That’s why I like chillin’ wit women that like women…

NOTE: THIS ENTRY ISN’T REALLY FUNNY. IT’S MEANT TO SEEM DRAMATIC. SORRY FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.

So the other night, I needed to make a quick couple of dollars and I went to be the ball man (ball boys are little White kids that wear adjustable Pawtucket Red Sox caps and big t-shirts. I had on an adjustable cap, but it was of the champagne of beers and I had to take it off anyway) at the mens’ soccer game. As I had to arrive early, I was afforded the opportunity to watch both Yale and the #7 team in the nation, Farleigh Dickinson, warm up. Standing by the bench and watching both teams come out, I got the chill of reflection for I had been in this space before. I became excited as dusk gave way to dark and light flooded the area where battle was take place.

At 6:30 (for a 7pm game), there was no rowdy crowd, nor would there be to a large degree. There were no program vendors peddling their wares, no pep band bringing musical fanfare to a moment that would indeed deserve it, nor would there be. On this Wednesday night, there was only the crisp New England autumn, the crackling of pre-game music over a PA in need of repair, and the gentle bubbling of pre-game activities as the flags behind one goal snapped softly in the breeze. All the trappings for drama were there: the underdogs who almost didn’t know enough to be afraid and the giants that had already marked this one in the win column.

Yale was high, the electricity quietly surged as they stretched and kicked. Courage was in the air, but indeed, the fear that often accompanies courage had also wafted in. There was both a fire and hesitation that these warriors’ eyes could not hide as their captain crutched gingerly across the field. Only days ago, they were approaching FDU as utterly fearless giant-killers. As the moments ticked down to game time, Yale was fearless still, but it was a fearlessness mixed with hurt and longing. It was the hurt and longing for one of their own being betrayed by the field of battle, and having to march on while the one can only contemplate what might have been. Still, a fire burned. It burned for their leader and it burned for their sport.

Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous for 44 minutes and 45 seconds, the bottom appeared to have fallen out as a great shot and poor judgement allowed the giants to break the scoreless ice and begin the scrawling of the W as the first half expired. Heartbroken was Yale as it limped into the dark recesses of the stadium, but, as is the beauty of sport, this was a game of two halves. In a moment when Yale could have rolled over like they were supposed to, they had the gall to battle back. The youngest of them fought passionately; they put the onus on their shoulders and willed the game even, much to the surprise of the giants. Everyone present felt the momentum. What was once merely a respectable fight, began to smack of possible victory. Suddenly, the giants were desperately trying to suture their wounds and the giant-killers were rejuvenated at the sight of blood. Time after time, the giants attempted to knock on the door and time after time, one warrior would not let them in. He had something to prove; he refused to feel or allow the same dishonor that had ended the first half.

And in the end, it was this refusal that some, the non-thinking among us, would say cost Yale the battle. These are merely the spectators that have no understanding of sport or the thrill of the fight. They are those that don’t have the courage to win or, more importantly, the courage to lose. And that is the beauty of sport. At any given moment, one can go from goat to hero to goat, and at the end of the day, all that matters is whether or not they had the courage to win and lose. And it’s that that seperates the great from those that speculate on greatness.

As I stood in the cool autumn air on knees not as they once were and watched one of the great moments almost no one would see, I finally understood. It’s not about winning and losing. It’s about the courage to win or lose. The fans fade away, the bands lose their tune and the programs that the vendors peddle no longer bear your name. All you’re afforded is a smile and the reminiscence on the courage. And perhaps, that is the only victory that matters.

Penultimate Thought: It takes at least 4 lines to say goodbye on AIM.

Final Thought: Somehow, preppy White boys don’t make pastels look gay.

I’ll be obliged if you step outside because my ride is awaitin’…

So the other day, I was strolling to dinner with my buddy and on the way, she saw one of her friends and asked him how church was. He replied enthusiastically and kept it moving. It was at this moment that said buddy quipped about asking about church. It’s true. No one is going to really hate on a church service like, “Damn son, that 2nd Colossians was so wack”! I mean, I’m a card-carrying heathen and even I don’t say stuff like that. But to be fair, when I retold this story to Young McGreevey, he reminded me that Black people can hate on anything a la ‘yeah the benediction was good, but the choir was wack’, which leads me to the logical conclusion that all Black people are going to hell. Just like Jerry Falwell said.

