Best Of: June 2007

This was one of Jim's first "Fear and Loathing" pieces, which is generously ripped off from Hunter Thompson, as far as style was concerned. He's argued that he's paying an homage to the late cultural icon, where as the rest of us on the editorial staff call it blatant plagiarism. Anyway, with Jim out of the office for the next week or so,(work related stuff at his OTHER job...) we thought it would be appropriate to run this old post this weekend because it is La Kermesse back in Maine through Sunday. Enjoy- Ed.

All names have been changed to protect the guilty.*

If you live in Southern Maine, passed through on your way some place else, or are vaguely aware that what some consider to be a suburb of Boston, is in fact a totally different state, you might've heard of the little shin-dig the locals up this way call "La Kermesse."

I don't know what the name means, but I can tell you it's a big French festival complete with rides for the kids, poutine for the people who know what the fuck that is, and a beer tent. The festival itself is preceded by a "block party" on Thursday night, followed by a parade that will open up the fair grounds come Friday afternoon.

Basically, it's an excuse for people to be drunk in public. Not that anyone who lives in the greater Biddeford area really needs an excuse to do so.

So over the last few years (aside from the fact I was living in New York) I've pretty much stayed away from the neon colored orgiastic culmination that is La Kermesse. I really have no desire to see people I went to high school with, whether they're doing better off than me or not, nor do I want to run into the citizens of Biddeford on the whole.

But last night, Thursday June 21st, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of the fray, on the York Street Bridge with some friends, most of whom I didn't even know two hours prior, standing and looking at fireworks through blurry bloodshot eyes, and surrounded by Parliment smoking, stroller pushing, tank-tops-with-skinny-arms having trash. How did I get here? Allow me to illustrate.

I get home from the office at about five, and my pocket buzzes just as I'm pulling off of 95 at the Biddeford exit. It's my friend *John*, a guy I went to high school with and is probably the most genuine guy I know, other than Hokie. He asks if I'd be interested in hanging out, and at first I'm thinking he's putting a card game together, and being broke, I say I'm going to pass.

Instead, however, he asks if I want to go to the fireworks "and shit" tonight. I totally forget that it's the La Kermesse weekend, only passing the giant fucking yellow billboard at the 95 on ramp everyday, twice, for the last two weeks. I say sure, and get a time, and proceed about my evening per usual.

I have dinner with mom which is just pizza out of the box. I manage to burn the roof of my mouth.

I get to John's house a little after 1930 and park in front. He calls from the window to come up stairs and I do so, only to find his drunk younger brother sprawled out across his bed, jabbering on about something. He's dressed head to toe in American Eagle and sports a frat-boy tan. I'm not exactly sure what's going on, because John's busy playing Counter Strike on his computer and his mom is yelling at his brother, who's managing to be at his most incoherent.

Apparently, John's little brother just got home from college for the summer. And he's totally shitfaced.

So that being said, I dig into my back pack and produce a can of PBR and sip on it as I wait to see what's going to happen for tonight. John escorts me out, and his mother calls out that she doesn't want his younger brother getting outside. Dumbly, I stand at the door, with it wide open, as like a cat, the little brother scampers out into the bright wilderness.

We go down into John's basement where he has a pool table, as well as other assortments of entertainment displayed about. It's like your grandparent's rumpus room, if this was the 1970s and people still had rumpus rooms. Or even put those two words together. You know what I mean.

Low ceilings, beer cans littered about, a used and tired looking punching bag propped up against a far wall. The door to get in is never locked and requires a leaned in shoulder to pop it open. We stand around, discussing his younger brother's lack of alcoholic tolerance.

"I told him not to come home. I sent him a text. 'You're shitfaced, mom's home, don't come home'" John says as he works some chalk on to a pool cue. I sip my beer and nod along, thinking back to my kidney destroying first year of higher education. At the time being, John's little brother is sitting, splayed out on the back yard, telling everyone who asks if he's ok that he's in fact, twenty-one years old.

"Dude, you gonna be good?"

"I'm twenty-one!"

"....Ok..."

This brings us to John's other two friends who show up at about this time. *Jerry* and *Dan* know John from college and I guess all play musical instruments together. Dan's a tall dark haired guy who still looks collegate and Jerry's built like a keg, and reminds me somewhat of a guy I went to high school with. Both of these guys are cool shits.

A game of billiards breaks out and John hooks his iPod into a stereo and we take turns talking about stupid shit that guys talk about when they play billiards. Who we've fucked, who we want to fuck, how fucked up we are, how fucking gay something is, how fucking gay you are, and how fucking gay we all are. It's a regular round table of fuck patois.

Suddenly, John's mom appears downstairs, visibly upset. She states that the younger brother has "taken off" up the street, with some female friends of his. She wants him back at the house, pronto.

Allegedly, according to John, his brother started drinking around four in the afternoon when he went to a friend's house, and came back stumbling. He's not much of a guy; he's probably 6' even and 150 lbs tops. Also, he's only eighteen, and although belongs in a fraternity, probably can only muster to hold down four Bud Lights at the most. Also, he probably likes to kiss men (John's words, not mine)

Like an crack army assault unit, myself, John, Jerry and Dan climb into John's Mazda and tear off down the street looking for his brother. It doesn't take us long to come up on him from behind, as he's leading a pack of about four high school aged girls down the hill towards the festivities below. He's weaving all over the side walk, hands out to his sides, head lolling from side to side.

John, who is also a former Law Enforcement Professional, expertly puts the car up on a sidewalk blocking his brother's path from furthering. We all step out of the car as if it was planned. We look like something out of a cheesey cop drama on syndicated television. One of the girls in the pack that was behind the little brother even exclaims to no one:

"Wow, you guys are like a SWAT team!"

You're fucking A right we are, missy.

John makes contact, and Jerry and Dan are quick to block the brother in like a wall of flesh. There's a little bit of a confrontation with a young girl who's obviously on something, but I take her aside and keep a perimeter. The girl says to me "I'm not scared of you guys, my dad's a cop."

"So are we."

"Oh."

With some explanation on my part and some coaxing on John's part, we snatch up his brother and pull off down a side street and get him back home. Where he will pass out sitting on a toilet ten minutes later.

Fast forward to later in the evening. The other gentlemen and I have been playing billiards, shooting the shit (shit patois), and throwing ping-pong balls at water filled cups on a ping-pong table. At some point in the evening, purely due to my inebriated state, I produce my scrotum and announce that I've seemed to have gotten gum on my shorts.

This psyches out Jerry, and leads Dan and I to take the title of Supreme Champions of Beruit, 2007.

John then receives a call from a girl he has some history with, and I encourage him to have her come over. My thoughts are that if she gets here, gets drunk enough, we could probably run a train on her.

Seriously.

*Celeste* shows up about forty-five minutes later, and she's your typical cute college girl. Nothing remarkable or unremarkable about her at all. Cute body, cute face, cute personality. John puts her on "myspace picture duty" as we continue to play Beruit.

