College Experience

You go to college to delay the inevitable. You go to college to further your skills, to develop your interests into passions and pray that it translates into a career. You go to college for the "experience." College, in many aspects, resembled what I imagined prison to be. Aside from showering with the fear of being shanked, college was mostly lifting weights, playing basketball [with other inmates], reading books, dabbling in drugs, and depending on a group of people to survive [like prison gangs].

I remember prior generations looking through and past me about my college choice, almost like they were transported to an Animal House memory, a memory they were stuck on - a Toga Party or maybe they were occupied with the memory of double secret probation. Whatever the word "college" conjured up for people that asked about my future endeavors, they were hardly nostalgic for English 101. I remember being apprehensive about going to a "city" school in New England, and leaving my friends. "You'll make new friends," my parents were quick to retort. "Those kids will always be your friends, but college is about making new friends - friends for life."

My parents were right. And now when people ask me about college I can only smile, not because of the things that I learned, but because of the friends I've made and cemented with alcohol, knowing it would stick for good.

Paul Bunyon - (known for tall tales) was one of my first friends at school. He was an outgoing kid from the shore of Connecticut and from time to time needed to be reminded that he was not Jack Johnson. Paul Bunyon and I had met on a few separate occasions, but didn't become friends until I got blackout drunk one night and climbed on top of my lofted bed to vomit all over myself. Paul Bunyon and another friend somehow got me down and dragged me into the shower. I later returned the favor on his 21st birthday when he decided to take a face plant on the cement (eventually sending him to the hospital, his 21st birthday was a success).

Missed It - Missed It and I had grown up together, but were never really close until we went to college. Missed it was odd. He was content to stay in his single room and video game his life away, rather than enjoy college. Missed It once locked himself in his dorm room for a week after the Raiders were owned in the Super Bowl. Missed It was always delusional when referring to "his girls," but nobody ever held him to it. Missed It once consumed warm urine from a Corona bottle, and pretty much solidified his notoriety forever.

Shevchenko - Shevchenko was another kid from Eastern Connecticut. He was proud to hail from the heroin capital of the Eastern seaboard. He fit in well with us because he enjoyed sports and could shoot the lights out in basketball. Shevchenko had the temper of a 3 year old pissy little girl. Take for instance the Boone home run hit off of Wakefield to send the Yankees to the World Series - he destroyed our apartment on account of that. As time lapsed he became less focused on sports and actually playing and just focused more and more on being a "terrible, horrible person" and getting himself good at drinking games. He tried building up his tolerance and mastering drinking games as a clever way to hook up with girls and I gotta admit it's pretty crazy how girls get mesmerized by a game of speed quarters. Shevchenko and I entered into a little wager for the college football championship when I was a freshman. I bet him (with the spread) that Miami would destroy his beloved OSU. As a result he took pleasure in Bic'ing my head. We went on to live together for 4 years after.

Meal Matrix - Meal Matrix was a skinny kid from Long Island. He never talked much, and had it not been for Paul Bunyon, we would never have met. Meal Matrix and Paul Bunyon dragged me into the shower on that fateful night when I wrestled with Bacardi and Sprite. "Yo, Connecticut, you wanna do this project together?" I didn't know anyone else in my math class, and I knew I didn't want to get stuck with the kid that smelled like tomato soup. Meal Matrix hated living in Boston, and I loved him for that. Meal Matrix is the only one of my really good friends that lives in NYC and we hang out regularly.

There were other cast members that played a significant role in this ongoing tragedy, but those four remain critical. So now things have changed, and I'm living in NYC, and we don't talk nearly as much, we don't drink nearly as much, or harass each other as much as we once used to. The point is we don't have to. We can just pick up again where we left off, it's seamless. So beyond the Irish car bombs, the weed, and the wiffle ball games, I learned that I'd do anything for these four.

"Yeah. You'll have a great time in college," as I look past a prospective college student asking about my school.

Professional Shopper

Grocery shopping has morphed into an exercise in futility for me in the Big Apple. It's partially attributable to the lack of variety on the shelves or maybe the perverse interpretation of "fresh produce" or maybe it's the general apathy by every employee. Whatever the reason I've been recently intensely yearning to return to the suburbs and drive a gas-guzzling SUV to the local Whole Foods and enjoy the experience once again. That's not to say there aren't Whole Foods or even other healthy and great alternatives abound, but they aren't located up here in Museum country. I just don't have patience for the battle at the grocery store anymore. Now I just enter Morton Wiliams' defeated and surrender to a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter and maybe some grape jelly for my reserve.