As we continued to bop down the ave (it’s really a street, but ‘ave’ sounded hip and provincial), we passed by Koffee 2. For those not up on their Yale landmarks lingo, shame on you for being stupid, stupid people who clearly have no respect for angsty academicians attempting to look…angsty and academic. In short, it is a cafe where lots of people do work. To be honest, I really think people go there to academically profile. Like a car show, except with Nietzche and scarves. As a person who does little to no work, I know a fraud when I see one. And please spare me the ‘I can’t work in my room’ plea. If you’re really trying to get work done, you’re in one of those big, ultra-quiet rooms in Sterling or in CCL getting brain cancer from the fluorescent lights.

If you’re at Koffee 2, Atticus or Starbucks, you are fully aware that all kinds of people are looking at you like you’re a Met exhibit. ‘Brows furrowed’ by Some Dick That Knows People Are Watching. Personally, I love your work. These people, especially the window sitters are a sight to behold. First, they cross their arms and put their elbows on the table, in order to get the proper lean into the small print of some shit they don’t care to read. If you’re lucky, they’ll be nibbling thoughtfully on a pen cap. Now, if it’s a big look smart day, they’ll have ordered a coffee (not tea or cocoa. COFFEE) and sit perched while attempting to properly convey the ‘if it looks as though I’m sipping absent-mindedly, it’s because this material is so engrossing that the energy for my motor skills has been fully distributed to the furrowing of my eyebrows’ thing. I’m convinced that if K2 and places of that ilk didn’t have ginormous picture windows for stunt purposes, people would be in the J. Crew display window with a course packet.

Penultimate Thought: It’s been a few months and I still don’t know what a predicate felon is.

Final Thought: When I was a kid, I desperately wanted the Nerf Bow and Arrow.

He steps out on the thin line for the thrill sweeter than honey…

So as last Saturday marked the abrupt retreat of warmth from New England until about June 17th, I thought it appropriate to put on my best salmon-colored blazer and Slayer t-shirt and mosey over to Zeta Psi for a tiny get-together. Clearly certain events call for certain kinds of company to document/ clown said events, so I called He Hate Me and, after much negotiation, we decided to stop by. First of all, when I walked out of my dorm, I saw my breath. MY BREATH. Needless to say, I was outdone, but persevered. When He Hate Me and I arrived within the Zeta Psi compound (read: backyard parking lot), we made a bee-line for the wall on which we posted up, defiantly hoisting our britches and righteously proceeding to rockaway. Ok, I lied about that last part (I mean, it’s not like it was a Dominican club), but we did post up and just stare in amazement at the garbs people had procured for the occasion. All He Hate Me could muster was, “I hope people don’t actually own that” from behind his best Lenny Kravitz anteojos (word to my Spanish duns).

As is the custom at schools with several White people, the darker populace began to gravitate toward one another as if the Black phalanx might overthrow the proceedings and force rhythm upon the masses. Alas, this did not occur. But, I did have mad White girls come up and hug on me, which is nice. They’re an important fan base, and frankly, I can’t afford to let them down. That’s my meal ticket right there. Anyway, it was at this point that the momentum of the festivities, which were decent (on the Yale, outdoor, 80′s rock frat party sort of way), shifted to the amphibious den of ill-repute, otherwise known as Toad’s. It was just one of those nights where one had to see how this rock opera would end, so He Hate Me and I, along with two freshmen who were making conversation neither He Hate Me or I cared for in the least, began our journey to Babylon.

For those that don’t frequent Toad’s, a la Steve Biko, myself, Black people in general, any appearance has to be tantamount to the proper aligning of stars and the dash of randomness that is usually expedited by the consumption of booze, which I actually had very little of this night (Sidebar 1: I’m not exactly Copernicus here, but if people here didn’t have booze, I’m pretty sure they just wouldn’t do anything. Most people here don’t like to dance. They like to drink heavily and convulse about to music. If you threw some shoes in a dryer and recorded it, lots of these idiots would dance to it. Trust me. I’m telling you, if it was acceptable to booze in church {which it sort of is if you’re Catholic. Holler at the Eucharist wine when you see it on the street} people would be making evening service and bible study a priority). Well, as I approached the line leading into the fourth dimension, who should I see but Just Hate (another of the said infrequenters who I had not expected to see on this side of the tracks), bopping up the street saying, “Why am I about to go to Toad’s?” It was at this point that I could only guffaw heartily, knowing it was a done deal and that I was about to step into the Matrix.

