Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Better Late Than Never Part 1
I realized that I forgot to post my assessment of the blog-tracking process...more to come tonight.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Hardcore Parkour
Speaking for myself, if I see a student standing on a high rooftop with eyes set on the ground, I would assume that the pressure has finally gotten to them and they are looking for the easy way out. However, after learning about the parkour phenomenon sweeping the campus, I would have to think twice. Parkour is the art of using the world around you as a natural obstacle course. A tree is no longer just a tree to parkour participants. It is just another obstacle in the world of parkour.
Unfamiliar with parkour? Courtney Souza weighs in with a history of this up-and-coming sport.
The parkour group at UMass has yet to achieve RSO status, however they are gaining momentum. Joe Meloni was able to sit down with the Parkour President Jackie Hai for an interview.
Much like any other alternative sport, it doesn't take long for commercialism to set in. We've seen companies use skateboarding, BMX and other alternative sports to appeal to younger audiences. Here is a Toyotal Scion commercial that shows parkour. Seems a bit misleading to me...what the hell does running and jumping have to do with driving a car?
Also, Jon Pelland gives us a god-like podcast detailing what parkour means to its participants.
Convergence Vs. Convergence.
There was a great video review in the New York Times today. A.O. Scott does a video review of the film Waitress, starring Keri Russell and directed by the late Adrienne Shelley. I read Scott pretty regularly, and typically agree with most of his reviews. However, seeing a video of his review provides a better insight into his thought process. Although it was scripted, watching him as he gave his review seemed to make the review more conversational and less static. This is Scott's print review of the filmIf there is one thing that I hate in life, it is people taking photos/videos of themselves. A very close friend of mine has an entire photoalbum on facebook with nothing but pictures of himself. The idea of talking into a video camera (actually just my digital camera that happens to be equipped with video) made me feel a bit wiggy. Unfortunately my camera had a limited amount of space and so I got cut off a minute or so before I was done speaking.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Andrew Sullivan
It might be too little too late in this semster, however I will try to more consistently (or in this case, at all) track Andrew Sullivan's blog as assigned in class. Today he made a few very interesting points regarding drug laws. Read it here.
The fact of the matter is that we have legalized drugs that are far more dangerous than marijuana. As a college student, I've seen a great deal of my friends suffer alcohol poison, but none that have suffered from too much marijuana consumption. I think the biggest reason that marijuana is still outlawed is that some view it as immoral. As if there is some cosmic difference between someone polishing off a fifth of scotch and someone sparking up a joint. If there is a difference, I invite you to tell me what it is.
The fact of the matter is that we have legalized drugs that are far more dangerous than marijuana. As a college student, I've seen a great deal of my friends suffer alcohol poison, but none that have suffered from too much marijuana consumption. I think the biggest reason that marijuana is still outlawed is that some view it as immoral. As if there is some cosmic difference between someone polishing off a fifth of scotch and someone sparking up a joint. If there is a difference, I invite you to tell me what it is.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
The Wise Mr. Burns
Harry Shearer, best known for his voice acting on The Simpsons (Mr. Burns, Ned Flanders, etc) has some very insightful thoughts regarding the MSM (NBC in particular) coverage of the Tech Tragedy.
I share his outrage with the MSM for airing the "multi-media manifesto" of the inhuman cocksucker that was responsible for the carnage. We don't need to see him pointing guns at the camera to understand that he was a crazed individual. And I don't think it's particularly helpful for families that are still grieving over the loss of their loved ones to look into the blackened, soulless eyes of that sociopathic lunatic.
I share his outrage with the MSM for airing the "multi-media manifesto" of the inhuman cocksucker that was responsible for the carnage. We don't need to see him pointing guns at the camera to understand that he was a crazed individual. And I don't think it's particularly helpful for families that are still grieving over the loss of their loved ones to look into the blackened, soulless eyes of that sociopathic lunatic.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A Conversation with Larissa Mihalisko
Virginia Tech is a very large school that boasts a student population of over 26,000. Since Monday's tragedy, they have come together as a community in mourning, and as a singular strength that will overcome the loss of precious lives.
Ever since news broke about the shooting at Virginia Tech on Monday, the media has had a major presence on campus. From detailing student reactions to publishing photos of the man responsible for the shootings, the media has almost become a part of the story. I was able to speak with Larissa Mihalisko, a junior at Virginia Tech, and personal friend of mine. She is highly critical of the role that the media has played in the wake of the horrific events of April 16th, 2007.
"I was very annoyed with the media at the vigil," Mihalisko said. "I understand that journalists have a job to do and they were trying to tell our story, but the cameramen and the photographers were right up in everyone's face. People were listening to taps and were very upset and we didn't get one moment of peace.
"[Blacksburg] is a very close-knit community - you know how Hokies are, we are very proud. It was disheartening to have so many people in your face that aren't from around here and didn't have friends or family that died. I actually stepped out during the moment of silence and asked the reporters to give us a couple of minutes. I saw President Steger and he had this look of absolute despair on his face. I felt like I could just see beyond the surface. I know that sounds cheesy but I could see that he was dying on the inside.
"I just called out to [the reports] and asked if we could have just a couple minutes of peace without anybody in our face so that people can collect their thoughts. They left for about a minute or two then came back and started snapping [pictures]. A lot of them were very respectful and would ask, you know, if they could take pictures of someone lighting a candle.