Soon after, five strong, we make our way down the hill into the pit of sin, all while glittery explosives go off over our heads. The entire time the five-some is together, we're busting balls, laughing, clutching our stomaches, and weaving all over the road as we walk. People are lined up on both sides of the street, heads tilted skyward as they watch the pyrotechnics from their properties.

Almost as if, years ago it had been planned out, we pass by the sewage treatment plant as the entrance to the lower downtown area of Biddeford, where the "block party" is being held. All around us, carnivale-style games, people, food, etc surround us. The booms and sizzles of fireworks rain down on us from over head. The air is coated slickly with a haze of residual burning Marijuana, and it makes your skin feel greasy. Cheap looking, broken people shuffle their dirty-faced children past us. Each one of them clutching a plastic sword and swinging it expertly at crotch level.

We weave through the crowd and make our way to the bridge. Along the way we, inevitably, come across people we know- high school people, teachers, neighbors, etc. A guy I haven't seen since early on in college, comes up to John and I and puts us both in a head lock and squeezes. He goes on to tell us that the next day is the day he's signing his papers to be released from the Army. I tell him good luck with that.

We get offers to go drink at bars and parties and so on. But the collective mood of the five-some is to march back up the hill to John's, play a few more games of Beruit, and possibly clusterfuck.

Seriously.

We weave our way back through the crowd, heading back the way we've come. The fireworks are over now, with a substandard "grand finale" which lit up the sky like it was day time, and twice as loud, and suddenly I become aware of the increased police presence.

It seems all around us, cops in polos and standard uniforms, with ear pieces for their radios have materialized out of thin air. There's probably a ratio of every three people, one cop. It's startling.

Jerry is probably the most drunk out of everyone, and as we pass some carnivale-style games, the chatter starts to pick up.

One game involves a small inflatable pool filled with water containing rubber duckies. I'm not sure the premise of the game but that's exactly what it is. As we pass by, Dan says to Jerry, something like:

"I'll give you twenty bucks if you jump into that fucking pool,"

Of course, Jerry turns him down. It's going to take a considerably higher amount of money for him to engage in such baffoonery.

"Dude, back me up!" Dan slaps John on the chest and John grudgingly agrees to go in on twenty bucks as well. Now the dare's up to forty.

All eyes turn on to me. I look around, knowing that I don't have even ten dollars to my name, because I just paid all my bills today, I nod absently, and the crowd seems to go wild.

"Sixty bucks dude! Just jump in!" And Jerry still throws up the block.

This whole time, the only voice of sobriety and reason is Celeste's.

"You're so going to get arrested. There's cops all over the place," and this seems to hit home with Jerry immensely.

"Yeah dude, I don't want to get arrested on this dumb shit," He says and starts to balk, heading back towards John's house.

To be completely honest with you, gentle reader, I don't know why I chose the words to say at that particular moment, but maybe deep down, I wanted to see a little chubby guy jump into an inflatable pool filled with little rubber duckies. Maybe my dark side came out of me at that instant. Maybe I wanted to see if he'd get arrested, based purely on my deeply routed curiosity. Maybe I just wanted to call his bluff.

I lean over, touching Jerry's shoulder, placing my lips next to his ear lobe and say this:

"Do this, and you'll be the stuff of legends. People will talk about this for the rest of their lives. People you don't even know, but they're standing there, waiting for you to jump into that fucking pool. You'll be remembered forever. This is your legacy."

And with that, Jerry's eyes glazed over. A slow, goofy grin spread across his fat Donkey Lips lips and suddenly I glanced down and saw that he was standing in stocking feet, his shoes somehow coming off.

You see, men strive to leave a mark on this world, no matter how big or small. We want glory in all shapes and forms. To us we live for the conquest. This is why men climb Mt. Everest.

The psychological erection I gave him proved the jolt he needed. Much to the protest and physical strikes I was taking from Celeste, Jerry turned and started at a good trot towards the inflatable pool, some fifty yards back. We all stood watching in mixed disbelief, drunken grins pasted on to our faces, all of us chanting in unison "he's not really gonna..."

And then, he goes sideways in midair.

That's when I turned away, shocked, scared, knowing he was about to be swarmed upon by a mass of trigger happy Nazi, Nixon-esque Biddeford Cops.

What felt like an eternity passed as we four stood looking at each other. John starts to walk off, turning around only to say "I cant be caught up in this, I just applied to these guys like a week ago. Call me when you find out what his bail's going to be, and I'll come down and bail him. But I can't be here for this."

It's Dan who stands tall on behalf of his friend Jerry, stating "dude, we can't ditch him," and Celeste is quick to agree. Admittedly, my feelings were with John, and I teetered on the edge of staying or going, my vote being the decider.

But then, out of the crowd, as if it was the end of the film "Rudy" our pudgy counter part and La Kermesse Carnivale Terrorist remerges, soaked head to toe, jogging back to catch up with us. A roar goes out, as we collectively welcome him back, slaps on his back, hugs, and "holy shits" had all around.

Jerry ends up scraping his knees, and as he takes a seat by the sewage treatment plant, he retells of what happened:

"I fucking jumped in, and this guy, this guy grabs my collar on my shirt and goes 'you're not going anywhere' and I tried to run, but this cop comes up to me and goes 'do you have three hundred dollars for bail?' and I say 'no sir,' and he asks me my name and I tell him, and that was it." And for as simple of a story as it is, we're all huddled around our new hero in total awe.

"That was some pretty stupid shit," he finishes. He also makes it known that he wants his money ASAP.

We climb the hill back to John's house where things eventually wind down. Jerry and Dan decide to go out to Old Orchard to meet up with some other people to retell the tale of the night. Celeste, expertly deflecting my drunken horny advances, decides to go home ("I've gotta get home," she says "You can come back to my home," I come back with, "it's a home....") and I pick up my bag, wish everyone a good night, and manage to drive myself home without getting pulled over.

...And that's why I don't go to La Kermesse.

My Roommate Doesn't Listen

I'm sunburnt, so that makes me cranky, which is exactly the catalyst I need to write about my idiot roommate.

For the first few months we've been living together, I've been really trying to help him score. And by "score", I mean just talk to a member of the opposite sex. And by "talk to a member of the opposite sex", I mean, be able to approach a woman without one of the following happening:

-Him freezing up.

-Him coming across crazy/creepy.

-Him sexually assaulting someone.

I've been successful and not successful at the same time. Successfully he hasn't sexually assaulted anyone, but he hasn't even so much been able to approach anyone either. Numerous times he's made mention in the living room he's going to go down to the local dance club only to drive there, sit in his truck looking at the people going inside, and then turning around and coming home. When he comes home he says "you should've seen the girls going in!" which will prompt me to say "did you TALK to any of them?" and he'll say "No."

