also on the front page of the Daily was the picture and government (read: indentifying information) of one Greg Korb (I think), class of 2008, who was charged with sexual assault on an un-named student. Supposing he did this, I was troubled for many reasons, which I will display in outline form:

1. You’re an idiot for sexually assaulting a girl. Not only is it just not cool, it’s unnecessary. If you really want it that bad, do your homework. There are plenty of women of the night to go around. So yeah, you’re dumb.

2. You’re really dumb for doing this. Girls, when they don’t wanna be down, usually give you a sign which is done, in a great many cases, to make the situation the least awkward it can be. Mufucka, you got into this school because allegedly you could read. So clearly, you don’t read good, but luckily, you’ll have plenty of time to improve.

3. You’re judgement is generally terrible. With real physical stuff, you gotta be 99% sure a girl is down (Let’s be honest, some of you ladies. It’s not always 100%. Sometimes you just shrug and say “It’s Tuesday night. Why not?”. That’s the 99% theory). 99%. Greg, you were logging in at about a 92%, and in this class, that’s FAILING.

4. The above assumed he did this shit (and apparently he’s a bit of a creepy lad). But what if he hadn’t? The court of public opinion gave Greg the gas chamber as sweaty fingers flipped through the pages of blue books. He can’t come back here either way. And that’s the fundamental problem with cases such as these. Females can just spout the fuck off from behind the curtain and a dude is put out on front street (see Kobe Bryant). Now I’m not saying the girl is lying. I’m simply saying it’s fucked up to besmirch someone’s name while you can play the background. I mean, what’s to stop some crazy ho from just dragging any dudes name through the mud? And what could a dude really do but say, “Nigga, I ain’t touch that bitch! Fuck you nigga! I’ll kill you! Please believe me! Please believe me!!”? (Sidebar 1: The cancellation of The Chappelle Show made college that much worse) Now the dude looks plain crazy (Sidebar 2: Mike Tyson is a screwy SOB, but he’s disarmingly forthright about his life. He denies very little. But you see the fire in his eyes when talking about Desiree Washington, the woman he allegedly raped. He’s maintained for years he ain’t do that shit. Things that make you say hmmm.) The second you bring such things to a public forum, you’re essentially not protecting someone else’s privacy and thus, in my opinion, forfeiting the right to your personal privacy. Word to Lady Justice.

Penultimate Thought: ‘Say My Name’ was the heartbreak song of my sophomore spring in high school. Man, songs can bring ya back.

Final Thought: You can’t wear a brown belt and black shoes, or vice versa. Period.

Staring each other down….

Since nothing much has happened of late, and since I’m not exactly keeping up on my current events (although I hear the whole South is underwater), I shant regurgitate the normal Yale/college is wack drivel. Yet. Therefore, I’ll leave you with something I pondered as I was peeing the other day. Sometimes, you hear how an event “changes the course of history” a la an assassination, the Super Bowl Shuffle, et cetera. I feel saying that an event changed the course of history presupposes prior knowledge of a historical outcome that is rendered moot by an unforeseen occurrence. Kinda like Brad Pitt getting wrecked by those cars in ‘Meet Joe Black’ (and even if that’s not a good example, remembering him getting tuned up was hilarious. I remember even girls laughed when they saw that shit). And since only I can see into the future and never say things like “this changed the course of history”, I’m convinced it’s smart people’s way of covering their assumptive asses. I’d prefer they just said, “Well, the 1960′s were pretty straight-forward until some crazy fucker put a hole in John Kennedy’s head. And frankly, we didn’t see that one coming.” Perhaps I ask too much.

Penultimate Thought: I’m pretty sure sports teams are only allowed to strut in public if they win their league. Or frankly, even come close to winnning their league.

Final Thought: Miller High Life is meant to be had one way: In the bottle.