Ahhhhh, Toad’s Place. The place, the smell…inexplicable. When you cross its threshold, all the rules that govern the game and general decency are rendered moot. Kind of like a star that gets sucked into a black hole. Whatever that star was before is irrelevant for it generally ceases to be. For the life of me, one of the best parts of Toad’s is the door. I feel like a real 007 getting in with an id that is clearly not me. Idiots! I feel like I pulled a real fast one on them, then I remember that I’m the douche bag that ponied up 5 bones to get in, and promptly ‘womp womp’ myself all the way to the “dance” floor. I believe it was Georgia O’Keefe who said, “A pond is nature’s floor of dance for the toad; and on that floor you’ll see several college students creating health hazards in heinously orgiastic fashion.” I have a soft spot for the classics.

So when I arrive, I am greeted by the customary high fives and short drunk girls that wish to hug me and spill drinks on my sleeves. Again, they’re my ace on the hole, so I oblige and two-step, never quite able to shake the feeling that I’m shuckin’ in some way. Anyway, when I reach the conclave of colored people and white boys that don’t fear them, I searched to do a systems check: Wallet? Good. Phone? Good. White girls jumping up and down doing the ‘TRL’ scream? Good. Because it was 12:30 when I got there, I had missed the Black concerto movement of this night club symphony and thus had to amuse myself by acting like an idiot to techno within the conclave, which you have to have stamina and intestinal fortitude to even attempt.

Good people of planet Earth, I swear to you, Toad’s is an alternate universe that is not to be comprehended by the feeble-minded. The sheer sensory assault is enough to put a permanent hiccup in your brain. Guys kissing girl, girls kissing guys, guys kissing guys, girls kissing girl. I mean, you want it, you got it. And no friends, it’s not that regular kissing. It’s Toad’s kissing. Which is a combination of labial contact in congress with a sweaty rub of the face and chin into the neck of the other party while dancing badly. Imagine if you tied up chest to chest with someone and their neck was in your face. Now imagine if you were frantically attempting to remove a bug from your face while ‘Call On Me’ played. It’s something like that. The best part is that during commercial breaks, the parties in question usually take the time to breath and allow saliva to return to their mouths. In those moments, you can see the slight twinkle of reason in their eye, the spark of ‘golly, I’m quite intoxicated’ which is quickly extinguished by a quick face-butt to the neck.

So anyway, Just Hate calls me and asks if I can get her in, because I’m her child molester sponsor (Sidebar 2: Why do people call people in night clubs, especially when they know you’re in a night club? I swear if you look around, you’ll always see a few people with a finger rammed into one ear saying the same “I’m by the dance floor!” over and over. If they’re really intrepid, they’ll even crouch to the ground, hoping enough of the sound will pass overhead. I’m always amazed by the people who can one-shout and out). Since I don’t have breasts, I have no pull in the place, but I do spy young Marion Jones (sans juice) across the floor. I guess the Force is strong in that one, because she already had Just Hate in tow (Sidebar 3: Sometimes, I really feel bad about White fright. Like, at a party, I’ll bump into someone on accident and they’ll say sorry before I do. What’s that about? Maybe I’ll start fakin’ at them with my signature ‘Say sumpin’).

Needless to say, we danced, uncomfortably, for a few songs. It’s tough dancing there. Not because it’s crowded, but the bad dancing around you is cancerous enough to make you want to take a trip the bar and post up. Granted, Urrrsherrr I ain’t, but I can say that i feel conspicuous by my rhythm at times. Luckily, techno came on and thus ended my night’s ballet. I mean, I clearly came back out for my Bon Jovi, but to do so is to spit in the face of Elihu, and why would I do that? But this didn’t happen before my going to the bar while one of my hockey duns spotted me a cold one (Sidebar 4: The hockey team is a group of just exceptionally good guys and though it will put me in the poor house, I really need to buy those idiots a few rounds one day. Pray for my budget). At the let- out, I was of course hit with water that someone threw on the way out, but since I don’t really like to fight, didn’t really care because it was a salmon blazer, and I knew the kid who tossed the water, I just gave my boy a high five and kept it moving. Remember, it’s an alternate universe.

