Science! Fitness!! Power Drinks!!! Imagine the following scenario: Say you’re going to the Columbus courthouse to report for jury duty. Now say, hypothetically, that you are particularly enamored with the architectural style that was utilized in the design of the courthouse, and so you stand out in front of the building to admire its aesthetics. Now say that someone were to drop a boulder off of the roof and send it hurtling towards you at the speed of gravity. Now assume that I am eating at El Chile Rojo, two blocks away. I’m not saying that, in the time it would take for the boulder to hit the ground (approximately 4.2 seconds according to my highly dubious calculations), I would be able to sprint from the restaurant and catch the boulder before it smashed you. But I’m not saying that I wouldn’t be able to, either.
Why am I so sure of my physical fitness?
Yesterday, we had to take a physical fitness test for our Lifetime Fitness class, and according to my results, I am unfathomably healthy. You’d think that a semester spent stagnant on a futon eating pizza and only venturing outside to go to class would render me a fat slob, but no—rather, nay. For thou hath misspoke. According to the highly accurate methods of measuring fitness as employed by The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, I can do 44 sit-ups in a minute, have 9% body fat (which is similar to most NFL wide receivers), and am of above-average flexibility for a dude. Of course, I can do only 21 push-ups before my arms give out, but who’s counting, right? Those are still pretty good numbers. To what do I attribute my physical superiority? I drink one power drink per day. Power Drinks? Indeed, power drinks.
For those of you who do not know what a power drink is, that’s perfectly natural, because I just coined the term about ten minutes before I started writing this column. To put it simply, power drinks are those drinks that rise above the lowly caste of “regular, boring, sucky beverage” like water or juice or soda, but fail to reach the category of “energy drink” like Red Bull or Monster or Maxenergy or any other beverage that looks radioactive and leads to uncomfortable amounts of energy. (Fun fact—Red Bull is banned in Denmark!) A “power drink,” therefore, is any drink that doesn’t promise energy, but doesn’t imply that you won’t do something awesome after having imbibed it. Something that is loaded with sugar and carbs, but still seems vaguely good for you.
I’m talking about beverages like Gatorade and Vitamin Water and Sobe, stuff like that. The type of drink that probably features a sweaty athlete in its commercials, the type of drink that promises to deliver countless quantities of delicious electrolytes that are in desperate need of being replenished. Honestly, I have no idea what an electrolyte is. The cynic in me wonders if it’s just a made-up term used by the power drink lobby to imply that their product is somewhat healthy, but then I think about how incomprehensibly awesome I feel after having ingested a G2, a beverage whose main claim is that it is an “electrolyte beverage.” I don’t know what that means, but I sure know it ain’t bad.
Hot Jam of the Week: “Low” by Flo Rida and T-Pain—This is without a doubt the worst song I’ve ever heard. Everyone should listen to it just to know how terrible it is. The only thing that saves me from wanting to run into oncoming traffic every time I hear this waste of three minutes and fifty seconds is the presence of the ubiquitous T-Pain, the greatest singer of all time.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
UNC basketball
As I write this, I am twenty-some-odd hours removed from having watched UNC’s first (and hopefully sole) loss of the 2007-2008 Division I Men’s Basketball Season. I am devastated. For those of you who didn’t watch the game, shame on you. Regardless, I will give you a recap. We lost to Maryland. Maryland, an unranked school whose wins over such well-known perennial juggernauts as Northeastern University (7-10), Savannah State University (10-14), and North Florida University (1-16!) should have belied their hidden power that on Saturday emerged from the ACC’s also-ran column, fully formed like an angry phoenix with a wicked jump shot and killer defense. Bambaly Osby, you are my enemy.
I care about UNC basketball more than I feel that normal people care about most things. For example, I probably care more about UNC basketball than my mom cares about the fact that over Christmas break, I returned her car to her with an inexplicable dent in the fender, an event that, hypothetically, should elicit massive retaliation from any parent. I care about basketball more than I care about (at least) a third of my classes at school. And I definitely care more about UNC basketball than I do about the individuals who make up the UNC basketball team.