You’re tryin’ hard to maintain and go ‘head, cuz I ain’t mad atcha…

So as I’m unofficially starting my fourth year of college aka my eighth year of prep school, I can confidently say I’m over the social scene. I mean, even the kids who are attempting to look wild and crazy a la Jon Belushi in ‘Animal House’ are desperately trying to emulate something that looks pretty gnarly every time you watch it (and let’s be honest, that shit is hilarrrrrious. I will always have a soft spot in my heart for crazy white boy humor). However, being from a country town inwhich I have indeed drunk beers in the woods and the knuckleheads who fell from third floor patios are shoo-ins for town council chair in about 15 years, I must indeed say these collegians are not only doing a poor job of being imbeciles, they are also managing to somehow make themselves look more nerdy in their desperation, which is just special.

Now let’s be honest: I have drunk the Camp Yale Kool-Aid three times now. On three seperate occasions during the balmy eves of August, I have ventured into the streets in search of adventures I increasingly realized where not to be found. For upperclassmen (and lord knows I’m earning those stripes), Camp Yale has become similar to the diminished returns of eating hot dogs. That first hot dog is great. Plump, juicy, succulent, just the right amount of condiments. Just fantastic. So in a meaty rapture, you decide to have another. And another. As you hammer that last one down, you realize “Fuck. I just ate three hot dogs” (place mental italics on the ‘hot dogs’ part) .

When my brother was in the latter stages of his college career, I used to think he was certifiably insane for seeming so blase (pronounced blah-zay) about the social scene. And he went to a school where at least one sports teams actually matters outside the city limits. Brother of mine, I now know why the caged bird sings. Reuters and I did a poll last night, and roughly 87% of seniors where experiencing feelings of “oldness” coupled with the burning desire to go to bed before 12:30. 79% of junior’s said they felt similarly, but were mustering the strength to hit the Lily Pad, which is like Toad’s Place with a cravat (I will speak on the alternate universe that is Toad’s at a later date).

The transition has been odd. The idea of being in bed before 3 in my first Camp Yale run was tantamount to treason. Even as a sophomore (the first time), even as I saw the kindling beginning to burn Rome, I really wanted to believe this was the jump-off. Hell, I left school and came back, hoping time had frozen enough for Yale to still be able to sate my social appetite. Alas, time forged on. It is rather surreal to watch a changing of the guard. The true veterans, armed with thousand-yard stare and an air of gritty pragmatism, seem resigned to convene at the Lily Pad. The juniors and seniors didn’t want to go to the Lily Pad; it was a matter of social survival and protection (Sidebar: I think bouncers at Toad’s should stop wasting their time checking ID’s. Merely glance into the eyes of the patron in question. If they look like they want to be there, they shouldn’t be).

The new guard, the veritable Young Turks of a new regime, have arrived and the guard of old has been forced into a retirement they did not see coming when they indeed walked the same phalanx formations so many moons ago. Young McGreevey and I sat outside Bulldog Burrito, Russian mobster style, and simply watched the masses go by. We were too old to walk any further. The identifying marks were as they have always been: Freshman and sophomores, dressing like they give a shit, sparkle in eye; juniors on the decline; seniors, not giving a shit and, in fact, happy that they put forth the effort to try to fake it for a few hours. Yes friends, it’s the same as it has always been, but different somehow. For many of us, this has been in our collective faces for the better part of three years. Yet I only now realize how much perspective is, and always will be, a muthafucka.

Penultimate Thought: My room has the only internet in the building that isn’t working. I’m fully convinced my dean is trying to sabotage me. Fuckin’ Ruskies.

Final Thought: If you don’t have a road dog to help you navigate the game, you cannot survive.

You learn to dance the Fandango…

So this evening, I came to a rather shocking, and otherwise underwhelming, conclusion. Besides this year’s CC aides (barring about 8, with few of those 8 being younger than juniors) being a bunch of pansy-ass clowns that give nerds everywhere a bad name, the colored section of the class of 2009 is decidedly milquetoast. Just terribly devoid of vim or vigor. Now, am I saying that they are the diabolical force that left us this past May? No. They’re real nice kids. But that’s just it, they’re not a force at all. In fact, they oddly have the demeanor of disinterested upperclassmen minus ever having gone to a day of class to be disinterested by. Thousand yard stares and everything.