"Every part of our campus is full of satellite dishes and cameramen. We're used to cameramen because of football games, but this is beyond anything [we've seen]. I had the Ukranian service from the BBC call me; and reporters have been signing on Facebook and sending me messages like, 'here's my number if you would like to talk', and things like that. Most of them have been very respectful, but it seems strange for them to sue Facebook to reach students. It made everything seem so much more surreal.
"Another thing that I was really disappointed with was the publishing of images and videos of this disturbed kid. You look at Fox News or BBC and you see a picture of this kid with two guns to his head or a gun pointed to the camera. It's only been two days and I might be more sensitive, but I knew five people that died, two of which were very close friends of mine and I wasn't ready to see him with guns pointed at the camera. Even the police expressed disappointment with NBC and a few other stations for releasing the images so quickly. It's all just coming too fast for me.
"If [the shooter] was looking for attention then he got it. I only briefly read a couple of those letters. He compared himself to Jesus Christ and wrote messages about materialism. I don't think that anyone got his message. I think they just look at this kid and think, 'wow, what a nutjob'.
"I'm afraid, and this is happening, that by putting up this kid's pictures and messages the media could possibly create copycats. There have been scares all over the country from copycats. Again, I don't know exactly what [the shooter's] aim was but posting these pictures might be instigating other disturbed kids."
Ever since news broke about the shooting at Virginia Tech on Monday, the media has had a major presence on campus. From detailing student reactions to publishing photos of the man responsible for the shootings, the media has almost become a part of the story. I was able to speak with Larissa Mihalisko, a junior at Virginia Tech, and personal friend of mine. She is highly critical of the role that the media has played in the wake of the horrific events of April 16th, 2007.
"I was very annoyed with the media at the vigil," Mihalisko said. "I understand that journalists have a job to do and they were trying to tell our story, but the cameramen and the photographers were right up in everyone's face. People were listening to taps and were very upset and we didn't get one moment of peace.
"[Blacksburg] is a very close-knit community - you know how Hokies are, we are very proud. It was disheartening to have so many people in your face that aren't from around here and didn't have friends or family that died. I actually stepped out during the moment of silence and asked the reporters to give us a couple of minutes. I saw President Steger and he had this look of absolute despair on his face. I felt like I could just see beyond the surface. I know that sounds cheesy but I could see that he was dying on the inside.
"I just called out to [the reports] and asked if we could have just a couple minutes of peace without anybody in our face so that people can collect their thoughts. They left for about a minute or two then came back and started snapping [pictures]. A lot of them were very respectful and would ask, you know, if they could take pictures of someone lighting a candle.
"Every part of our campus is full of satellite dishes and cameramen. We're used to cameramen because of football games, but this is beyond anything [we've seen]. I had the Ukranian service from the BBC call me; and reporters have been signing on Facebook and sending me messages like, 'here's my number if you would like to talk', and things like that. Most of them have been very respectful, but it seems strange for them to sue Facebook to reach students. It made everything seem so much more surreal.
"Another thing that I was really disappointed with was the publishing of images and videos of this disturbed kid. You look at Fox News or BBC and you see a picture of this kid with two guns to his head or a gun pointed to the camera. It's only been two days and I might be more sensitive, but I knew five people that died, two of which were very close friends of mine and I wasn't ready to see him with guns pointed at the camera. Even the police expressed disappointment with NBC and a few other stations for releasing the images so quickly. It's all just coming too fast for me.
"If [the shooter] was looking for attention then he got it. I only briefly read a couple of those letters. He compared himself to Jesus Christ and wrote messages about materialism. I don't think that anyone got his message. I think they just look at this kid and think, 'wow, what a nutjob'.
"I'm afraid, and this is happening, that by putting up this kid's pictures and messages the media could possibly create copycats. There have been scares all over the country from copycats. Again, I don't know exactly what [the shooter's] aim was but posting these pictures might be instigating other disturbed kids."
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Alternative Art in the Library
Students that are not too lazy to take the stairs have probably noticed by now the murals that line the walls of the stairwells in the library. Each floor is marked by an artistic expression of some sort, whether abstract or just pleasing to the eye.
What interests me more is the spontaneity of art; amateurs that on a whim write the initials of their loved one next to their own with a heart separating the two sets. Bathroom stalls and study desks are littered with unintentional artistic brilliance, which can't help but exemplify the human condition.
I started my search for alternative art in what I felt was the most obvious arena: the bathroom. I don't think I have ever used a public restroom that didn't have some sort of amateur artistic imprint. I've noticed that "FUCK YOU" is the most oft-written phrase. It's almost as if a whole generation of kids that read Catcher in the Rye grew up to write "FUCK YOU" on as many public spaces as possible. Needless to say, that particular epithet has become the "Louie Louie" of bathroom art.
On the stall in the men's room on the 7th floor of the library, somebody wrote "PREVERTS THOMPSON BASEMINT (sic)". Excited to finally meet some professional preverts, I quickly hurried off to the Thompson basement. I looked on the directory next to the elevator. To my dismay, there was no designated office in the basement for preverts. Further adding to my trouble, the door that led to the basement was locked.
I returned to the library and decided to look for some more art in the upper floors of the library. These spot are often vacant, so artists would have plenty of time to practice freely. I walked into a room full of book stacks on the 24th floor. I remembered that as a child and budding artist, I would often write in text books. Being that the books around me were mostly medical books, I looked for the most likely of books that would gave someone inspiration to practice their artistry: breast-feeding instructional books. After ten minutes of closely examining the books, I came across no art...just a whole lot of breasts.