This is what separates me from the superfans, those who would literally give their firstborn for a chance to have lunch with the likes of Tyler Hansbrough or Coach Roy Williams or even a non-prominent player such as Quentin Thomas or Greg Little. At UNC, the superfans dominate — you can’t swing a dead cat around this place without hitting somebody who knows that Tyler Hansbrough comes from Poplar Bluff, Mississippi and that his father is a plastic surgeon.
Oddly enough, it seems to me that females are much more into the cult of personality that UNC cultivates around the team. Girls who in high school had no vested interest in UNC basketball or even a cursory knowledge of the basic rules and principles of the game are now seemingly obsessed with the team’s actions both on the court and off. It is because of these idiotic doters that I have become aware of such trivial minutia as the fact that Wayne Ellington drives a (insert car name here) or that Tyler Hansbrough lives with Bobby Frasor and takes care of him now that his ACL is torn. I’m sure that Bobby Frasor is a genuine, decent human who will go on to live a worthwhile life, but the fact that he has torn his ACL officially deems his existence completely irrelevant in my eyes.
Simply put, I don’t care about these people the same way I care about human beings. These young men are all clearly worthwhile individuals, but I have no vested interest in their lives. Tyler Hansbrough is not the best player in the country because he lives with Bobby Frasor. He is the best player in the country because he is gigantic, physically dominant, and has the work ethic of Stalin’s ideal laborer. Wayne Ellington’s (insert car here) doesn’t score 17.1 points per game. The fact that Ty Lawson carries a Spongebob Squarepants backpack is a cute footnote in the book of his basketball career, but Ty Lawson’s backpack cannot penetrate the lane with half the effectiveness that Ty Lawson’s body can. I do, however, care about UNC basketball for actual reasons, such as the fact that I attend college here, and the fact that we are the number-one-ranked team in the nation (Okay, so we were. I’m still having trouble coping. Lousy Memphis.).
I care about UNC basketball more than I feel that normal people care about most things. For example, I probably care more about UNC basketball than my mom cares about the fact that over Christmas break, I returned her car to her with an inexplicable dent in the fender, an event that, hypothetically, should elicit massive retaliation from any parent. I care about basketball more than I care about (at least) a third of my classes at school. And I definitely care more about UNC basketball than I do about the individuals who make up the UNC basketball team.
This is what separates me from the superfans, those who would literally give their firstborn for a chance to have lunch with the likes of Tyler Hansbrough or Coach Roy Williams or even a non-prominent player such as Quentin Thomas or Greg Little. At UNC, the superfans dominate — you can’t swing a dead cat around this place without hitting somebody who knows that Tyler Hansbrough comes from Poplar Bluff, Mississippi and that his father is a plastic surgeon.
Oddly enough, it seems to me that females are much more into the cult of personality that UNC cultivates around the team. Girls who in high school had no vested interest in UNC basketball or even a cursory knowledge of the basic rules and principles of the game are now seemingly obsessed with the team’s actions both on the court and off. It is because of these idiotic doters that I have become aware of such trivial minutia as the fact that Wayne Ellington drives a (insert car name here) or that Tyler Hansbrough lives with Bobby Frasor and takes care of him now that his ACL is torn. I’m sure that Bobby Frasor is a genuine, decent human who will go on to live a worthwhile life, but the fact that he has torn his ACL officially deems his existence completely irrelevant in my eyes.
Simply put, I don’t care about these people the same way I care about human beings. These young men are all clearly worthwhile individuals, but I have no vested interest in their lives. Tyler Hansbrough is not the best player in the country because he lives with Bobby Frasor. He is the best player in the country because he is gigantic, physically dominant, and has the work ethic of Stalin’s ideal laborer. Wayne Ellington’s (insert car here) doesn’t score 17.1 points per game. The fact that Ty Lawson carries a Spongebob Squarepants backpack is a cute footnote in the book of his basketball career, but Ty Lawson’s backpack cannot penetrate the lane with half the effectiveness that Ty Lawson’s body can. I do, however, care about UNC basketball for actual reasons, such as the fact that I attend college here, and the fact that we are the number-one-ranked team in the nation (Okay, so we were. I’m still having trouble coping. Lousy Memphis.).