Today, as I was attempting to rearrange my room, he walks in with a cup of Cherry Garcia and starts in on this gem:

"So I went to Barnes and Nobles today and I started to flip through some of the like ... 'Relationships for Dummies' books and stuff. I think I figured out what my problem is," and I stop making my bed and turn and look at him.

"And what did you figure out?" Fooling myself into thinking that he's about to reveal something utterly Earth shattering about his psyche or inner mental workings.

"I just lack confidence..."

Now, I've only been telling him this for MONTHS. Ever since I met this kid, he's the least confident person I've encountered. I've told him repeatedly that he just needs more confidence, that all his problems root out at the fact he isn't comfortable in his own skin. I've done everything I can to help boost his confidence, from giving him frequent compliments about his strengths (he's genuinely funny -albeit a little crazy- good looking, tall, and when he calms down a little bit, he has a very engaging personality) and pushing him to expand the limits of his comfort zone by putting him into ever increasingly uncomfortable situations (such as bringing girls over to him or dragging him to different places/people/events and making him look like an ass, all in an effort for him to get over himself.).

His problem has always been this lack of confidence, which is upheld by some sort of standard that he's supposed to be this cool character. If I could break him of this line of thinking, he'd instantly become more comfortable with himself.

If I can let me ego talk for a second, I think he wants to be me, or at least model himself an avatar that's like me. He always sees me being a cool customer, etc. But the fact of the matter is, I'm not cool, I'm not comfortable in my own skin, I'm highly self conscience with a lot of insecurities. The difference between he and I is I've learned how to hide those negatives or turn them into positives. He wears his insecurities like a Cosby Sweater.

It took me YEARS to develop some sort of confidence. So I don't expect him to have a metamorphosis overnight, but I at least expect him to try.

And seriously, what's sadder than a guy going to the movies and dinner by himself all the time in order to "meet people." HELLO ASSHOLE! YOU CAN'T MEET PEOPLE WHEN YOU WON'T EVEN TALK TO THEM!

I liken him to a novice ice skater, who is out on the ice for the first time. They want to do everything they can to stay upright, for fear of falling. All they need to do is fall on their ass one time to see that falling on your ass doesn't hurt, it's just a little embarrassing. And even then, 9 times out of ten, someone will be there to help pick you up, because we've all experienced falling on our asses, and we all know what it's like. He is not special. None of us are.

What my toe-headed roommate needs to do is fall on his ass, hard. Then he can skate all day.

So when he told me that he read a book and self diagnosed himself as a self-conscience social misfit I nearly lost my shit. I spiked my pillow cases and turned on him.

"Hello! I've only been telling you that for months! What the fuck dude! Is this thing on! Is this thing on!" And I mimic a microphone, blowing into it and tapping it on the head. He just stares. "Did you buy the book?"

"No..."

"Well thank god for that," I say and pick my pillow cases back up, sighing. "Why are you so afraid of getting hurt?"

"Because I don't want to get hurt?" He says back. I can understand his fears, but they're baseless. He's never been hurt in his life. He's forever a flincher, the kind of guy who will always flinch back when he's scared or tense or nervous. He needs to unclench his fucking ass, and start hearing what I have to say to him.

Buyer Beware

For the longest time I've been a huge proponent of actually paying for the music I download. I understand how incredibly stupid that sounds, when at any given time, day, place even the most inept person behind the controls of a computer (hi dad!) can find and download their favorite hits for free.

I've always had the mind set that you get what you pay for. There's a reason why the shitty "on sale" power drill is on sale, and the Makita is 300.00 USD. The same principles can be applied to Wendys and White Castle, Sony and LG, Disneyworld and Busch Gardens.

These things are better, won't break down on you, won't give you horrible spraying shits that coat the bowl is fecal spatter, and won't make your kids wonder why you're such a dead beat. The extra you're paying for is convienence, the ability to be rest assured that things are going to be ok.

So when faced spending 99% of one dollar to download a song, I don't see it as a huge deal. I've always figured that for the price of a dollar I was not paying for a song, but guarenteeing that what I was getting was a quality download of the exact song I wanted, without some dickweed teenager's trojan virus-laced coding within my copy of Busta Rhymes "Pass The Couvousier (remix.)".

But the downside to paying a dollar for a song off of iTunes is that shit adds up quick. Like the proverbial Lays Potato Chip, you can't have just one. I started to look at my credit card receipt (which I use to download music from the iTunes Store) and noticed that the bulk of my purchases from iTunes was hovering around about 10 to 15 bucks a month. And when you're dropping triple that on gas every two weeks, plus groceries, etc, it's quickly realized it's an unneeded expense.

So I started to ask around about free downloading sites or "torrents." Which ones were good, which ones to stay clear of, etc. The Lady turned me on (...) to uTorrent where you get a host of five or six other torrent sites that feed off of each other through one search. She downloaded it to my beleagured Dell laptop (I also trusted her because she was running pretty much the same programme on her beloved iMac book) and started to rob the music industry at mousepoint.

This wasn't my first foray into the world of illegally downloaded music; as mentioned before I had dabbled in this practice well before the days of iTunes. If you're reading this and are under the age of 21, you probably have no clue that Napster at one time used to be 100% free, and spawned warped and horribly virus-ridden children in the form of Morpheus, BearShare, LimeWire, etc, not unsimilar to how Gaea spawned the Greek Gods by slicing open Chronus's ballsack.

These programmes fed off the "Peer2Peer" networking system which allowed you to download files from multiple people or "sources" at once.

Have you ever been to an orgy? I have (hi mom!), and it's not as cool as you'd think it would be (if that's your thing) because it's literally a clusterfuck. People stepping all over each other, not knowing names or even faces, just literally fucking each other over to get what you want. And as we all know, unprotected sex with multiple people - as in transmitting files indiscriminately - can lead to viruses. This has always been a major concern of mine, on both the literal and figurative fronts.

So I left the "free" world of downloading music (and I say "free" with quotes because really, nothing is free, what you skimp on with cost of a download, you pay for with some Asian nerd wiping your harddrive at the price of 65.00 USD an hour) and started to pay for it. Whatever, it's only a dollar.

And there were considerable advantages to paying for the download: It didn't take literally all day (or multiple days) to finishing downloading a song or album. And when the song or album finished, you weren't left with some piss-poor quality, purposely mislabled, recorded-in-a-basement garage band/wanna-be rapper.

Nothing is more irratating than searching for Ice Cube's 1994 album "The Predator" and coming back with some cock-smoker's own personal rendition of "It Was A Good Day."

All in all I've found that using a torrent isn't that bad. I haven't had a lot of issues with the downloads, only that the reception is spotty and it takes, at it's fastest, up to an hour to download some stuff. I do miss the point-click-download-play function that made iTunes so great, along with the album art, because I'm incredibly impatient and have an ever decreasing attention span.