I walked down the the 23rd floor and came across some fine displays of alternative artistry. On one study table, someone wrote, "RO & KM 10/2005". I can imagine what went through this person's mind as they wrote it.
"You know, I'd really like to somehow validate my relationship with KM. I should write something...jeeze I really should. Our namkes should be written in the stars..but fuck it..I'll settle for this study desk I have right in front of me."
The shallow pricks probably broke up after a week.
If Shakespeare said that the world is a stage, then I would argue that the library is a canvas. People drop in to do their work, and many of them choose to leave a statement. Some about fleeting love, others writing weird shit like "LILLIUM". After reviewing the art I found throughout the many floors of the lbirary, I decided to make my own contribution: I wrote "Ryan is a Sex God" on the stall in a women's bathroom.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
A UMass Drunkard
Some of my proudest moments have occurred while totally shitfaced. Some of my most shameful moments have occurred while totally shitfaced. But good, bad or indifferent, I firmly believe that there is nothing that can hold the drunken spirit captive. During the summer after I graduated from high school I took a trip to Europe. While in France, I bought a speedo that looked as thought it was made from the leftover fabric from Joseph's technicolor dreamcoat. This speedo has made several appearences over the past few years, usually after drinking an excess of Wild Turkey.
To me the speedo represents the sense of freedom that one feels when highly intoxicated. It's rather ironic from a male's perspective to think of a speedo as being liberating, but I think it accurately captures the spirit of the drunkard.
My friends and I would be considered heavy drinkers by most. Since the beginning of the year, we've hosted Thirsty Thursday parties at our house just about every week. Since then, our Thursday night tradition has developed its own subcultures. People that would have otherwise never met now know each other courtesy of our parties. It's a group of people 50 strong that gather each week over the common bond that brings us together: alcohol.
In recent weeks, my drinking schedule has expanded to include Wednesday nights. Since my only class on Thursdays is at 3:35 in the afternoon, I have ample recovery time. Just last night I went out to Charlie's with a few friends, not necessarily to get drunk, but just to drink a few pitchers and share as many laughs. Upon my arrival at the bar (the bouncers no longer chekc my ID as they have come to know me as a regular), I came to the realization that I was in need of strong drink and not just beer. I walked up to the bar confidently, slammed my fist on the wooden surface and exclaimed loudly, "JAMESON ON THE ROCKS!"
A few rounds later the devil sunck up on me unexpectedly and I realized I was drunk. So, in true UMass spirit, I drank more. And more. At one point during the evening, my cousin Lindsay, who graduated from UMass last Spring, entered the bar. Last week, our grandfather died and we took a few minutes to reflect on that. We both came to the conclusion that drinking was the best way to honor our grandfather, who was well known for keeping a flask of whiskey in his coat pocket at all times.
After a few minutes of speaking, she returned to her friends, and I returned to mine. I stayed for another hour or so after that, downing Jameson after Jameson. I left the bar shortly before closing time. I don't remember paying my tab, but I was quite relieved the next morning to find my credit card in my wallet.
I can say with total honesty that drinking has never had a major impact on my academic life. Alcohol and schoolwork have managed to coexist peacefully, one occasionally helping the other. College is a time during which work and play dance symbiotically.
The Basement
Just a point of disclosure before I proceed with the review:
I know Mr. Ron personally. He was my computer teacher in elementary school, and he is also my best friend's father. However he has been a part of the medium since its inception, and I would even consider him an expert in the field.
Mr. Ron's Basement is a daily podcast in which Ron Evry, better known to his listeners as Mr. Ron, reads stories that have long since been relegated to the dark corners of the public domain. Mr. Ron breathes new life into these old stories by presenting them to his audience in the form of a podcast, juxtaposing the archaic with the futuristic.
I've always found this podcast to be pretty interesting. I think that Mr. Ron has done a great job unearthing some gems that might not have otherwise seen the light of day.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Although Garden State Sucked...
I must say that Zack Braff's blog is pretty damn entertaining. It's a light-hearted look at the world surrounding a successful sitcom/film actor/director (sounds like the bastard has his hands full), and I found it quite endearing. I particularly enjoyed reading about his encounter with P. Diddy at the Golden Globes. It seems to me that in spite of his success, Braff is still just a fan placed in the middle of a world with a lot of stars.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Catchy Tunes
This is an old Weezer song performed by their former bass player's band The Rentals. Rachel Haden (one-third of the famous Haden Triplets) sings quite beautifully.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Soldiers of Misfortune
I think this article reflects a very large problem that for whatever reason has escaped American consciousness. For all the talk about supporting the troops that has permiated public debate, I don't think the system has lived up to its own expectations. At least not to the point in which someone who has given his/her life to military service is provided with basic medical care. This is indicative of a much larger problem: we are a country that systematically favors procedure over results. Bureaucratic nonsense has replaced humanity.
EDIT
After watching the video I found the whole situation even more obscene. The graphic showing how far a recovering soldier has to travel to receive treatment was particularly effective. Simply put, it made my blood boil.
EDIT
After watching the video I found the whole situation even more obscene. The graphic showing how far a recovering soldier has to travel to receive treatment was particularly effective. Simply put, it made my blood boil.