Friday, January 11, 2008
Modeling job part II
Okay. So a quick recap of what’s happening here. Last month, I wrote a column about how I was approached to be a model for an Italian pottery company called Vietri, which sounds like a stupid move on their part. What’s more, it actually was a terrifically stupid move on their part, and here is the story of how I messed up a job that required nothing more of me than standing and holding a cup.
When we last left off, it was 10:30 on a Saturday morning — which, if you know any college student, is disgustingly early — and I was about to be taken to the mall by some woman whom I had met only in passing, which might scare some, but not me, as I am foolish and will do just about anything for any sum of money exceeding fifty dollars. And it just so happened that this company was willing to pay me $300 to be photographed, which is essentially an offer that, financially, I could not refuse.
The woman who was in charge of the photoshoot had assigned herself to taking me to the mall, for as she so eloquently put it, “If I let anybody else take you, they’d probably mess it up.” To say that this woman — five feet tall and dressed like somebody who refuses to acknowledge that she is now sixty — was intense would be to make the understatement of the very young new year. She took me to a mall and bought the most expensive Italian-looking clothes that she could find, and told me that I couldn’t keep the clothes and if I messed them up, I’d be paying for them. Most. Awkward. Moment. Ever.
Before returning me to my dorm room where I could burrow into my bed and sleep for several hours, I was told that I was to be picked in two days and transported to someone’s house where I would be photographed with pottery and that I was going to enjoy it and if I didn’t like it I wouldn’t get paid and then my kneecaps would be broken. At this time, I also decided to ask her why in the world that this company, as big as it was, wouldn’t hire actual, y’know, models for this.
“Well,” she didactically explained, “that was what I would have done. But the photographer we hired — (Insert overly-complicated Italian name here), he’s very good, I’m sure you’ve heard of him—only likes to work with real people instead of models.”
Oh. Huh? My questions as to why a policy of not using professional models for a high-budget photo shoot wasn’t insane were left unanswered as I waited two days to be picked up by some nameless entity who was to drive me to what I had built up in my mind to be the world’s lamest photoshoot.
Monday arrived with little fanfare, as nobody mourns the death of the weekend as I do. On the other hand, I was excited to see what could prove to be the finest moment in my life, my one day of glory as an Italian Pottery Model. Somebody from the pottery company picked me up around 1 p.m. and took me to the place where I and the other model were going to be photographed. Now, I should make a note on the other model. She was a girl, and was, conservatively, one of the seven most beautiful females I had ever encountered in my entire life. Clearly, these people had put more effort into finding a female model than finding a male model, as I’m a pretty goofy-looking dude, and she was as lovely as the Italian countryside where many Italian potters had no doubt crafted the fine pottery that we would be posing with on this day. Did I mention that she was gorgeous? I just really want to emphasize that point.
I’m normally a pretty smooth operator when it comes to girls, but this girl was so intensely attractive that I could barely think, let alone speak. We arrived to the place where we were to be shot, met the photographer, and I immediately ran into problems. The photographer sent the girl to get dressed, and then coolly looked me over, smoking a fine Italian cigarette and generally acting as stereotypical as possible. He concluded that I was too young-looking for the shot that he wanted and they were going to call in an older model, and that I should come back on Wednesday, presumably when I would be older.
I did come back on Wednesday to find a different scene being photographed with an altogether different set of models, none of whom were the girl who was so attractive that looking at her made my brain seize up, explode, reassemble itself only to program me to shave my own head a la Britney Spears. I was made up and had my hair done (really!), waited around for two hours while eating bagels, and then the other models and I assembled ourselves in the tableau formation that you see pictured, held that pose for two hours, and then went home.
Not bad for a day’s work, right?