Allow me to describe every hungover twenty something's worst nightmare realized. So I wake up a shade before noon with a headache that feels like Shaq was playing basketball with my head and start toward the landfill across the street to pick up some groceries.

I walk up to the door anticipating the automatic doors giving way to the most horrendous produce section in Gotham, but I'm too impatient and wind up walking through the door (maybe I'm still drunk). I make a loop around the edges of this mini grocery store, because I know that the freshest stuff isn't shelved in the aisles. This turns out to be a walk that bears no fruit, both literally and figuratively. I physically manage to choke off the urge to regurgitate last night's light beer and decide that I have to buy something for dinner, because I can't make an entire trip to the grocery store across the street for naught. So I head to the meat section, where I spot this rare species, we'll call her professionalis shopperis.

You can spot her from a mile away. She dressed for the sport, like a midevil knight donning chain mail. She's wearing her slippers, quarter length socks with her stained sweatpants tucked in to said socks, a sweatshirt that was originally white,a cardigan vest, her glasses are perched on the edge of her nose, her hair is concealed by a wrap of sorts, and her wallet dangles from a chain around her neck where she keeps all of her important belongings like insurance card, bus pass, food stamps, etc., and she reeks of moth balls. She doesn't require a store provided cart because she roams the avenues with her own. She leaves her cart in the middle of the aisle as she inspects every aspect of every label of every meat offering that Associated has in stock, to ensure that no other customers can pass. She can sense my blood boil; she knows I'm thinking about the naked silhouette of the girl from last night in order to remain calm, but she doesn't care. It's almost like she wants to pick a fight. My "excuse me" either goes unheard or unnoticed, possibly both. By now she's scrutinizing the weekly circular even though she's spent the morning in her rent-controlled apartment memorizing the dirty pages as if they were the Bible, while watching The Price is Right. She's completely indecisive and is still there long after I've grasped the organic chicken breast package. With elevated blood pressure I try to force things, and make another pass at the fruit to no avail.

Sufficiently depressed and desperately hungover, I consider going to the express lane but see that there is a lengthy queue. A quick scan shows a few registers to the left have virtually no lines, so I dart to one. I look down at my iPod to put on some Tribe Called Quest and when I pick up my head all I can smell are moth balls. I stand in line bobbing my head trying to remain sane, as she unloads four tubs of Cool Whip, eight boxes of Jell-O, one loaf of rye bread, and a tiny jar of spicy mustard. She leans on the credit card machine as the unaffected 15 year old girl with tattoos on her wrists scans the items. This old pain-in-the-ass makes a comment of the price after she sees each price. No problem; I just turn up my iPod and continue reading the GQ while I wait. This woman verbally assaults the poor girl that just wants to move her along so she can text her friends because $6 an hour doesn't even pay for those fly Jordans she wants to buy. As if demonstrating her black belt in Kvetching wasn't enough, she reprimands the teen about the prices quoting the circular. When the employee sets her straight about the actual price, the old woman begins crying foul, "The circular said it was 4 four $1, you can't just deceive the customer." The teen rolls her eyes and tells her the total. This woman got like 32 items for $11.97. I spend more on a single lunch than this woman spent for all of this Jell-O and Cool Whip. She couldn't just swipe a debit card, or hand the girl a twenty. She begged the girl to check her manufacturers coupon on the Cool Whip. Finally, satisfied that she had squeezed every last cent out of the establishment, she paid with a five dollar bill, a food stamp and some miscellaneous coins.

Dear God, grant me the serenity....

What is it? Are they bored on the weekends? Do they get their jollies knowing they didn't over pay for 100 packs of Jell-O? I don't get it. It makes me want to slit my wrists vertically.

Favorite T-Shirt

She has molded her body perfectly, and sticks to your ribs like your orange t-shirt that you have had since 8th grade. The A*** Recreational Basketball t-shirt that has battled the laundry countless times and is barely visible, and when you hold the t-shirt up to the light you can see through it as if it was tracing paper. Waking up to carrot cake crumbs fumbled and green tea spilled on the sheets, and a smile that makes it all worthwhile.

Subway Girl

Dear Subway Girl,
I see you staring at me, even though I pretend to be studying the subway map. I'm flattered that when I test you and return the glance, you smile. I focus again on the subway advertisements and you fix your eyes back on me. I don't take offense to it, it makes my day and I probably should say something meaningless like, "You take this train too?" Then I'll be that guy! I'll settle for you scrutinizing the beauty marks on my face, and the nose to lip proportions that I exhibit. Maybe you aren't even looking at me like that, maybe you can't help but notice the dried toothpaste that's collected in the crease formed by my lips at the side of my mouth. That would explain a lot. It's too early in the morning to be over-analyzing these situations and I haven't even had my green tea yet.