Once out on the street again, patrons are literally lifted from their fogs, or at the least are just regular falling down drunk and get to see people in real light. More importantly, people get to see exactly how gross their feet got. You know how you can tell the age of trees by the rings? Well you can tell how good a time you had (read: how belligerently drunk you were) by how far up your foot Toad’s feet goes. It’s scientific (Sidebar: For the life of me, I will never understand how broads wear open-toed shoes in there. I wore old Air Force Ones and I knew they were gonna need rehab before their next debut. Even better than the walk of shame is seeing people the next day who still have Toad’s feet. Just epic). Mid- forefoot? Eh. Ankle? You definitely have one story you don’t want anyone to know about but are almost certain everyone saw.

And as always, you’re generally bound to see someone laid out on the sidewalk, having had a foreign object bust over their head. As I shake my head and step over these people, I can’t help but feel for them a bit. Most likely, they were feeling very brollick and within mere seconds they realize it’s 2:15 in the morning, kinda chilly, and they’re laid out, bleeding from the visage on a sidewalk in New Haven, CT. No one throws on the old button-down and Joop (holler at a throwback scent) figuring that’s how their night will end up. Instead of getting mollywhopped, I saw a buddy from North Kingstown and we rapped for a bit before I took it down for the night. On the Toad’s Scale, this night was a 7; a bit of intrigue, tom foolery, and good old American street violence. Peace to girls making out with girls in front of former boyfriends.

Penultimate Thought: It’s never good to first meet people when they’re drunk, and then subsequently, only see them in varying states of inebriation. I’ve just never seen it put people in a better light.

Final Thought: When I’m going out, I wear proper underwear for the occasion. I prefer the Hilfigers or the red Fruit of the Looms. A little confidence goes a long way.

I got off the 2 train in Brooklyn, on my way to a session…

So today in Valhalla aka Commons, the mood of the hall was general somber upon my 12pm arrival. Alas, this is the darker side of Commons. At these times, you look down at the plate of food you don’t want to eat and just sigh. Every so often, this collective malaise overcomes college students, especially the colored nation, not unlike France in the 1930′s. Unlike France, we’re not candy-asses and no Germans came to take over our table (although, at one point, the table had polarized to White and Black, which still makes even the Boy Wonder sigh from time to time).

Though Thursday is generally the last day of the week, the mood of the denizens seemed resigned, if not dejected. Although I generally argue that underclassmen, especially 13th graders (not like Canada’s old, bumass grade 13), don’t have the right to be anything less than effervescent, I couldn’t help but meet the glance of one such ’09er and exchange a mutually understood ‘yep’. Perhaps Thursday is the worst of days. The weekend approaches, and as you create a nice butt groove in a dining hall chair, you get a moment to realize you go to school in New Haven, CT, you have a reading repsonse/paper/problem set/book to read and you won’t be done doing any of that for between 8 months and 4 years. That sentiment translates differently for all types certainly, but it is accurate to say that, at times, the reality of the time left to serve is just not cool.

Before I started feeling lethargic, I was set to write a whole diatribe on women that go to Ivy league schools and then later become stay-at-home moms. On one hand, maybe it’s the most radical feminist thing they could do. ‘Yeah I chose to get two degrees and yeah I chose to have some kids. I chose to cut crusts off of PB and J sandwiches rather than cadavers. I Chose mufucka. CHOSE.’ That’s kinda gully. On the other hand, I also say that you’re women (read: have boobies, behinds, and vaginas) and since being a homemaker means someone else has to pay for the home (read: stay-at-homers need someone to be paid to even exist and many of that ilk are not terribly interested in making money first. Why do that when you can spend someone else’s?), you can save you and your folks 160 grand, and just marry a doctor/lawyer/i-banker anyway (and don’t you dare tell me that if a woman willed herself to do the above, that it could not be achieved. A guy doing that? He’s gonna be a hair poor. I’m not mad, I’m simply saying you don’t have to pay 160 grand to play the cards society has been dealing for years). Some will say it’s about gaining knowledge, finding yourself, etc. I say, read a book, take a trip, and keep it moving. You clearly have the money to blow. Besides, college is for lazy smart people anyway. Well I’ll be, I diatribed anyway. Peace to my mom for working a job.

Penultimate Thought: Young Tony Parker, who has been a disappointment thus far, is slowly working his way back into the fold.