Three quick final notes:
1. The reason that I’m never going to get a modeling job ever again is that I slouched waaaaaaay too much during that photo shoot, and both the photographer and the woman who took me shopping pointed this out. In fact, I’m pretty sure that my posture has been digitally altered in the picture you see, because I’ve never stood up that straight in my life.
2. I’m probably using that image illegally, as it cost a lot of money to make it happen, but on the other hand I’ve already been paid, so I’m not going to worry about it.
3. For those of you wondering whatever happened to the girl from the first photoshoot, it turns out that the photographer made her kiss the older model, and she complained about how he was too old and that she wanted me back. It’s the little moments of bittersweet victory that make life worth living.
Hot Jam of the Week: “No One” by Alicia Keys — I have never heard this song in its entirety. However, the snippets of this song that I’ve heard are so good that they make me want to drive a hundred and fifty miles per hour across the country to Alicia Keys’ house and propose to her.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
The year that was — 2007
Okay, so I know that some of you are looking forward to the thrilling conclusion of the Italian Pottery Model saga, but I really wanted to recap the important cultural events of the year because I’m lazy and uncreative at heart, and many more writers whose dogs are more talented than I am are doing the whole “year-end list” thing, so I think that I’ll follow suit. First, I shall start with the important stuff, like:
Movie of the Year: Knocked Up — Now, I know that No Country For Old Men was a better movie than Knocked Up, and I won’t deny it — the Coen brothers managed to make a genuine, beautiful work of art that stands up with the all-time great films of the 20th century — but when I’m looking to pop in a DVD that’ll entertain my idiot friends and me, I’ll head straight for Knocked Up, which, in case you spent the year living in a cave, is about a fat, semi-lovable goofball (played by Seth Rogen) who gets a beautiful young woman (played by Katherine Heigl, an actress on the atrocity of a television show that is Grey’s Anatomy) pregnant. Hilarity ensues. The DVD gets bonus points for including a deleted scene featuring one of Rogen’s roommates ranting about Brokeback Mountain.
Album of the Year: “In Rainbows” by Radiohead — While there were a bunch of critically adored albums put out this year by the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Jay-Z, and Kanye West, they were all, when you get down to the nitty-gritty, pretty boring. Bruce’s album really only had about two good songs on it, Jay-Z just kept rapping about killing people, and Kanye wouldn’t shut up about how much money he had and how everybody was after him. Which brings me to Radiohead, undeniably the most creative group of blokes over in England. The songs on the album are completely unique from any other artist’s body of work (probably because nobody can figure out how to successfully rip them off yet), and every song is jaw-droppingly awesome. Oh yeah, and the fact that the band decided to release the album on the internet, allowing you to name your own price for it, is pretty cool too.
TV Show of the Year: The Office — In recent years, The Office has gone from a quick adaptation of the hit British show to a full-blown cultural phenomenon. That said, having the characters of Jim and Pam enter into a relationship pretty much signals that the show’s writers are running out of ideas, and by next season, the show will have completely jumped the shark. Enjoy it while you can, kids.
Overreaction of the Year: Baseball’s Steroid Scandal — Okay, we get it. Everybody in Major League Baseball is on steroids. Really, is it that big a deal? Last time I checked, people like to see home runs. If a baseball player’s on steroids, then he’s more likely to hit a home run. So who cares? And if every baseball player is juicing up, don’t you get the same result as if everybody wasn’t on steroids? At this point, it almost seems like a dumb idea — or at least a bad career move — to not have some bat boy inject you with HGH. And I know that baseball is the national pastime, and it is a tragedy that our icons are dishonestly gaining an unfair advantage, but really… having the Senate get involved? We’re at war! Our economy is in the dump! Social Security needs reform! We’re trying to change our health care system! And the Senate decides to investigate steroids in baseball? Come on, man. The presidential election is coming up, and the intense publicity of the Mitchell Report seems to me to be a mindless move by the Senate that shows no real logical thinking when given the sense of the current political climate. Oy vey.