These cats are just serious, and they don’t even know what to be serious about yet. As it stands right now, they’re collectively putting the weight of notoriety on Tony Parker’s aka Justin Bellamy’s (facebook this kid, he defies explanation) shoulders to bring them some kind of identity. As a member of ’06 emeritus, I find this bewildering. I mean, there’s something about freshman thinking they know some shit and the willingness to go toe to toe that makes incoming classes refreshing. Freshmen are supposed to be the Vinny Johnson’s of college: Fresh off the bench, with no intention of playing defense. Strictly scoring. Not worried about shit they don’t know about. Strictly scoring.

I was a freshman once (and a sophomore twice). Didn’t know a cot damn thing. Got posterized a few times, but dammit, I kept going to the bucket. These lames already look like they know better and are gonna settle on the 15-footer. (Sidebar: When I was a freshman, upperclassmen {read: juniors and seniors} did not talk to us. Indeed, we popped off regularly and they either ignored us or regarded us with the playful older sibling disdain that is appropriate in such situations. Perhaps this is my punishment for fucking with the circle of life). What’s the fun it that? I mean, if you’ve been in college longer than a year, you know that freshman year is like a joke the university tells you from September to May. For one portion of the populous every year, Camp Yale lasts until May. These fuckers should be trying to T-Mac on EVERYONE.

I just don’t get it. The class of 2009 is like a bunch of plain, dry ass parents at a PTA meeting in middle America. I’m surprised these kids wear their shirts untucked. If I had to designate a word for them, it would be “meh”, which is really a trip because I figured they’d bring something to the table after the way they swarmed the facebook. These guys make me miss ’05. Crazy summumabitches; but at least going to school with them was like pro wrestling: Ridiculous plotlines that ended in some sort of spectacle, be it a fight or otherwise. Here’s to hoping they’re just waiting to blow our minds. Or that Tony Parker did his shrugs this summer.

Penultimate Thought: The dining halls are gonna regret they opened.

Final Thought: Sometimes, I play Christmas music to make myself happy. Donny Hathaway’s ‘This Christmas’ has a license to print legal tender in my republic.

Come give me a hug if you’re in to gettin’ rubbed…

Sexercise > jazzercise.

Mama I’m still thuggin’…

So apparently, an offensive lineman, Thomas Herrion of the San Francisco 49ers, collapsed and died after a preseason game last night. Being a sports’ enthusiast, I find this tragic, yet, at the same time, appalling and avoidable. It would be easy for me to use the Steroid Peril as cause for speculation, in light of an unknown cause of death, I’ll proffer an opinion I deem more feasible. The guy was 6’3, 310 pounds. That’s me, minus 2 inches and plus 100 pounds. So basically, I just put Young Mcgreevey’s (www.fullofincite.blogspot.com) illegal back-to-school suitcase on my back and decided to wear it as a cardigan.

The only people that are supposed to be 300 pounds are people over 7 feet tall. Period. And people find his death mysterious because he was a professional athlete. What the fuck does that have to do with anything? I don’t recall seeing him taking stage 12 of the Tour this summer. He’s an offensive lineman, professional level not withstanding. The guy’s got a physique that does not lend itself to European beachwear if you know what I’m saying. I am fully aware that not everyone is going to be Sergio Oliva (Look him up. History forgets Arnold did have peers) , but good grief, take some weight of your carriage and save your life; or drop your body fat, which is essentially the same thing.

Lost in the euphomisms of the heart with regard to sport, is the literal function of the heart. It is a muscle that pumps blood throughout the body. When you over-work it, it will merely shut down. You know that burnt out feeling you get after you squat? It’s that same thing, except, instead of having to walk backwards down a flight of steps, you find yourself on a slab at Cedar-Sinai. Fuck the steroid talk. Let’s talk about the fitness of athletes that are growing at a nearly exponential rate. And that rate is not being matched with physical fitness by the larger gentleman of the sport.