Final Thought: On August 11th, 2005, I challenged anyone to find a better slow rap jam than ‘Space Age Pimpin’. It didn’t happen; therefore, ‘Space Age Pimpin’ is, without equivocation, the greatest slow rap song of all time. Praise Allah.

My survival tactics surrounded by blue lines on the loose leaf…

So today, as I was checking on where my Balkan Lands and Peoples class was located, it was brought to my attention that the class had indeed been moved to an entirely different day, at a time inwhich I already learn about White people that spoke Spanish and decided to ruin the lives and cultures of an indigenous people in a completely different hemisphere. Needless to say, that took the wind out of the ole America’s Cup, so I came back to my room after my one class (and requisite seminar in Commons) and took a nap with my shoes on.

I awoke from my slumber remembering I needed to start a reading response due at HGS at 5pm. It was presently 4pm. Sadly, I knew three hours ahead of time (2pm, pre-nap) that this response was not getting done, but I tried to muster the strength. I attempted to google some info, but in the end, I didn’t have the tools to bullshit and what’s worse, I didn’t have the wherewithal to do so. To be honest, as I headed out to buy a bath mat and hangers, I couldn’t help but wonder where my ability to produce male cow fecal matter went. I mean, that was something I used to hang the ole fedora on. Which could indeed be problematic once I put said fedora back on, considering the hat rack was made out of poop and all.

Anyway, as I’m walking to Family Dollar (where things in fact cost more than a dollar), I see this lady walking up the street with this beige-colored tubing in her hands all curled up. I guess the last thing that went through my mind was ‘her fingernails’, but indeed they were. Guinness book of World Records-style. Not Flo Jo style, but world’s tallest man or longest beard style. Needless to say, I was horrified and turned to see if the White girl next to me had seen. Unfortunately, she was on her cell phone, desperately hoping I didn’t make eye contact with her. It was at this point that I got to thinking about all the robberies that have been going on.

The Yale police chief emailed the whole school to say the last robbery was perpetrated by, and I quote, “a black male in his late teens or early twenties”. Word? In a city full of negroes, it was one of their persuasion that committed the heist? Well knock me over with a feather. I mean, I wish he coulda at least had some fun with it and said something like, “at the time, the suspect was seen in penny loafers and a SigEp t-shirt”. Now that would throw people for a loop (Sidebar 1: If I was a White girl here, I would get a hand cannon and stick people up all the time. Who the fuck is gonna believe someone saying a Pi Phi girl made them run their shit?). I mean, in the midst of all the turmoil, there are two postives that can be taken from this situation. Since I fit most descriptions anyway, it’s officially ok for me to become a stick-up kid. So thanks to the byrd g’s for opening the market up. More importantly, if I should ever need to get away with a dastardly crime on this campus, I can blame a Black guy. Peace to White fright. I dig this equal opportunity stuff.

Penultimate Thought: The relationship between George Jung and his father in ‘Blow’ always gets me a little choked up. I heart my old man.

Final Thought: This is shaping up to be a High Life week. Stay tuned.

Ain’t no love, and it sure is a pity…

So I was checking my email the other day, and I got my reading responses questions from my class about white people that spoke Spanish and decided to ruin the lives of the indigenous people in a completely different hemisphere. As I read the questions, I found myself getting more and more ticked off about the institution that is discussion section, especially in History.

First of all, section is class for a third time in any given week and it most likely occurs at an inconvenient time. I mean personally, I don’t know any better way to spend my early evenings than to sidle up with 12 of my closest pals while we talk about books we barely read with some prick from the Forestry school. Most TA’s have no background in the subject they’re TA’ing in. The best most can do is say something like “I majored in interior design and during that time I learned about Spanish tile”. Sweet you summumabitch. We’ve both read the book (well I didn’t) and don’t know anything more than whatever the author was trying to get us to understand. It’s history mufucka. Some shit happened, and someone else wrote about it, and at the end of 400 pages, they tell the whole world how they felt about it. By the time that process gets distilled to the section level, I think it’s a wee bit of overkill.