I'm curious to see if with gas prices going up, will iTunes do something to prevent more consumers from jumping ship as I have? Will they recognize that people in their targeted demographic (which would be iPod owners, which is virtually everyone) pass on filling their iPod in leu of filling their tanks? Someone should call up Steve Jobs and present him with this problem so that we (and by "we" I mean, Me. Capitalized. That's right.) can get the best of both worlds. Either start having gas stations hand out free iTunes gift cards with every x amount of gallons pumped, or Apple can start handing out free gas cards with every dollar amount purchased on iTunes.

It'd be win-win for everyone involved.

Short Fiction: Turn Key Operation

Jim has said on more than one occasion how proud he is of this piece of work, and we're inclined to agree. This short fiction was inspired by a television show he had watched last summer about the booming (no pun intended) tourist industry in Israel, and he took it and ran. It originally ran on his myspace.com blog back in June of 2007. And we're running it here because it's Jim's day off and he doesn't feel like being cooped up in the office in front of his computer. -ed.

At 11:00 pm it would’ve looked like any bar in New York City, with its bright orange neon lighted sign, the patrons out front smoking, chatting idly on a Friday night. Only this wasn’t New York City, this was Tel Aviv, and these weren’t trendy New Yorkers, but Israelis, Greek tourists, employees from the near by British Consulate, what have you.

I bought the bar five years ago from an army buddy who was getting out of Israel. He lost his son in a bus bombing that summer, and since then didn’t have the heart to keep up the nightlife lifestyle. He sold it to me, totally turn key, for a song. I was happy to have something to invest my time in since leaving the IDF.

It needed a lot of work; the floors were scuffed and horrible to look at, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment. There was a small stage towards the back, but the amplifiers were blown out and there was only one tv in the whole place, directly over the bar. I won’t even start on the condition of the bathrooms.

So I spent three weeks, every day, for about fourteen hours a day remodeling the place to my specifications. It took my entire life savings, over forty thousand dollars to get the place the way I wanted it. I put in plasma screen tvs, bought new speakers, new fixtures, hired some new staff, restocked the liquor, bought some new signs and renamed the place from Koffa’s to The Ocean.

And it was a good name because we were in essence right on the ocean. There was a tiny strip of other clubs and bars along the water, and mine now faced out so that during the middle of the day the place was nice and airy, and at night there was a gentle breeze that would blow in through the front double doors. It was literally paradise.

That was until tonight.

It’s 02:00 am now, and the paramedics, army personnel, police, everyone has finally left. The front of the building is black, the cars across the street are black, the ground is wet. At first it was an oily slick of hot blood and body parts, now it’s with water from fire hoses. The lieutenant responding to the scene explained to me that it would take a while to get a guy with a flatbed wrecker out here to get the cars, so it’d be likely morning before the charred automotive remains would be off the street. He suggested that I get home and get some rest if I wasn’t going to get checked out at a hospital. And then he told me that I should probably put my gun away.

I hadn’t even noticed it, until he mentioned it. I had been clutching a Berretta that I kept behind the bar in my right hand the whole time, the whole hour. My hand was numb, my arm throbbed, my face coated in a filth that consisted of blood, dirt and tears. I tucked the gun into my waist band and walked back inside.

There had been over two hundred people inside the bar when the bomb had gone off. I had been behind the bar, pouring a Bombay Sapphire Gin into a martini glass and flirting with a young American girl, much to my girlfriend Sara’s distaste. I remember pouring the drink, turning to see Sara standing at the other end of the bar, holding her waitress tray, a few empty glasses, apron tied tight around her slender hips. She was shooting lightening into my eyes and I shrugged sheepishly, grinning at her.

She was beautiful, long black hair, 5’6, slender body. During the reconstruction of the bar she had come in in the middle of the day to ask about tabling on weekend nights, she was 19 at the time, I was 27, and I was in love with her.

We dated off and on, mostly on, seldom off. We were always hot for each other, and we would do the most absurd things to make each other jealous. I’d flirt with the young tourists, she’d allow herself to be pawed by the male patrons to get better tips. But even when we were off, I’d always walk her to her apartment at the end of the night. And if we were on, I’d follow her up.

So here I am, standing there, holding a bottle of gin looking at her. She simply shakes her head and walks on over. She leans across the bar and puts her face to mine and tells me that I’m a dirty old man. She’s 24 now, I’m 32, and she pushes her fingers into my receding hair line, and grabs a hold of my short black curls. I smack her lightly on her cheek and tell her that I always knew she loved dirty old men. She smiles sweetly, turns, and struts off back towards the front of the bar where there’s more tables that need tending to.

At about that time, things seem to happen in a lurch, like your DVD is on the fritz. I put the bottle of gin down on the back bar, and turn to look out the big picture windows at the crowd outside. It’s a typical Friday night, the place is an orgy of young faces, laughing, singing, drinking. There’s not a bad seed in the crowd, no one here looking for a fight or to prove themselves a man. It’s mostly tourists and youngsters from the nearby hotel resorts. I let myself smile.

I approach the register to swipe the young blonde’s credit card, when I notice my doorman, Ari stand up from his stool and walk towards someone on the sidewalk. It’s something in his walk, his approach that makes me stop in the middle of what would be an uninterrupted credit card transaction. I stand watching him, and see where his eyes are staring at. I hired Ari on a recommendation from a friend who’s still working in the Mosad, he told me Ari knew his shit, and was looking for some laid back weekend work. I had no problem hiring him. He’s bald, 6’3 and two hundred and sixty pounds, he fills out a black t shirt like a typical bouncer, only unlike a typical bouncer he carries a degree in five different disciplines of martial arts and is the fore most expert in Israeli Krav Magna.

Ari walks up to a small skinny sickly guy in a brown coat. His hair is wet and combed to the side of his head. From where I’m standing at the bar, which is about twenty-five yards from the scene outside, I can see the whites of his eyes. I can see his Adam’s Apple bob in his throat. And just as I’m getting the thought into my head that there’s something very wrong with this, the coat puffs out, like he’s got an air compressor under it. It balloons out from his body and tears. I smell cordite and burning, there’s a flash and what feels like my skull ripping open.

I come to on my back, covered in glass and booze. The bar is on fire, I can feel a rumbling slowly fading under my back, against my spine. I wasn’t out long, maybe half a second. I try to roll over to get on my feet but nothing in my body is responding to the commands from my brain. So I dumbly lay on my back, looking at the far ceiling from between my bent legs.

Sound comes back like you’re turning up the volume on the tv after putting it all the way down. It’s a slow build, first there’s the screams and moans. And then there’s the sound of feet moving. There’s furniture being tipped over, so on.

Finally my body goes into motion. I feel like I’m watching it more than participating. But I feel this need to do something, and then the shockwave rips through my body and brain: Sara. She was right by the door when the bomb went off, oh Jesus.