Army of Zombies
This is one of my absolute favorite albums of the past few years. Lars Frederiksen is perhaps best known as the guitarist and co-vocalist/co-songwriter of Rancid. In 2001 he released his self-titled solo debut with his band The Bastards. Because of Rancid's loyal following, I expected reviewers on Amazon.com to be especially critical. Although the album is not very different from what Rancid has released in the past, the absence of Lars' other half, Tim Armstrong could possibly alienate some fans.
However, reviews on Amazon.com have been largely favorable. Because of this, I more closely examined the negative reviews. One review that struck me as particularly stupid was this one:
I don't know much about Lars Frederiksen, but he obviously doesn't think much of his band. He knows them a lot better than I do so he may be right, but I'm prepared to give them a chance. This is more of a compilation of other artists than a Lars Frediriksen album. Lars takes his vocal stylings from one popular punk rock band, while his drummer copies another, his guitarists steal from another, etc. I don't know which bands are borrowed from because they all sound the same to me. The man on the cover of this album has a mohawk hair cut which shows he is a big fan of the A-Team and Mr. T. I bought this album expecting to hear something Mr. T would be proud of and maybe some songs about Mr. T, but instead Lars chooses to whine selfishly about his own life. He breaks from this however to sing "Army of Zombies", a song about the SNES game "Zombies Ate My Neighbours". Overall this a decent Rancid album.
I am a firm believer that everyone is entitled to their opinion, but Jesus Christ. This guy couldn't possibly be more thoughtless. Am I to believe that this peckerwood actually thought about Mr. T when he saw a man (that's Lars, you idiot) with a mowhawk on the cover a punk album? What's even more shocking is that five people actually found this review helpful.
That said, there were a few very thoughtful reviews. One guy even had the depth the draw parallels between this album and some of Springsteen's work in the 70s.
A warning to all musicians with a drinking problem.
Don't let this happen to you. This is Shane MacGowan from The Pogues.
Man...this blogging shit is hard.
I have a tough time figuring out what the hell to write about. Over the past week i've found that keeping a blog can be pretty hard work. It's not that I find that writing is hard work, it's that I'm finding it difficult to think of things to write about. On one hand, I have a lot of random thoughts that, for the most part, remain unspoken. These thoughts can range from witty commentary to idotic musings. On the other hand, much of my day is filled with functional bullshit: what time I'm getting up, what I should have for lunch, whether or not I should have my second cigarette within an hour of my first, and so forth. It makes me question what is blogworthy.
I read a lot. I usually start off my day by reading the New York Times. If I happen to make two cups of coffee for the morning, I try to squeeze in a few ages of the Washington Post. However, I always hesitate to link interested articles because it makes me feel like a goddamned thief. Not mention horribly unoriginal. Has anyone else run into this problem?
I read a lot. I usually start off my day by reading the New York Times. If I happen to make two cups of coffee for the morning, I try to squeeze in a few ages of the Washington Post. However, I always hesitate to link interested articles because it makes me feel like a goddamned thief. Not mention horribly unoriginal. Has anyone else run into this problem?
The best part about college...
...is that you get to write about the most pointless shit. The following is what I turned in as a final essay for a class last semester. It's a funny storry about three friends (myself included) getting lost in the back woods of South Amherst.
It was 4 a.m. on a chilly spring morning when I came to the sudden realization that I had no idea where the hell I was.
The night began at a house near the rural back roads of South Amherst, five miles away from the glimmering lights and urban-style high-rise dorms of the UMass campus. I was with two friends, and we were drinking heavily into the night. Around 2 a.m. we realized that our ride back to the dorms had left us, and the buses had stopped running hours ago. The decision to walk came democratically.
“To hell with it!” yelled the Cowboy, gesturing wildly with a bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. “We’re what, five miles away from campus? Let’s walk back!”
Unable to see beyond my inebriation, I seconded the motion enthusiastically.
“Of course we should walk back!” I sputtered. “Isn’t there a bike trail that leads directly to Amherst College up the road from here?”
“That’s what I heard,” the Bagger answered.
The intoxicated mind does not have any self-correcting mechanisms. To us, the idea of a five-mile stumble back to campus would amount to that of a great adventure. And why not? There was no better time to test our wilderness survival skills than while we were stone drunk and hopelessly unaware of the consequences. There was never a moment in which we doubted our decision. We were far too busy high-fiving each other and carrying on about how much fun we were going to have. With that, we poured ourselves one last drink for the road, and started off towards the bike path.
The bike path was only a few hundred yards away from the house. Although it was dark, out we managed to find our way to the entrance. The path was dark and windy, surrounded by water on one side and lined with trees on the other. As we walked we sipped our drinks graciously. The metronomic thud of the Cowboy’s boots on the pavement created a sense of tedium, as we were all in lockstep walking down a dark path seemingly leading into a black oblivion. Conversation had come to a gradual halt as we slowly began to realize how far we were from campus.
“Jesus Christ, we’ve been on this path for damn near an hour,” the Bagger said. “Are you sure it leads to Amherst college?”
Before anyone could answer, a shadowy figure darted out in front of us and made a loud splash as it jumped into the pond. Startled by the sudden commotion, the Cowboy lost his footing and fell hard onto the pavement. The Bagger and I stood frozen for a moment. Our eyes darted along the shadowy perimeter of the path looking for the bastard that scared us.
“What in God’s name was that?” I asked.
“Beats me,” the Bagger answered. “Whatever it was I hope it stays the hell away from us.”
“Maybe it was the giant rat that took out Cary Elwes in The Princess Bride,” I mused. “
The Bagger looked confused.