Honestly, does anyone, especially history majors, get anything out of section? Let’s be real here. We’re worried about three things: the midterm , the paper, and the final. That’s it. Section in no way enriches us and it’s not like a few discussion sections is gonna make me an authority on whatever subject we’re talking about. You wanna be an authority? Go to grad school and write essays about shit Ken Burns may or may not turn into a DVD box set (Sidebar 1: Being a history teacher here is ridonkulous, especially if it’s a lecture. You go to class twice a week and speak for, at most, an hour and fifteen minutes. Since you’re assumed to be the authority on the topic, no one questions anything you say in class and if someone raises their hand, you can pretend not to see it. You don’t grade shit and any residual questions get thrown to TA’s who haven’t the slightest clue as to what you were talking about. Glorious).

For the life of me, I can’t think of one section inwhich I said, “Wow. I feel like I have such a better grasp of the things I need to regurgitate on the final.” Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had some great TA’s and some decent discussions in section BUT I don’t need 50 minutes in WLH to have decent discourse and witty repartees. No one section has come within a Milky Way (the galaxy, you candy sluts) of any one off the cuffer with He Hate Me, Steve Biko, Just Hate or the venerable Young McGreevey. And those are four people I picked off the top of the ole bean and they don’t ask me to do reading responses about whatever the hell we were talking about. Do these summmumabastards think that people can’t do reading responses without reading the book? And why are you checking to see if I read the book anyway? They say it’s to stimulate discussion, but really, people just spend their time attempting to either show off the fact that they read or pawn of responses to make it look like they read. Don’t waste my time. Instead, let’s go bowling or maybe watch some skin flicks. Both are exceedlingly more worthwhile than a reading response that will probably showcase my talent for not reading and looking like I did anyway.

I promise, if the History department took away section for one semester, the grades would not decline in the least. Oh wait, you only really use TA’s because professors don’t grade shit, but the school has to look like it’s embiggening us (Simpson’s holler), so maybe my point is moot. Funny, Chemistry section is optional and just about everyone shows up. You make section optional in History and those TA’s will simply have more time to finish up their dissertations and essays no one cares about. To be fair, section does afford me the opportunity to unrelentingly use my ‘I’m Black, you can’t understand Whitey’ card, which is kinda nice. Now excuse me while I make up some reading responses. Peace to my History duns.

Penultimate Thought: Akon is a poor man’s Keith Sweat. The guy’s voice just cannot be taken seriously. He’s officially entered the Franternal Order of Freeways, Knights of Annoying Voices.

Final Thought: Some people, let’s call them Gabriela Magda, need to get their priorities straight and stay loyal to their readership.

Play I some music…

So I was eating in Commons (the Coliseum of campus dining halls) with two buddies of mine and after we got done bitching about the humidity and lame ass classes that we’ll go to like the book hoes we are, the subject turned to that evening’s activities. As I am generally over the Yale social scene, much to the chagrin of people that don’t even know my last name, the Inquisition of the Boy Wonder began. As the raising of eyebrows strained face muscles I don’t know the proper name for, the one inquisitor said to the other “Jon, doesn’t even go to Toad’s”. After apparently swallowing the throw-up that had been building up in her mouth, the owner of offended ears said “Why?” And my answer was because Toad’s just sucks, to which they said “Yeah, but everyone is there.” And it is that sentiment, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that I would like to address today.

As my buddy observed earlier this very evening, Commons is, pound for pound, better than Toad’s and allow me to explain why.

1. Music: Toad’s plays terrible music (because they don’t want too many Black people showing up). Commons plays none (and all kinds of Black people show up there in an eating/employment capacity). Since no music and bad music are just about the same, the musical distraction issue is moot and the Blackies are less likely to revolt.

2. Admittance: Most people on this campus cannot get into Toad’s without 2 id’s, therefore many are forking over the 5 bucks, unless they hit up the side door. Since most people have meal plans, you’re not forking over any money that you can see on every given shot. And guess what? If you don’t have a meal plan, there is STILL a side door.

3. Atmosphere: Some argue that they go because everyone is at Toad’s. By “everyone”, we mean the sports teams and their periphery groupies/friends. If you’re at Toad’s, you fall into one of those three categories (Yep. Even ole Jon does). Period. Well friends, Monday through Thursday, you can see “everyone” in Commons after about 7pm. AND the hockey team doesn’t pee at the salad bar.

4. General shenanigans: Granted, I have seen my fair share of hilarity at Toad’s Place. That’s the thing, something has to “happen” at Toad’s for it to be a worthwhile endeavor. Remember friends: this is a “dance” night club, not the Laugh Factory. Night clubs are for dancing and ogling women. Leave the jokes to Dave Chappelle (damn you, you evil genius. Come back to us). In fact, I think it’d be much funnier to see two unlikely people feeling each other up next to the Cocoa Krispies and bagels.