I turn over and feel every inch of my body reject the notion of moving, but I fight through it, pure adrenaline running through my veins. It’s not anger, but a sense of need. Like being under water and needing air, and fighting to break through to the surface. As I turn over, I’m looking at the Berretta, my nose almost touching the grip as it sits under the register as if it was oblivious to the bombing. I snatch it and push myself up on the bar.

There’s a fog, everything’s wet, people are lying on the ground withering, twisting. Some aren’t moving at all. Some don’t have all their parts. On a far table that’s still standing upright there’s a hand with a wedding ring on it.

The whole front of the building is blown inwards. Paper is all over the place, the floors black and shiny. Cars across the street black, glass everywhere. I clear the bar, clutching the gun and wade through the living Hell all around me. I try not to step on anyone but it’s hard to tell. Ceiling tiles hanging down, insulation on fire, little fires all over the place. I slip and fall down, my hand comes back up red.

Bodies are literally piled on top of each other and it’s hard to tell who’s who and who’s still alive and who isn’t. I call out her name, my voice is hoarse and strained. I can barely hear over the ringing and the people screaming. There’s soldiers outside with Galils and Uzis looking around in a cover pattern. An ambulance is already out front, stretchers already on the ground, people being haphazardly rolled on to their backs and lifted. Fuck a neck brace at this point.

I call her name again, and still nothing. For some reason I’m comfortable accepting that she’s dead. My rationale is that at least she didn’t suffer, hopefully. Hopefully she was close enough to the bomber to be obliterated and isn’t lying under a pile of bodies suffocating and bleeding. God it’s so hot.

Finally there’s a tug at my pant leg and I look down. I see her face, half of it. Her mouth is caked in black, and a rope of spit is between her two lips as she’s trying to talk, maybe say my name. I drop to my knees and grab her up, cradling her head in my arms.

I don’t remember crying, I don’t remember saying anything, just holding and squeezing. Sara’s body is half black, burnt. Her right side is blacked out completely. No hair on her head, just tufts on the left side. Her ear is missing, her eye is shut, mouth doesn’t even look like a mouth, just a twisted wound.

Her right leg is missing, a bloody stump slowly lifting and falling. I shake a little, and she clutches to my chest with a bloody paw. She shudders in my arms, like a gentle cough and her grip gets tighter. God, just hold on, please stay, please.

I lift my head and do as I was taught in the army. I call for a medic, I scream for a medic. I can’t find my voice, it’s buried under all the bodies and debris. I start to cry then, or maybe I’ve been crying all along. I just need someone to help me, help her. The anger then starts to build as she starts to fade.

Finally, a young medic in white runs over and grabs her from me. He pushes me aside and I try to get back to her, get closer to her. I want to tell her I’m not letting her go, I’m not leaving. I can’t find the strength, and I watch them drag her outside, her stump of a leg waving good bye as her head lulls backwards, her burnt face looking up at the young medic in white.

I would later find out that she died on the way to the hospital.

I received a check for two-point-eight million dollars in insurance coverage, and decided that it would be better to just move away. I could relate then to my friend who left Israel after losing his boy. Who wants to own a bar caked in blood?

On The Road: My Roommate The Philistine.

(I produce a blue harmonica in C Major from my pocket)
Roommate: What the hell is that!?
Me: ...A harmonica?
RM: Why?
Me: I'm going to play it on the ride home...
RM: but dude I wanted to listen to music on the ride home!
Me: But this is music... (Plays a few notes)
RM: That's not music that's just sound!

God Is My Co-Pilot (He Rides On My License Plate!)

For the life of me I couldn't tell you why I was watching FOX News last night when a story about how Florida wanted to sell to it's drivers, a religious license plate that can be registered to your car.

The show featured some obnoxious ultra-conservative spawn of Anne Coulter-twat who was (of course) in favor of the license plate, and a Reverend of the Humanists Church, who was against. As hard as he tried, the reverend was constantly cut off by the show's host, who kept repeating "c'mon, is it that bad, really Rev.?"

I could easily launch into a tirade about how ridiculous FOX News is, but I won't. Instead, I'll talk about the need for seperation between Church and State.

And to answer the blonde Nazi's question, yeah, it's really that bad. I mean, look:

Real subtle Florida.

I mean, my problem is two-fold; on one hand you have this whole, exclusivity to the license plate itself. It's one thing to be religious, but there are hundreds of religions out there, practiced by millions of people. I'm sure there's plenty of dumb-fuck Christian Floridians who would love to add this to their rotting Dodge Daytonas and Chevy Cameros, to show off to all their neighbors that they peel rubber for Jesus, but what about Jews, Muslims, or whatever the hell Chinese people worship?

I mean, not everyone in the world is a fan of NASCAR, you know?

Part two of my rant is that this is in blantant disregard for Church/State seperation. The woman on the show, who I believe to be a robot fueled by Bill O'Rielly's sweat, was like "I think the framers of the Constitution wouldn't mind this at all, I think they'd be for it!"

Bitch, have you ever taken a Con-Law class? Highly doubtful. Why? Because it is against the Constitution of the United States for any state or government enitity to endorse one sole (soul?) religion. And by the looks of things, Florida is all but short of putting "He Died For You!" on the bottom of the plate.

And what about the Aetheist? Are we going to subject these heathens to being stuck in traffic behind some asshole with this plate, silently cursing under his breath as he loads rounds into the magazine of his 9mm?

What about the Witches?! You may become cursed by some sort of Earth Spell should you drive your beat up scratched to hell VW around town with a Jesus plate.

You know, there's a rich Hatian culture in Florida... where's the Voodoo plate?

And the Nihilists! They don't even believe the license plate exists!

Do you know why states put out these speciality plates? It's so the state can earn funds from the people who are buying that particular plate. As far as I know, the State of Maine has like, 8 different plates you can choose from, from Yellow Ribbon plates to University of Maine plates to Abnaki Tribe plates, and so on. Every one of those plates is a certain dollar extra amount every time you register your vehicle for the year. And that money goes to the state.

So basically, The State of Florida is cashing in on Religion. I don't know who I'm more disgusted in; The State of Florida for cashing in on people's beliefs, or the people themselves, who'd go out of their way to spend their money on religion outside of church collections, red cans manned by a bell ringing Santa or Oakie-Fare Tent Revivalists.

Goddamnit.

An Ode To Living Recklessly

I'm a shitbird.

A total dickhead, scumbag, perverted shit-stain on society.

I love to drive drunk with very little regard for other drivers. Fuck'em: the car load full of kids or the soccer team, or the prom dates.

I love to drink too much and pass out at people's houses whom I don't know.

I love to correct people's grammar in public, with only the most condescending tone.

I drive like an asshole (when I'm not drunk), I seldom wear my seat belt, never use my signals, and expect everyone else around me to abide by the same traffic laws I disregard. I speed and swerve and drive with my windows down in all types of weather.