“You never saw that flick?” I asked.
“No…”
“What are you, simple?” I asked mockingly.
Our attention turned back to the Cowboy who was lying on the ground, groaning in pain. We helped him onto his feet and continued down the path.
We were still shaken up from our encounter with what we assumed was the giant rat from The Princess Bride. We walked cautiously down the path, prepared for whatever else might jump in our way.
More time passed and we grew impatient. There were no lights around us, and all that we could see ahead of us was more darkness. We came across an opening in the woods on the left side of the path. We walked over to it and discovered that it led to a road, which we assumed would connect us to route 116.
“Let’s take the road,” the Bagger suggested. “I don’t think this path is going to lead us anywhere.”
We sat for a moment. The Bagger was certainly on to something. The bike trail seemed endless, and although we were walking on it for over an hour, we didn’t feel any closer to campus. I was hesitant. None of us were sober enough at this point to accurately gauge where we were. It was the drunk leading the drunk. However I was all out of ideas so I put my trust in the Bagger. We would find out the following day that we were less than a quarter mile from Amherst College when we turned off the bike path.
We walked down the road for about a half hour. We could hear cars zipping by in the distance. After a few minutes, we saw a set of headlights coming toward us. The three of us stood on the side of the road in anticipation of the approaching vehicle. As the car neared, we raised our hands and began waving them in hopes that the early-morning traveler would take pity on a couple of hapless drunkards lost in the woods of South Amherst. Upon seeing us, the car accelerated and zoomed past us. I was furious.
“HEY!” I yelled. “Thanks a lot for the help, PRICK!”
I sat surprised for a moment.
“Did you see that?” I asked. “So much for depending on the kindness of strangers, eh Cowboy?”
No response.
“Cowboy?”
THUD!
I turned around to see that the Cowboy had fallen flat on his back.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I muttered. “Bagger, help him up, huh?”
While the Bagger helped up the Cowboy I pondered our next move.
“Okay,” I began. “We started off back there, and now we’re here. I think if we continue in this direction, we’re bound to hit 116.”
The Bagger was studying the skyline. He pointed to a mountain in the distance.
“Is that the Mt. Holyoke mountain?” he asked.
“I didn’t know they had their own mountain,” the Cowboy answered as he dusted himself off. “My sister went there and she never said anything about a mountain.”
The Bagger scratched his head.
“That’s odd,” he said.
We made the unanimous decision to continue walking down the road, hoping that it would lead us to civilization.
I looked at my cell phone to check the time. 4 a.m. The first signs of sobriety came with the realization that we were a long way from home. All we had was a road that led to nowhere and impending sobriety that would make the rest of the walk unbearable. In the distance we saw a set of bright lights.
During a night in which the circumstances would become bleaker with each passing moment, the lights gave us the hope that perhaps we weren’t far from campus. After following the lights, we approached an old farmhouse that sat on top of a hill. The lights hung in the horizon just above a line of trees in the distance. We walked up the hill next to the house and saw that we would have to cut through a pasture to get to the lights. I looked at the Cowboy and the Bagger. They nodded as we began walking through the pasture with the Cowboy in the lead.
It was still dark out and we had difficulty seeing what was in front of us. The Cowboy came to a sudden stop.
“Whoa!” the Cowboy exclaimed, pointing to what appeared to be a trip wire six inches away from where we stopped. “This is an electric fence, don’t move.
Before we got a chance to figure out what to do, we heard a thundering crash and saw the outline of a large horse jump out of the shadows in front of us.
“RUN!” I yelled, more afraid of a shotgun-wielding farmer than of the horse.
The Bagger and I ran back towards the house in a dash. After a few seconds of running we noticed that the Cowboy had stumbled into a ditch and had fallen against the side of a barn.
“To hell with him!” I screeched. “Let’s get out of here!”
The Bagger and I made our way back to the street in front of the house. We waited for a few moments as the Cowboy limped down the hill and caught up with us. I plopped down on the curb and rested my face in the palms of my frozen hands. We sat in silence for a few minutes, until finally a car pulled up next to us.
“You boys look a little lost,” the driver said, holding back chuckles.
“Any idea how to get back to UMass?” we asked him.
“Well,” he started, “if you follow this road all the way down and take a left, and follow that road for about a mile, you’ll reach 116. From there I assume you know the way?”
We nodded and thanked him. The walk down the road was mostly silent. The novelty of being lost had faded with the drunkenness. We were now sober, cold and frustrated at how far we had walked in the wrong direction. After another hour of walking, we finally reached 116. We recognized the Hess station as we approached it. We were even further away from campus than when we started off. The lights we saw earlier were not coming from UMass, but rather from Hampshire College.
The Bagger and I spent a few minutes in the Hess mini mart buying coffee and snack cakes. The Cowboy walked in shortly after us and told us that he talked to a contractor that was doing work in downtown Amherst. The contractor was willing to give us a lift to the center of town. We happily accepted the ride and told him about what we went through over the past few hours. The contractor laughed.
“Sounds like you fellas had one hell of a night,” he told us.
I simply smiled and nodded, taking comfort in the fact that for the first time all morning, I was on my way home.
It was 4 a.m. on a chilly spring morning when I came to the sudden realization that I had no idea where the hell I was.
The night began at a house near the rural back roads of South Amherst, five miles away from the glimmering lights and urban-style high-rise dorms of the UMass campus. I was with two friends, and we were drinking heavily into the night. Around 2 a.m. we realized that our ride back to the dorms had left us, and the buses had stopped running hours ago. The decision to walk came democratically.