Consider Shaq: Still a beast at this stage in his career. The single most dominant player to ever lace ‘em up. You think he wouldn’t be a little more injury-free and a lot more 8th wonder of the world if he dropped about 40? Good grief. He’d be like Danny Almonte, only they’d check his DNA to see if he was of this world. Luckily Shaq plays a free-flow sport inwhich he has to be somewhat more fit. But some of these footballers think that because the average play only lasts 6 seconds, that they can compensate for aerobic fitness with sheer girth. Wrong answer.

Obesity and athleticism can co-exist, but obesity and aerobic fitness can’t. Bottom line. When the premiere athletes, T.O., Rip Hamilton, David Beckham, start falling out left and right, I’ll be concerned with the state of safety in athletics. Until then, let’s consider trimming the fat. Before we go and blame the length of practice, the heat index, or drugs that may or may not have been used, let’s consider the weight of weight.

Penultimate Thought: I gotta graduate soon. The freshman just seem to get younger and younger.

Final Thought: I truly miss the camaraderie of high school sport.

She wasn’t too bright, but I could tell when she kissed me, she knew how to get a kiss

So my buddy came up from Philly this week, and as we’re riding around, I went through his cd case which is extensive. This guy is a music fan. I probably hadn’t heard of 2/7th’s of the people in it. Needless to say, I felt like that prick newscaster after Bruce Willis’ wife tased him in ‘Die Hard 2′. Richard was his name I think. Anyway, as we putted along, I couldn’t help but think about one of my music pet peeves. Far be it from me to not be a music enthusiast, but I hate it when music people ask me if I know such and such an artist, and I don’t. It’s odd, when the question is asked, it’s like I get real nervous. It’s tantamount to a girl asking if you think she’s ugly, fat, etc. I mean, you feel like you won’t be believe either way.

My Buddy: “So Jon, have you ever heard Gorilla Biscuits?”
Me: (Me squinting; trying to look like I have some idea of what they’re talking about) “Nah, I don’t think so.”
My Buddy: (Quietly pitying me) “They’re big in the New York hardcore scene.”
Me: “Oh right, right.”

Gorilla Biscuits? Say it outta context and there’s a 43% chance I would think they were doggie snacks for larger-breed canines. I don’t get it. For some god-awful reason, I get all nervous as if my credibility as someone with hearing is on the line. One false step, and these tunies (kind of like “churchies”, but with music) are clipping up your Music Lover card before the ceremonial boxing of ears. Even worse, if I have heard of the artist, there’s an 11 out of ten chance that they’ll follow up with: “Isn’t that recording from The San Luis Obispo Music Fest so tight??” Muthafucka, I don’t know where San Luis Obispo is and I certainly wasn’t aware they had a music festival.

Why can’t I simply say no? Besides the fact that I’m apparently constructed from vagina, I guess it’s this strange feeling that I’m letting someone down. So instead, I dance around the question as long as possible until it’s clear I didn’t even know there was a genre of music for said artist to be listed under. Still, I try to give off this ‘oh yeah I’ve maybe heard of them and think I’m gonna add them to the itunes when I’m not updating my livejournal for my 7 person readership’ vibe (Sidebar 1: Has there ever been a vibe that long?). Damn you tunies.

Penultimate Thought: So I was pretty ticked at my friend for not getting back to me a few weeks ago, and when I finally saw her on the street and was ready to give her my best marvelous Marvin Hagler, she tells me she had to stay with her sister who had amoebic dysentery. Hagler suffers surprising first-round knockout.

Final Thought: The Purple One calls the lights turned on at closing time, the “ugly lights”. Prince IS understated brilliance.

Nas is like…

I heart clothes shopping.

Penultimate Thought: I’d pay exorbitant amounts of money to see Eddie Murphy do stand-up.

Final Thought: People with small feet should not be allowed to have ugly shoes.