I like to keep a loaded gun on my person at all times and often pick fights with people I know could kick my ass. I don't give a shit, I have a gun.

I like to fuck without a condom on. I almost never pull out, and if I do, it's to cum on the girl's face or tits. I never hang around after, I just get up and leave.

I bet on sports when I don't have the money. I do the same thing with my bills; I pay my bills with checks that I know will bounce. Same goes for my rent.

I vote Republican in the 21st century.

I sneer at children and wolf whistle at their moms. I grab my crotch in line at the grocery store.

I play with knives, especially when I've been drinking.

I may or may not have children someplace else in the country.

I tell fat women they're fat. To their boyfriend's faces.

I drink Tecate and eat microwave burritos at 3 am on Monday nights.

I wake up hung over for work at 0630 in the morning, when I have to be in the office at 0715. I don't call ahead and I don't give a shit.

I throw things.

I make my roommate do my dishes and scrub my shitty toilet.

I plug in my amp and play horrible guitar at all hours. When the neighbors show up to complain I tell them to go fuck themselves while blowing pot smoke into their faces. When they inevitably send the cops over, I pretend I'm a disabled war vet.

I rent movies and don't watch them. Weeks go by and when the store calls about their movies, I tell them that I just moved into the address and have no idea what they're talking about.

I sleep on park benches. I clean my gun on park benches.

I stroll by high schools and ask the girls walking on the side walk what grade they're in.

I play pool in bars and don't pay for the games. I let my friends buy my drinks for me and never pay for a round.

I demand a buy-back from the bartender. When he cuts me off, I go outside and slash all the tires in the parking lot, hoping I got his.

I eat like shit. Wait, let me rephrase that... I eat shit. My arteries are so clogged with shit that my insides look like an LA Freeway. My doctors yell at me, my girlfriend yells at me, and I don't care. If it tastes good, I'm eating it, whether it's deep fried, bathed in butter or beer battered, I'm going to ingest it until my heart gives out under me. Fuck it.

I smoke cigarettes but I never buy my own pack. I'm that asshole who's hanging outside of the bar bumming smokes off everyone. I never apologize for it either.

I'm inside the bar smoking.

I'm your co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone and ignores your emails.

I'm the dickhead on Facebook who won't return your Friend Request.

I listen to shitty music loudly and at the same time tell you you have no taste in music.

I'm at a rock concert feeling your girlfriend's ass.

I'm doing hits of extacy around black guys and telling them "thanks for not kicking my white ass"

I'm an asshole, a dick, and a douche bag. I'm your neighbor, your brother, your father and your son. I'm your boss and your employee.

I'm You.

Short Fiction: Immigrants and Out of Towners: Recovery and New Alliances

The phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and Sean Clark had finally given up on trying to answer it. He floated in and out of dreams seamlessly, totally unaware if he was awake or not. His head throbbed, and he didn’t know how long he had been in bed, out of touch.

From being dumped at the Embassy Hotel he managed to get a cab to take him to his apartment in Chelsea on the Westside. For a Vice cop he lived pretty well, being able to afford a two bedroom in Chelsea on his own, with off street parking.

The cab dropped him out front and Clark gave the Pakistani a wad of petty cash, not even bothering to count it and fell out of the back of the cab. The driver counted the money and waited for Clark to close the door so he could leave. He glanced in his rear view and then out the side of the cab, and saw that his passenger was laying down in the sidewalk.

The driver muttered something in his native tongue and got out and went around to Clark. He pulled him up to the stoop, rang a few of the buzzers at the door to his brownstone, and shut the backdoor to his cab and sped off.

Of course, this being New York, no one came to the door. A few people shouted into their intercoms, but being that Clark was only semi conscience and sitting away from the buttons, he couldn’t press one to ask someone to let him in. So there he sat for an hour until one of his neighbors came home and found his slumped against the door.

“Hey, hey asshole,” the neighbor said. “You’re blockin’ the door,” and gave Clark a little nudge with his foot. Clark groaned and managed to open his eye a little bit. Everything was in double vision and shadowed. He thought that his retina was probably detached from his eyeball.

Great.

Somehow, Clark got to his apartment and crashed on the floor in his living room. His cell phone kept ringing but he couldn’t answer it. From under him a faint buzzing could be heard more than felt. And it wouldn’t stop.

Eventually he got undressed, and propped himself up in the bathroom so he could take a look at himself. His face looked like it had be pulverized by a hammer, his left eye was swollen shut, his cheeks were puffed out, his chin was split, his lip was cracked and his hair was messed up beyond what was considered chic. It was also matted with his blood.

He tried to shower and bandage his face. It was nighttime now, and he retired to his bed amongst the buzzing of his cell phone.

Sometime the next day Clark could hear someone pounding at his door and yelling. He could barely lift his head, or even speak. Suddenly the door burst open and feet crunched across the floor, lots of feet.

Clark grabbed his Glock 19, his duty weapon and pointed it at his doorway, barely able to see to aim. He felt the gun shaking, but knew he could at least get one round through the door if he had to.

“Clark?” It was Tiger Ramirez’s voice. Clark lowered his gun and cried in relief.

Ramirez had been trying to get in touch with Clark since that night, almost two nights ago when he went AWOL from the casino. They now sat in Chelsea Presbyterian’s Ambulatory Care Unit, where Clark’s condition was stable. He had a slight infection in his left eye, and his jaw had to be wired shut for a week so that the bone could settle back into the socket. He had been lucky, the doctors told Ramirez after they observed him. His jaw hadn’t been broken, just dislocated. Another day in his apartment without food or water probably would’ve killed him.

“So when’s he gonna get out?” Ramirez asked the doctor.

“Give him a day or two to get his fluids back in order, his jaw reset and that nasty eye infection slowed down. He’ll be fine, he’s a tough kid,” and the doctor walked off.

Clark was sitting up in his bed, awake, bandages over his face, just a little patch left over his right eye so he could see. He flipped through tv channels and sipped ice water through a straw that stuck into the bandages. He was connected to an IV that was a mixture of painkillers and antibiotics.

“They were dredging the river for you, you know that?” Ramirez said as he sat back down. On the little table by his bed, Clark had two hard bound books, an iPod and a portable DVD player that Ramirez brought from home once Clark had been well enough to communicate.

“Really?” Came out muffled from under his bandages, but Ramirez could tell that Clark was genuinely interested in that bit of news.

“Really, we all thought you were toast. You know they found Milano’s and his driver’s body in his Mercedes yesterday? It was ditched out in the Rockaways, they were both naked and gutted.” Clark nodded as he sipped.

“I knew,” he managed to say. Ramirez looked out the window. “So what’s next?”

“You’re going to get better,” and Ramirez stood, “and maybe take some time off,” and before Clark could protest, his captain was out of the room.