“To hell with it!” yelled the Cowboy, gesturing wildly with a bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. “We’re what, five miles away from campus? Let’s walk back!”
Unable to see beyond my inebriation, I seconded the motion enthusiastically.
“Of course we should walk back!” I sputtered. “Isn’t there a bike trail that leads directly to Amherst College up the road from here?”
“That’s what I heard,” the Bagger answered.
The intoxicated mind does not have any self-correcting mechanisms. To us, the idea of a five-mile stumble back to campus would amount to that of a great adventure. And why not? There was no better time to test our wilderness survival skills than while we were stone drunk and hopelessly unaware of the consequences. There was never a moment in which we doubted our decision. We were far too busy high-fiving each other and carrying on about how much fun we were going to have. With that, we poured ourselves one last drink for the road, and started off towards the bike path.
The bike path was only a few hundred yards away from the house. Although it was dark, out we managed to find our way to the entrance. The path was dark and windy, surrounded by water on one side and lined with trees on the other. As we walked we sipped our drinks graciously. The metronomic thud of the Cowboy’s boots on the pavement created a sense of tedium, as we were all in lockstep walking down a dark path seemingly leading into a black oblivion. Conversation had come to a gradual halt as we slowly began to realize how far we were from campus.
“Jesus Christ, we’ve been on this path for damn near an hour,” the Bagger said. “Are you sure it leads to Amherst college?”
Before anyone could answer, a shadowy figure darted out in front of us and made a loud splash as it jumped into the pond. Startled by the sudden commotion, the Cowboy lost his footing and fell hard onto the pavement. The Bagger and I stood frozen for a moment. Our eyes darted along the shadowy perimeter of the path looking for the bastard that scared us.
“What in God’s name was that?” I asked.
“Beats me,” the Bagger answered. “Whatever it was I hope it stays the hell away from us.”
“Maybe it was the giant rat that took out Cary Elwes in The Princess Bride,” I mused. “
The Bagger looked confused.
“You never saw that flick?” I asked.
“No…”
“What are you, simple?” I asked mockingly.
Our attention turned back to the Cowboy who was lying on the ground, groaning in pain. We helped him onto his feet and continued down the path.
We were still shaken up from our encounter with what we assumed was the giant rat from The Princess Bride. We walked cautiously down the path, prepared for whatever else might jump in our way.
More time passed and we grew impatient. There were no lights around us, and all that we could see ahead of us was more darkness. We came across an opening in the woods on the left side of the path. We walked over to it and discovered that it led to a road, which we assumed would connect us to route 116.
“Let’s take the road,” the Bagger suggested. “I don’t think this path is going to lead us anywhere.”
We sat for a moment. The Bagger was certainly on to something. The bike trail seemed endless, and although we were walking on it for over an hour, we didn’t feel any closer to campus. I was hesitant. None of us were sober enough at this point to accurately gauge where we were. It was the drunk leading the drunk. However I was all out of ideas so I put my trust in the Bagger. We would find out the following day that we were less than a quarter mile from Amherst College when we turned off the bike path.
We walked down the road for about a half hour. We could hear cars zipping by in the distance. After a few minutes, we saw a set of headlights coming toward us. The three of us stood on the side of the road in anticipation of the approaching vehicle. As the car neared, we raised our hands and began waving them in hopes that the early-morning traveler would take pity on a couple of hapless drunkards lost in the woods of South Amherst. Upon seeing us, the car accelerated and zoomed past us. I was furious.
“HEY!” I yelled. “Thanks a lot for the help, PRICK!”
I sat surprised for a moment.
“Did you see that?” I asked. “So much for depending on the kindness of strangers, eh Cowboy?”
No response.
“Cowboy?”
THUD!
I turned around to see that the Cowboy had fallen flat on his back.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I muttered. “Bagger, help him up, huh?”
While the Bagger helped up the Cowboy I pondered our next move.
“Okay,” I began. “We started off back there, and now we’re here. I think if we continue in this direction, we’re bound to hit 116.”
The Bagger was studying the skyline. He pointed to a mountain in the distance.
“Is that the Mt. Holyoke mountain?” he asked.
“I didn’t know they had their own mountain,” the Cowboy answered as he dusted himself off. “My sister went there and she never said anything about a mountain.”
The Bagger scratched his head.
“That’s odd,” he said.
We made the unanimous decision to continue walking down the road, hoping that it would lead us to civilization.
I looked at my cell phone to check the time. 4 a.m. The first signs of sobriety came with the realization that we were a long way from home. All we had was a road that led to nowhere and impending sobriety that would make the rest of the walk unbearable. In the distance we saw a set of bright lights.
During a night in which the circumstances would become bleaker with each passing moment, the lights gave us the hope that perhaps we weren’t far from campus. After following the lights, we approached an old farmhouse that sat on top of a hill. The lights hung in the horizon just above a line of trees in the distance. We walked up the hill next to the house and saw that we would have to cut through a pasture to get to the lights. I looked at the Cowboy and the Bagger. They nodded as we began walking through the pasture with the Cowboy in the lead.
It was still dark out and we had difficulty seeing what was in front of us. The Cowboy came to a sudden stop.
“Whoa!” the Cowboy exclaimed, pointing to what appeared to be a trip wire six inches away from where we stopped. “This is an electric fence, don’t move.