5. The floor: Let’s not even talk about it. I would drag my tongue along the Commons floor on the most humid day of the year before I went to a knee, in a thick pair of slacks, on Toads’ floor for fear of getting botulism.

6. Booze. The most controversial topic of all. Now, it’s a known fact that you have to be drunk before you go to Toad’s anyway, so it’s legitimate to assume most of your consumption of grandpa’s ole cough medicine occurs before you get there. Besides, unless you’re like me and have Canadians that love you, you’re paying for every drink. Commons? A flat fee. One swipe (that you didn’t pay for anyway) and you can eat and drink as much as you like. And if you’re that much of a boozehound, I’m sure you can bring some Bacardi in a Nalgene (strategically duct taped of course)and kick your Hi-C up a bit.

In a 6-0 decision, Commons is the middleweight champine. Now go out there and drink one for the Gipper.

Penultimate Thought: Parents of kids that play soccer just can’t be that interested in the game.

Final Thought: Like I said earlier, the sun is leaving New Haven until next August. Get your booties out kiddies.

And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills…

So this evening, a buddy of mine and I decided to masticate collectively in a commissary on our fine campus. Basically, we was eating and shit. I suggested the law school. Though not known for its bounty (indeed one must choose wisely within the $7.25 parameters), the law school has a plethora of beverages and quite a tasty spicy chicken sandwich (though I always have to get it without cheese. Cost-cutting baby). About twenty minutes before the food fest, my pal calls and says we should hit up HGS (grad school) because they have quite the salad bar. I’ll leave to you to decide whether my buddy is a gay man or a girl. I say, sure and we meet up at HGS.

So when we get there, my Spider-sense starts telling me this has Custer’s Last Stand written all over it, but I swipe my card through anyway. First of all, the HGS hot food line looks a restaurant kitchen. When you’re eating in a restaurant, you know that part of the kitchen you see when you hear the kitchen door swing open and you turn, Pavlov’s dogs style, to see if your order is up? It looks kinda like that. I felt like I walked in on someone in the bathroom, except in the kitchen (Sidebar 1: Restaurant kitchens are gross. I feel bad for celebrities that have to walk through them to get in and out of the joints. How do they eat after seeing that shit?).

So anyway, the food was clearly donated by the county jail, and I proceeded to get some pizza from under the heat lamps, which I’m fairly sure gave my forearms cancer. Being the health nut that I am, I went over to this allegedly incredible salad bar and found my self in a gunfight. With flies. I swear man, I felt like Doc Holliday; swiping, waving the rival gang away from the fruit I was getting. And daggummit, I had all those flies high-tailing it for John Legend’s glass with the quickness. Or so I thought. As I triumphantly scooped my fruit on to my plate, I noticed a winged soldier had found a syrupy, fructose grave betwix my pineapple. Perhaps that was his final salvo. Bravo, brave gladiator. So I snapped for about 17-18 seconds, then went the table and ate my pizza, a napkin draped over my spartan friend’s fruity tomb.

Clearly I was grumpy for a good ten minutes and kinda looked around and hated on grad school students for breathing air and going to grad school (Sidebar 2: Seriously, have you ever seen these clowns? unlike doctors or lawyers, who are necessary {whatever your opinion of the latter may be}, they’re going to extra school in order to publish an opinion only people of their ilk care about. Newsflash: You can write shit no one cares about on livejournal for free). Now, if you’re in grad school and we’re friends remember this: I still like you, you’re probably not ugly, and consider the source of the statement. I mean, to a guy such as myself, finishing regular college is a matter of interpretation. Grad school? I went to school on Saturdays. My grad work is just about done.

Penultimate Thought: The other day, I wrote about White rock chicks only to remember Stevie Nicks didn’t sing lead on ‘Go Your Own Way’. Mea culpa. The song that truly prompted the whole outburst was ‘Landslide’ (performed early that night by a capella chicks) which she did kick ass on. And no, Joss Stone STILL can’t roll up her mic cord.

Final Thought: Girls should never run out of underwear. it’s a known fact, along with the fact that girls don’t go number two, that girls have enough underwear to last a few nuclear winters.