At St. Luke’s in Roosevelt, some 20 blocks north from where Sean Clark was sitting up sipping water, Martina De Rossi arrived with her usual entourage of thugs. She walked briskly to the information counter and leaned across the table at an older black woman who was typing into a computer screen.

“I’m here to find out what happened to Giovanni Capasso,” she said. The black woman didn’t turn or even acknowledge De Rossi’s presence, she kept typing. “Excuse me!” And the woman turned back towards Rossi, looking at her from over her glasses.

“I heard you the first time, I’m busy. If you want to check on a patient’s status, you need to see the duty nurse down the hall. This is general information, ms.” And a thick slice of attitude was served to De Rossi.

“Are you family?” and without hesitation, De Rossi answered in the positive. The nurse gave her a once over, and then told her to sit down in the waiting area, a doctor would be there to talk to her shortly. She did as told and waited, sitting down between an old woman who coughed too much and a bunch of children arguing. She thought it was funny that she was called to this hospital in Manhattan and not to one in Brooklyn where Don Giovanni lived.

She cocked a denim clad leg over the other and let her Luis Vuitton heel dangling from her toe as she flipped through an issue of Time magazine. Her long jet black hair fell into her face and she whisked it behind her ear. A few minutes went by and she grew increasingly impatient. She ordered her men to go wait in the car, and they left without protest. Shortly there after, an Indian doctor called her name.

“Ms. De Rossi, what’s your relationship to Mr. Capasso?”

“I’m his niece,” she lied.

“Ok, well, I have some very tough news to give you. Mr. Capasso died this morning of a heart attack. He was brought here by ambulance, but he was gone by the time we could get to him. His brain had been without oxygen for about ten minutes and there was no activity once we had him hooked into machines. I’m so very sorry for your loss.” And De Rossi wobbled on her feet. Her head went light, and she went to sit down, but there was no seat under her. The doctor grabbed her and held on to her. She pushed away and walked back outside to her waiting Denali.

“Qu’est il arrive?” One of her men asked from up front.

“Il est morte,” she said absently. There was a heavy silence, and one of the men made the sign of the cross.

“You know what these means, don’t you?” The same man asked her.

“Yes, I absolutely know what this means,”

“la vie longue la reine,” and the trucked pulled out.

Sean Clark was back at his apartment. It had been a few days and the place stunk like a bloated dead body. He picked up his bloodied clothes and threw them away along with the bandages he found all over the bathroom floor. He eventually found his cell phone and plugged it into the wall because the battery had drained out of it. Once it went through it’s start up, he checked his messages. There were easily fifty missed calls from Ramirez, but there were also a few missed calls from a number he didn’t recognize. He thumbed through and saw the caller had called from that number six times in the last two days.

He rubbed his swollen jaw and wrote the number down on a piece of paper. He started up his computer and sent an email to his friend in Warrants to do a reverse look up on the number. He then set about to do some grocery shopping.

Clark dressed in his usual super liberal casual attire, a hip tattered snug fitting flannel button up in gray and black, with a pair of tattered jeans, his gun and badge under his shirt that hung just to his zipper. He had his old black hi-tops too, and his Ray Ban sunglasses over his eyes to help hide his semi bashed in face.

He bought a few frozen dinners and some beer, and returned to his apartment from the bodega down the street. He checked his email and his friend in Warrants came through.

All I can tell you is that it goes to a cell phone on the upper east side, but from there I lose track of it. You know how many cell phones are in that area? Let’s get beers soon.

Peace,

AJ.

He decided to give the number a call and see where it would lead him. He thumbed the number up and hit send, pressing the phone to his sensitive ear. It rang twice and then was picked up by what he would consider an angry woman.

“What!” Came De Rossi’s voice. Clark pulled the phone back from his ear and looked at it.

“Who is this?” He said into the phone.

“You called me asshole, you tell me who this is.”

“This is Sean Clark.” And there was a pause on the other end.

“Oh, Mr. Clark. I was starting to wonder when I’d hear from you again. Have you changed your mind on my offer?” Clark had to think about it, was it too soon to accept the offer and was the risk of getting in too deep too great? He rubbed his swollen jaw thoughtfully before going on.

“I dunno Ms. De Rossi. Your guys did a number on me. I was thinking of just cutting my losses and going home to Boston.” And there was another long pause.

“Why don’t you come by my place this afternoon and we can discuss any long term plans in person, where it’s far more … personable?” Clark thought this over too and decided that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to do some recon at her place.

“Ok, what time and where?”

He was announced by the door man at her Upper East Side address. Her suite was a three floor mansion that occupied floors 19, 20 and 21. She had a private elevator and when Clark stepped off, dressed slightly more formal, in a buttoned up dress shirt and designer jeans, he was met by one of her many maids.

“Ms. Martina will see you shortly,” the short maid said as she stepped away. Clark walked around the grand room and took in all the expensive art and trappings. The fireplace was inactive but was impressive marble. She had a real Cezanne hanging over it. Expensive looking grandfather clocks, leather chairs and couches, rugs and animal skins.

Off in the distance, he thought he could hear drums being played. Not like a procession of drums, but someone actually practicing them. He followed the sound down a hallway and up a set of stairs. He came into a big reading room with a few short couches and guitars mounted on the walls. Amplifiers were set up and computerized monitoring equipment was around. It was a musical studio.

De Rossi sat behind a full drum kit, dressed in a black tank top with a glittery logo on it and skin tight denim designer jeans. She stopped her drumming but didn’t bother to hold the cymbals. She looked at him from behind the drums and held both sticks in her left hand.

“Good afternoon Mr. Clark,” she said from behind the kit, watching him.

“Good afternoon to you too, Ms. De Rossi,” and she came from around the kit and offered her hand. He took it and gave it a slight kiss. She smiled. “That’s cool that you play the drums,” he said.

“I play the guitar too, and piano. I’m from a very musical family,” she walked away and turned slightly as she spoke. Her hair was up in a pony tail and he noticed she was sweating a bit. “Would you care for a drink?”

“Sure, what do you got?”

“Cognac, whiskey, beer, water, whatever. If I don’t have it, I’ll send someone for it,”

“Whiskey’d be great actually,” and she wandered off out of the studio to an adjacent room. He followed looking at her slender back and curves. She stood in front of a small serving tray and poured a glass of whiskey for him, as well as a cognac for herself. She turned and offered him the drink which he took, sipped, and made a little face. She giggled.

“I thought the Irish loved their whiskey, is that not true Mr. Clark?”

“It’s true, but we like Irish whiskey, not this Canadian club soda you’re trying to pass off on me,” and she frowned and went to take the glass back. He pulled back, holding it away from her. “I was kidding,”

“Mm, you should be more careful with your words, Mr. Clark, first impressions are everything.”

“This isn’t my first impression, my first impression was the other night at the casino,” She smiled, and he loved the way she smiled. He even let himself smile a little bit, even though it hurt is face. She picked up on his labored efforts and reached out and touched his chin.