Before we got a chance to figure out what to do, we heard a thundering crash and saw the outline of a large horse jump out of the shadows in front of us.
“RUN!” I yelled, more afraid of a shotgun-wielding farmer than of the horse.
The Bagger and I ran back towards the house in a dash. After a few seconds of running we noticed that the Cowboy had stumbled into a ditch and had fallen against the side of a barn.
“To hell with him!” I screeched. “Let’s get out of here!”
The Bagger and I made our way back to the street in front of the house. We waited for a few moments as the Cowboy limped down the hill and caught up with us. I plopped down on the curb and rested my face in the palms of my frozen hands. We sat in silence for a few minutes, until finally a car pulled up next to us.
“You boys look a little lost,” the driver said, holding back chuckles.
“Any idea how to get back to UMass?” we asked him.
“Well,” he started, “if you follow this road all the way down and take a left, and follow that road for about a mile, you’ll reach 116. From there I assume you know the way?”
We nodded and thanked him. The walk down the road was mostly silent. The novelty of being lost had faded with the drunkenness. We were now sober, cold and frustrated at how far we had walked in the wrong direction. After another hour of walking, we finally reached 116. We recognized the Hess station as we approached it. We were even further away from campus than when we started off. The lights we saw earlier were not coming from UMass, but rather from Hampshire College.
The Bagger and I spent a few minutes in the Hess mini mart buying coffee and snack cakes. The Cowboy walked in shortly after us and told us that he talked to a contractor that was doing work in downtown Amherst. The contractor was willing to give us a lift to the center of town. We happily accepted the ride and told him about what we went through over the past few hours. The contractor laughed.
“Sounds like you fellas had one hell of a night,” he told us.
I simply smiled and nodded, taking comfort in the fact that for the first time all morning, I was on my way home.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Funny CNN Prank Call
I came across this video a few months ago, only to recently rediscover it. No matter how often I see this, it has me in hysterics every time.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Never drink n blog after watching My Super Sweet 16!
Going against conventional wisdom...I watched that ridiculously idiotic My Super Sweet Sixten today.
What the hell was I thinking.
I knew precisely what I was getting myself into. For an hour I sat down and watched two hopelessly overindulged young women enjoying the birthday parties of their dreams....and it made me sick to my goddamn stomach. What follows is a fantasy; what I would do if placed within a few hundred yards of one of these girls.
I would arm myself with a .44 magnum and a large knife. I'd grab the girl by her chemically lighten hair and drag her into the back of a Ford Toreno. At which point I would shoot her in her left kneecap, warning her that her left was next unless she cooperated with my demands. At this pont, I would force her at gunpoint to read from Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. Anytime she mispronounces a word containing no less than three sylables, i would strike her in the back of the head with the butt of the gun. While she reads from the book, I take my knife and carve into her forehead. Mostly nonesensical musings about NAFTA's Chapter 11.
As she begs for her life, I'll tie her up and drag her into a room surrounded my mirrors. To prevent her from wincing in agony, I'll slice off her eyelids so she is forced to look at nothing but the mangled remains of her once beautiful body. By this point I expect that she will try to negotiate her way out of her torturous fate. Unmoved by her sudden display of humanity, I'll ripp off her fingernails one by one, perhaps taking with them bits and pieces of her cuticles. Her toenails, no doubt recently decorated with an expensive coating applied by a Korean pedicurist, will also be torn out one by one.
Stay tuned for part two tomorrow!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
It's Always Funny...
Funniest Show On Television!
A friend of mine recently introduced me to the hilarious show It's Always Sunny In Philidelphia. The show follows Mac, Charlie, Dennis and Dee, four selfish and perpetually dim characters that run Paddy's Irish Pub in South Philly. The gang deals with many serious issues facing America, including racism, abortion and Jihad. The show was recently renewed for a third season, which begins production later this month.
In keeping with fan tradition, I checked the imdb boards to see what fans have had to say. I'm typically very suspicious of posters on the imdb (even though I am one myself) because I find that most of them are reactionary little bastards that impossible to please and horribly easy to disappoint. Not only that, but they tend to take their own opinions very seriously, and will often insult those that simply disagree with them. Because It's Always Sunny in Philidelphia has had a pretty brief run thus far, I figured that it would be hard for it to "lose its touch" in the same way that many people have accused The Simpsons of doing so. However some fans, despite admiring the show overall, are dissatisfied with Danny DeVito joining the cast in the second season.
One poster writes,
"I watched 2 iTunes eps and got hooked. Downloaded the second season on instinct. I'm 3 eps in and I'm just not feeling it...I don't know why! I love Devito and I love the show. It makes no sense. Was it just meant to be 3 dudes in a bar and the chick? It seems to be that anything else disrupts the flow. I'm lost. I can't grab on to what it is. I like all involved and I can't figure it out."
The overall opinion of the show remains very high, which is unusual because the message boards on imdb are typically host to whiny little pricks get their rocks off by trashing shows they've seen once or twice and formulating opinions which have no basis in rationality. I typically don't post much, mostly because whenever I read a discussion that I might find interesting to join I have to run to the bathroom because I've chewed through my bottom lip in rage. The thing that I find the most frustrating about fan boards is that people take themselves so seriously. For whatever reason, the purpose of a discussion board, which I believe is to promote the diversity of ideas and the free-flow of opinions, is totally lost when one of these sanctimonious dickheads finds out that someone thinks Donnie Darko was a piece of shit. Which it was.