The Only Event More Pointless and Stupid than the Mitchell Report: The Hollywood Writers’ Strike — Now, I know that the writers in Hollywood are in the right, and when you boil it all down, they’ve got an excellent point. They’re not getting paid for their work that appears on the internet, and that’s fundamentally wrong. However, the writers’ strike is getting annoying. The media (probably because it, too, is made up of writers) is unabashedly taking the writers’ side. Additionally, celebrities, those shining examples of physical and mental perfection, have decided to take the writers’ side. Members of the band Rage Against the Machine have recently shown their support for the writers, saying that the writers are suffering and the big, bad entertainment executives are getting fat and rich off of their wares. While that may be true, the writers aren’t the ones who are really suffering. The people of America are getting hit the hardest because there isn’t anything new coming on TV besides brainless drivel like NBC’s Clash of the Choirs, a concept so mind-numbingly boring that it makes me want to rip my hair out and then shoot my TV with a potato gun. Sorry for the rant. Anyways, the writers’ strike is really just helping to dumb down American TV audiences because we can’t see any more shows with a modicum of intelligent thought, even if the current pinnacle of network TV happens to be junk like Grey’s Anatomy and Two and a Half Men. So, either way, America is hopeless.
With that in mind…
Happy Festivus and Happy New Year!
Movie of the Year: Knocked Up — Now, I know that No Country For Old Men was a better movie than Knocked Up, and I won’t deny it — the Coen brothers managed to make a genuine, beautiful work of art that stands up with the all-time great films of the 20th century — but when I’m looking to pop in a DVD that’ll entertain my idiot friends and me, I’ll head straight for Knocked Up, which, in case you spent the year living in a cave, is about a fat, semi-lovable goofball (played by Seth Rogen) who gets a beautiful young woman (played by Katherine Heigl, an actress on the atrocity of a television show that is Grey’s Anatomy) pregnant. Hilarity ensues. The DVD gets bonus points for including a deleted scene featuring one of Rogen’s roommates ranting about Brokeback Mountain.
Album of the Year: “In Rainbows” by Radiohead — While there were a bunch of critically adored albums put out this year by the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Jay-Z, and Kanye West, they were all, when you get down to the nitty-gritty, pretty boring. Bruce’s album really only had about two good songs on it, Jay-Z just kept rapping about killing people, and Kanye wouldn’t shut up about how much money he had and how everybody was after him. Which brings me to Radiohead, undeniably the most creative group of blokes over in England. The songs on the album are completely unique from any other artist’s body of work (probably because nobody can figure out how to successfully rip them off yet), and every song is jaw-droppingly awesome. Oh yeah, and the fact that the band decided to release the album on the internet, allowing you to name your own price for it, is pretty cool too.
TV Show of the Year: The Office — In recent years, The Office has gone from a quick adaptation of the hit British show to a full-blown cultural phenomenon. That said, having the characters of Jim and Pam enter into a relationship pretty much signals that the show’s writers are running out of ideas, and by next season, the show will have completely jumped the shark. Enjoy it while you can, kids.
Overreaction of the Year: Baseball’s Steroid Scandal — Okay, we get it. Everybody in Major League Baseball is on steroids. Really, is it that big a deal? Last time I checked, people like to see home runs. If a baseball player’s on steroids, then he’s more likely to hit a home run. So who cares? And if every baseball player is juicing up, don’t you get the same result as if everybody wasn’t on steroids? At this point, it almost seems like a dumb idea — or at least a bad career move — to not have some bat boy inject you with HGH. And I know that baseball is the national pastime, and it is a tragedy that our icons are dishonestly gaining an unfair advantage, but really… having the Senate get involved? We’re at war! Our economy is in the dump! Social Security needs reform! We’re trying to change our health care system! And the Senate decides to investigate steroids in baseball? Come on, man. The presidential election is coming up, and the intense publicity of the Mitchell Report seems to me to be a mindless move by the Senate that shows no real logical thinking when given the sense of the current political climate. Oy vey.