“I’m glad to see you didn’t lose those boyish good looks, Mr. Clark. I apologize for the way my men treated you. Michael and Michael Anthony are very protective of me, you must understand.” She slipped away from between him and the cart and sauntered down the hallway. He tried to keep up. “Especially now that I’m the new Boss of the Capasso Family. Well, I mean, the De Rossi family.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Giovanni Capasso died this morning of a heart attack. Being that I am next in line, I now run what was the entire Capasso Family.” She smiled at him and walked back so that they were close. “Cheers to a new era?” And she lifted her glass. He tentatively touched his glass to hers.

“Are you sure that the rest of the family will follow suit? Not everyone’s hot to follow the lead of a female boss,” he said from behind her again. She looked back of her shoulder, a sly smile on her face.

“I have a way of dealing with men who do not like to take orders from women, Mr. Clark. What you suffered was just a love tap,”

“Have you ever killed anyone?” He asked her. She sighed and sat down on a leather couch in a small intimate library. Between them were low little white tables with candles and they were surrounded by books. He took a seat on another couch and put his elbows on his knees, looking at her through his sunglasses.

“Take those off,” she said. He did so, placing them on the table. She looked over his eye and smiled.

“Of course I have killed. It’s how things, real things, get done in our line of business, is it not? There are two types of people in the world Mr. Clark; those who listen to reason and those who listen to force. And it is unfortunate that most often in this life we lead, we deal with the latter than the former.” He nodded and sipped his whiskey. “Haven’t you had to kill?”

“Once, just once. I didn’t like it,” he said with finality. She nodded. He thought back to the kid he chased through a park two years ago. There had been shooting in his patrol sector, two blacks arguing over a 40 oz bottle of beer. One got heated and the other called him a bitch. That’s when the guns had come out. The first boy shot the second dead on the spot. His car was called to the scene, and when they arrived, the shooter was running down the street. Clark had jumped out and left his partner to take care of the victim. The foot chase ended three blocks away in Prospect Park, where the kid had turned and flashed the gun at Clark, and Clark buzzed the kid in the middle of his chest, exploding his heart.

The kid was 14.

Clark came back to reality and smiled a weak smile at De Rossi. She sensed something was wrong but didn’t want to pursue it.

“So let’s get back to business, shall we Mr.Clark?”

“Ok,”

“Do you want to work for me, or do you want to go back to Boston. Because you can’t have both Mr. Clark. You cannot operate down in my city and still belong to them,”

“What’s in it for me?” She smiled, blushed a little bit and took a sip of her cognac. She leaned in a little, giving Clark a good look at her cleavage.

“Whatever you’d like,”

Sunday: Then and Now

While uploading some pics from Bike Week on my parents computer (and I guess, further procrastinating on that whole article...) I came across some pics of me from like, four or more years ago. It's crazy to see how much I've changed!

Take a look for yourself:

James, as of 2008:

And James back in 2004:


Weird how time changes people.

Advice For Graduating Seniors...

Jim wrote this about two or three years ago for a graduating high school senior he knew. The information within is still useful today, and since he's struggling with putting out his "Bike Week" article, we here at the office felt we should run this instead. -ed.


You’re about to embark on a journey to higher education. You’re on your way to be an Elite, a member of a society of people who have gone the extra mile and succeeded. But it’s not an easy trip, and there’s lots of things out there that you might come across and have no idea what to expect. I hope this book is helpful, but seeing as I’ve not read it, I will give you some advice/insights from my own college experience (I graduated with a BA from John Jay College in NYC in December) which I hope will help you. Good luck!

-Your High School graduation is a big deal. For about a year. Then you, along with everyone you know – parents included – won’t give two shits. Try to find a nice place to put your high school diploma where it won’t get a soda can ring on it.

-College is mostly about learning to interact with your peers, not so much about what goes on in class. Actually, you should spend as much time not doing anything class related.

-That said, wait til the absolute last second to buy your books. If you decide to at all.

-On the subject of books, they’re overpriced and you will never use them. Just because they package a useless CD-Rom with the book, it automatically will cost you over 100 dollars. And when you go to “sell them back” to the bookstore, you get roughly 5% of what you paid. If you need anything out of a book for a paper, might I suggest Google.

-Your roommate, ideally, should be your best friend. He will only become your enemy. Do not ever trust him, or anyone he brings over, ever.

-“Girls? You’re a freshman, so they’re pretty much off limits.” -Jeremy Piven, PCU. That quote is totally true. However, as incentive to stick with college until you get your degree: the older you are in college, even as a sophomore, impressionable young freshman girls will flock to you. Hence, if you’re a Super Senior, 18 year old frosh chicks will literally sit on your hands and beg to be finger blasted by you on a stained futon in someone’s basement. Who’s basement? Like it matters, brah.

-Of course, there are three things you should never be without, ever. They are, in order of importance… Beer: Have plenty of it, because it makes you cool, girls cute, and your roommate’s shitty taste in music, rock. Condoms: they keep you from having to take trips to the campus clinic, unwanted baby’s mamas, and your pubes from falling out. Bottled Water/Brita Filter: It basically reverses all the side effects of the beer and fucking with a condom on.

-You will be expected to write ten to fifteen page papers on a regular basis. Don’t worry about this. These papers are going to be double spaced to begin with, meaning you’re only writing a 5 to 7 page paper. Also, your professors will NEVER read your papers. So the only things you need to concentrate on are the first paragraph and last paragraph, which will introduce your topic and reiterate your topic. Everything in between should be mindless filler/bullshit. It will never be read, don’t worry. Your grade will be represented by how many multi-syllable words you use in the first and last paragraph.

-If you have TAs (Teaching Assistants) and one in particular happens to be a hot chick, do everything you can to sleep with her. And I mean everything.

-You will gain weight. There’s nothing you can do. Accept it.

-Don’t be that dick that brings 6,541,661,484 DVDs to school with him. Your top 5 should be good enough.
You’ll find that girls in college are apt to make out with each other. This is a good thing.

-Being a freshman, you probably won’t be able to have a car on campus, that sucks, but think of the gas money you’ll save!

-Oh, you’ll shit a lot. A ton. I mean, an actual metric ton of shit will come out of your ass. The story will go around that the cafeteria laces its food with laxatives. This isn’t true; it’s actually the plate of French fries you’ve been eating as a meal for the last four months.

-Along with this, you will be constantly sick. Living in a dorm with a bunch of other guys, who barely bathe and masturbate when their roommates are at class and not washing their hands, will cause you to become ill. You can only kill the germs by drowning them in alcohol. Litre after litre of delicious alcohol.

-NCAA Div 1, 2 or 3 sports won’t mean shit to you, but your Residential Dorm Intramural Wiffle Ball League will be everything to you for five months.

I hope these tips help you out. And of course, best of luck.


j.