On a few occasions I've been calm enough to write a response to some idiot lacking the aptitude to distinguish their, there and they're, only to realize halfway through my post that talking to some of these people is just not worth my time. And because my time is so valuable, I'll spend the rest of my evening looking up students names I find in the UMass Police Logs on Facebook.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
A blog (short for weblog) is a website set up to allow someone to post information of their choosing. I am currently at a loss of words because the terminally busty Anna Nicole Smith has apparently died. If she is creamated I don't think it would be wise to spread her ashes anywhere near water, as burnt silicon has been known to have dramatic ecological effects.
As this evolution meets revolution, the world is not changing. However, with new technology comes the ability to create a better understanding of the world. For example, the video we watched in class last week took what was an already heartbreaking story and put viewers right in the middle. The article itself was written very powerfully, but the accompanying video maximized the emotional impact of a soldier getting killed. While I think many were deeply affected by this video, I'm not sure if it actually changed anything. This is a small-scale representation of what I think the impact that technology has on the world.
In the abstract, journalism is changing because of new technology. Potentially, anyone with a cell phone camera or access to the internet could play the role of a journalist. Beyond that, I don't think that there has been any real functional change in the field of journalism. The way I see it, we just have different ways to look at the same shit.
In the abstract, journalism is changing because of new technology. Potentially, anyone with a cell phone camera or access to the internet could play the role of a journalist. Beyond that, I don't think that there has been any real functional change in the field of journalism. The way I see it, we just have different ways to look at the same shit.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
More on Scott Bredeur
Scott Brodeur was born in Groton, Connecticut on a submarine base. He began his career in journalism writing sports, but soon turned his attention to hard news.
While living in Philidelphia, Scott wrote for a magazine as a rock critic. Since then, he has written for music publications such as The Source and Guitar World.
In 1996, he was approached by Advanced Internet and became part of a team that created NJ.com. Since then he has also set up masslive.com, where he still keeps a blog titled "Blog Beat".
In the mid 90s, Scott was doing freelance work for Prodigy, an internet service provider. It was during this time that Scott wrote a piece about Van Morrison. Readers responded to this piece, prompting Scott to respond in kind. He became fond of the kind of interpersonal discourse that only the Internet could provide. Since then, he has become somewhat of an expert in what has become known as the "blogosphere".
Scott teaches part-time at UMass Amherst and currently resides in Northampton, Ma with his wife and three children.
While living in Philidelphia, Scott wrote for a magazine as a rock critic. Since then, he has written for music publications such as The Source and Guitar World.
In 1996, he was approached by Advanced Internet and became part of a team that created NJ.com. Since then he has also set up masslive.com, where he still keeps a blog titled "Blog Beat".
In the mid 90s, Scott was doing freelance work for Prodigy, an internet service provider. It was during this time that Scott wrote a piece about Van Morrison. Readers responded to this piece, prompting Scott to respond in kind. He became fond of the kind of interpersonal discourse that only the Internet could provide. Since then, he has become somewhat of an expert in what has become known as the "blogosphere".
Scott teaches part-time at UMass Amherst and currently resides in Northampton, Ma with his wife and three children.
Who is Scott Brodeur? The first thoughts I had of Scott Brodeur came to me as I was stepping out of the elevator heading toward the OIT PC lab. I looked at my cell phone to check the time when I realized, "Shit...I'm two minutes late. Well, I hope this Scott fellow is lenient with tardies."
Upon walking into the classroom, he handed me the course syllabus without mentioning that I was late.
Good, I thought to myself. At least he seems patient.
Then he assigned the class to set up a blog, and write a 200 word post about him based on what we could pull off the Internet. Like any resourceful student, I used The Google to find out as much about Scott Brodeur as I could.
The first thing that came up was one of his blog posts about a chance encounter he had with Sen. Joe Lieberman at a rest stop outside of Worcester. The title of the piece was "Fear and Loathing outside Worcester Or: Everything You Wanted to Know About Joe Lieberman". The title of the piece told me that not only is a fan of Hunter S. Thompson (also apparent in a reference made in the story) but also of Dr. Strangelove.
Upon further research, I found that Brodeur was the founding editor-in-chief of masslive.com, and also played a role in setting up nj.com.
Upon walking into the classroom, he handed me the course syllabus without mentioning that I was late.
Good, I thought to myself. At least he seems patient.
Then he assigned the class to set up a blog, and write a 200 word post about him based on what we could pull off the Internet. Like any resourceful student, I used The Google to find out as much about Scott Brodeur as I could.
The first thing that came up was one of his blog posts about a chance encounter he had with Sen. Joe Lieberman at a rest stop outside of Worcester. The title of the piece was "Fear and Loathing outside Worcester Or: Everything You Wanted to Know About Joe Lieberman". The title of the piece told me that not only is a fan of Hunter S. Thompson (also apparent in a reference made in the story) but also of Dr. Strangelove.
Upon further research, I found that Brodeur was the founding editor-in-chief of masslive.com, and also played a role in setting up nj.com.
Drum roll please...
I, Ryan Thomas Gibbons, am now an official member of the blogosphere. I proudly join the ranks of masterbloggers such as Kos and Andrew Sullivan. While they might have a few things that I lack (talent, wit, education, readers, notoriety, money, political connections, works published in outlets other than school newspapers, etc), one advantage I have over them is street cred (no....seriously!). So consider this to be the blog from the streets: the voice of Joe Foodstamps, or Joan Crackwhore.
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