The Only Event More Pointless and Stupid than the Mitchell Report: The Hollywood Writers’ Strike — Now, I know that the writers in Hollywood are in the right, and when you boil it all down, they’ve got an excellent point. They’re not getting paid for their work that appears on the internet, and that’s fundamentally wrong. However, the writers’ strike is getting annoying. The media (probably because it, too, is made up of writers) is unabashedly taking the writers’ side. Additionally, celebrities, those shining examples of physical and mental perfection, have decided to take the writers’ side. Members of the band Rage Against the Machine have recently shown their support for the writers, saying that the writers are suffering and the big, bad entertainment executives are getting fat and rich off of their wares. While that may be true, the writers aren’t the ones who are really suffering. The people of America are getting hit the hardest because there isn’t anything new coming on TV besides brainless drivel like NBC’s Clash of the Choirs, a concept so mind-numbingly boring that it makes me want to rip my hair out and then shoot my TV with a potato gun. Sorry for the rant. Anyways, the writers’ strike is really just helping to dumb down American TV audiences because we can’t see any more shows with a modicum of intelligent thought, even if the current pinnacle of network TV happens to be junk like Grey’s Anatomy and Two and a Half Men. So, either way, America is hopeless.
With that in mind…
Happy Festivus and Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Fabio, eat your heart out
Hey kids! I just wanted to stop in, see how everybody was doing, and say that this is definitely my last column for the Bulletin. Why?
Because I found a new job. One that pays more than this racket. Jeff Byrd, I’m looking at you.
Okay, just kidding, this isn’t actually my last column for the Bulletin, but I did find a new job. Unfortunately, I managed to be semi-horrible at it, so they’re probably never going to call me back.
What did I do, you ask? Good question.
Italian pottery model.
To break those words down, in case you failed to completely comprehend their meaning, I must tell you a story:
So I’m standing on campus one day (in the area known as The Pit, for you Carolina aficionados) with a couple of friends, when out of the blue, a woman approaches me and asks, “Excuse me, but have you ever thought about being a model?”
Now for any normal person, hearing a question like that — completely unprovoked, remember — brings one response and one response only to mind: No! Because you may end up being asked to assume poses that are illegal in most states.
However, because I’m not the fastest horse in the stable, my response was instead a highly articulate, sublimely intelligent, “Uh. . . .”
“I’m sorry,” this woman, who had still not introduced herself to me, said in one breath, “I’m with Vietri — we’re an Italian pottery company, and we’re doing a photo shoot in a few days and we need models and you look Italian - are you Italian - will you do it?”
“Uh. . . .”
Sensing that my hesitancy was clearly a sign of my overwhelming enthusiasm for all things Italian and clay-based, the woman said, “Great! Just let me take a picture of you and then have my boss take a picture of you, and then we’ll get your info and give you a call.” So this woman’s boss — who was five feet tall and one of the most terrifying women I have ever met in my life — took a picture of me using her iPhone, and I gave them my phone number and my e-mail address. According to one of my friends who had been in the area for a while, the pair had been attempting to recruit models all afternoon, so I thought nothing of the incident, and went to my dorm room.
Problem is, about 5:30 that afternoon, my phone rang and it was the boss who had taken my picture with her iPhone. Life is crazy. “So would you be interested in being featured in our campaign? We’ll pay you three hundred dollars.”
In a complete state of shock yet cognizant enough that in college, you never turn down three hundred dollars, I said, “Uh. . . .sure. . . .”
“Great! Well I’m going to need to take you shopping on Saturday so we can get you some clothes. I’ll pick you up at 10:30 in the morning and we’ll go to the mall. Okay? Great. Bye.”
Now, at this point I should clarify two things:
1) I am not Italian. I have somewhat dark skin, but that really has more to do with the amount of time I spent outside when I was a kid than my ethnic background. Honestly, I’m not really sure why this woman thought that I must have come from the Mediterranean.
2) I am not a beautiful man. I am by no means a repulsive individual, but I am not exactly the picture of unadulterated physical perfection. To me, the epitome of Italian Model Perfection would be Fabio, and I look like somebody whom Fabio could break with his face while riding a rollercoaster.