Smitten,
S.A.

Exchanging Things

The vein on the temple of the head becomes obvious after hours of circumlocution. The palpable beat of elevated blood pressure manifests in a headache that feels like being stabbed behind the eye. Clearly your red face, tears, anger, and frustration have taken their toll on me - if only physically. The endless conversation of "we wouldn't be here if you had..." becomes too much to suffer through. It's clear that it's been broken beyond repair and I can see that I'll be leaving with my things. I'll be taking back my hooded sweatshirt, my pajama pants, my favorite t-shirt, those books that I lent you, my CDs, etc. I'll give you back your things, and throw away your toothbrush that I kept, the soap we housed in our shower, the razors you used to pare back the stubble on your legs, the makeup remover, the facial scrubs - they can all be found in the trash outside of my apartment on Tremont. There's something missing, we've exchanged brutal words and material possessions, but you took something that I'll never be able to get back. You can't give me back the measureless hours that we spent together or the time I should have been acting my age and drinking it in beer. I can't get back those hours that I should have been acting irresponsibly with friends that I neglected in order to watch you sleep.

Refund Psychology

If you are one of the (un)fortunate employees that are entitled to a federal tax refund, then it probably means you are right at the cusp of "uber-wealthy" and there is always next year for your Swiss bank account. However, for those of us that hastily prepare and file our 1040s in anticipation of getting a sizable check, we should take a moment to consider what is going on here.

Let's make this as simple as possible. Here goes. You sell your soul to the devil in the name of a paycheck. By the time you see the direct deposit in your magically shrinking checking account everyone and their mother has stuck their hands into your loot to claim a portion of your pretax salary. That means Uncle Sam on EVERY level inserts his, err...takes his portion, your insurance company, your public transit provider, etc. By the time it is electronically deposited into Chase you notice that those entitled to your money before you were kind enough to leave you with enough to cover your rent, afford the utilities bill that's three months overdue and a few paltry happy hours to cope with the aforementioned deal with the devil.

Then when you've finally arrived at that place that every abused Catholic boy has faced, when he listens to his chapped ass and realizes he physically can't take anymore, you check the mail anticipating bills that you can't afford. You insert the key three quarters of the way into the box, because by now you've realized that the key doesn't fit perfectly and it requires finagling to turn the locking mechanism. Exhausted, you flip through the countless credit card offers, Time Warner cable bundled discounts, and fumble upon an envelop from the federal government. You open the check that you had spent months ago and realize that life is just barely bearable because you finally got something back (after giving so much).

WRONG! You got your own money back. That was the money that you overpaid to the federal government, or excuse me, the money that was withheld in excess of your tax liability. At that moment, I [S.A.] realize that I and every other recipient of a refund have acted like a gigantic bank for the federal government. It's all very complex and involves the time value of money, but the bottom line is that the government was holding your money and chose to return a portion of it at a time that was convenient for them. Next time you're on your refund shopping spree, remember that it's nothing extra or special, but rather money that rightfully belongs to you. Forget it. What am I talking about? Steve Jobs would love to have you spend your refund check on another gadget.

Fitness Freak

I'm convinced that more people don't exercise because of the English language. That being said, I am sitting here typing this entry with 6 beers short of a six pack and the physical endurance of the finest fantasy sports players in the land. Let's face it - work sucks! Given that, I can understand why anything related to "work" has such a negative connotation. After a long day of "work" where I willingly accept punishment that would make any S&M fetishist quiver, I'm undoubtedly less than enthusiastic to work-out. It's the connotation that the term implies. Everything about work is overwhelming, be it the excel spreadsheets or the physics definition.

I'd rather play-out. I think it's more important to remain active than develop the physique of a Greek God by supplementing weightlifting with steroids. This reclassification of physical activity is crucial for both mental and physical health and happiness. Think back to when you were a kid and you played soccer, running around and having fun with your peers (occasionally kicking the patches); you unknowingly were working out. It didn't register because it was play and even enjoyable. Then we grow older and lose sight of things that are fun and replace them with 25 minutes of cardio, a quick circuit of weight training, and remain completely focused on repetitions and time (cognizant of your routine in the same manner as your spreadsheets). When was the last time you played-out?