Nor am I cool — it is my opinion that human beings have the ability to, through the fine art of cool, make themselves attractive. However, I am not cool. To paraphrase Chuck Klosterman, if cool had a color, it would be black. I, on the other hand, would be some shade of burnt orange, which I am. On the other hand, I’m skinny, tan, don’t suffer from any severe physical deformities, and I look significantly better than terrible if you put a suit on me.
Still, I am unable to comprehend why in the wide expanse of the universe someone would actually select me to model anything, let alone pottery. Why does anybody need to model pottery, anyway? It’s not like you wear the stuff, is it? Really, doesn’t pottery pretty much sell itself?
No, silly. This is what separates me, the Italian Pottery Model (IPM), from you, the common person. Clearly, this pottery was special and needed my assistance in selling it. So I looked on Vietri’s website, and discovered that the company had never before used models, and the term Italian Pottery was a misnomer. I quickly learned that the product Vietri pushed the most was dinnerware (e.g., cups, plates, etc). Later conversations with Vietri employees revealed that the company’s plates were the only ones featured on a little show called Sex and the City, and that Oprah had prominently endorsed the company on her show. So I guess you could say that this company was kind of a big deal.
So if this pottery company is such a big deal, why would they use schmucks like me for models? Tune in, not next time (next column is going to be on something Christmas-y, because I’m in the holiday spirit), but the time after next to find out!
Hot Jam of the week: “Protect Ya Neck” by the Wu-Tang Clan. The Wu-Tang Clan is essentially the sweetest rap group ever, and if you don’t like them, then we can’t be friends. Basically this song will rock your face off. Note: Wu-Tang Clan is not suitable for children, women who are pregnant or may become pregnant, or those with back injuries.
Because I found a new job. One that pays more than this racket. Jeff Byrd, I’m looking at you.
Okay, just kidding, this isn’t actually my last column for the Bulletin, but I did find a new job. Unfortunately, I managed to be semi-horrible at it, so they’re probably never going to call me back.
What did I do, you ask? Good question.
Italian pottery model.
To break those words down, in case you failed to completely comprehend their meaning, I must tell you a story:
So I’m standing on campus one day (in the area known as The Pit, for you Carolina aficionados) with a couple of friends, when out of the blue, a woman approaches me and asks, “Excuse me, but have you ever thought about being a model?”
Now for any normal person, hearing a question like that — completely unprovoked, remember — brings one response and one response only to mind: No! Because you may end up being asked to assume poses that are illegal in most states.
However, because I’m not the fastest horse in the stable, my response was instead a highly articulate, sublimely intelligent, “Uh. . . .”
“I’m sorry,” this woman, who had still not introduced herself to me, said in one breath, “I’m with Vietri — we’re an Italian pottery company, and we’re doing a photo shoot in a few days and we need models and you look Italian - are you Italian - will you do it?”
“Uh. . . .”
Sensing that my hesitancy was clearly a sign of my overwhelming enthusiasm for all things Italian and clay-based, the woman said, “Great! Just let me take a picture of you and then have my boss take a picture of you, and then we’ll get your info and give you a call.” So this woman’s boss — who was five feet tall and one of the most terrifying women I have ever met in my life — took a picture of me using her iPhone, and I gave them my phone number and my e-mail address. According to one of my friends who had been in the area for a while, the pair had been attempting to recruit models all afternoon, so I thought nothing of the incident, and went to my dorm room.
Problem is, about 5:30 that afternoon, my phone rang and it was the boss who had taken my picture with her iPhone. Life is crazy. “So would you be interested in being featured in our campaign? We’ll pay you three hundred dollars.”
In a complete state of shock yet cognizant enough that in college, you never turn down three hundred dollars, I said, “Uh. . . .sure. . . .”
“Great! Well I’m going to need to take you shopping on Saturday so we can get you some clothes. I’ll pick you up at 10:30 in the morning and we’ll go to the mall. Okay? Great. Bye.”
Now, at this point I should clarify two things:
1) I am not Italian. I have somewhat dark skin, but that really has more to do with the amount of time I spent outside when I was a kid than my ethnic background. Honestly, I’m not really sure why this woman thought that I must have come from the Mediterranean.
2) I am not a beautiful man. I am by no means a repulsive individual, but I am not exactly the picture of unadulterated physical perfection. To me, the epitome of Italian Model Perfection would be Fabio, and I look like somebody whom Fabio could break with his face while riding a rollercoaster.
Nor am I cool — it is my opinion that human beings have the ability to, through the fine art of cool, make themselves attractive. However, I am not cool. To paraphrase Chuck Klosterman, if cool had a color, it would be black. I, on the other hand, would be some shade of burnt orange, which I am. On the other hand, I’m skinny, tan, don’t suffer from any severe physical deformities, and I look significantly better than terrible if you put a suit on me.
Still, I am unable to comprehend why in the wide expanse of the universe someone would actually select me to model anything, let alone pottery. Why does anybody need to model pottery, anyway? It’s not like you wear the stuff, is it? Really, doesn’t pottery pretty much sell itself?
No, silly. This is what separates me, the Italian Pottery Model (IPM), from you, the common person. Clearly, this pottery was special and needed my assistance in selling it. So I looked on Vietri’s website, and discovered that the company had never before used models, and the term Italian Pottery was a misnomer. I quickly learned that the product Vietri pushed the most was dinnerware (e.g., cups, plates, etc). Later conversations with Vietri employees revealed that the company’s plates were the only ones featured on a little show called Sex and the City, and that Oprah had prominently endorsed the company on her show. So I guess you could say that this company was kind of a big deal.
So if this pottery company is such a big deal, why would they use schmucks like me for models? Tune in, not next time (next column is going to be on something Christmas-y, because I’m in the holiday spirit), but the time after next to find out!
Hot Jam of the week: “Protect Ya Neck” by the Wu-Tang Clan. The Wu-Tang Clan is essentially the sweetest rap group ever, and if you don’t like them, then we can’t be friends. Basically this song will rock your face off. Note: Wu-Tang Clan is not suitable for children, women who are pregnant or may become pregnant, or those with back injuries.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Nightmare on Franklin Street
Nobody cares about Halloween when they’re older, right? Starting around age 14, aren’t you too mature for such frivolous, nonsensical conceits? Doesn’t dressing up like something ridiculous lose its appeal after a certain point in one’s life?
False! Come to Chapel Hill for the night of October 31, and see for yourself. There were 82,000 people on Franklin Street (The main drag for UNC students, filled with cheap restaurants, bars, and other interesting stuff). Why were they there? Good question. I had a hard time explaining that one to my mom, too:
Mom: “So you’re going to Franklin Street tonight. Are there activities there?”
Drew: “No, not really. Not at all, actually. Just a bunch of people.”
Mom: “So why do so many people go if there’s nothing to do?”
Drew: “Um…they’re there because everybody else is, I guess.”
So I don’t really know why people come to Franklin Street, but they do come in droves. Even if the police hadn’t blocked the street, it would have been impossible for a car to budge. The street was flush with people, surging in all directions and no direction at once, struggling to move every which-way and getting nowhere fast, because the person in front of them probably just saw the break-dancing panda bears, so they had to stop and watch.
The costumes that night were, on the whole, completely ridiculous. Because I think everything is better in list form, here’s a list of some of my favorites:
• The Pope
• Tetris pieces (Tetris is a board game)
• Transformers that actually transformed from cars to robots
• Richard Simmons
• Three gorillas chasing a banana
• A group of people who were dressed up as the characters from the Mario video game series (Mario, Luigi, Princess Peach, Yoshi, etc.)
• Two robots playing guitars
• Borat (the title character from the movie “Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan”)
• Flava Flav (a rapper)
• Controllers for the Nintendo Wii
• Star Trek characters (it’s always nice to see somebody go out on the nerdy limb, especially because Star Trek raised me from the age of five to eighteen)
• Satan
• McLovin (the scene-stealing character from the movie “Superbad”)
The gender roles seemed outright cliché. I am speaking, of course, of those females who decided that this Halloween, they would be sexy. It appears there is a cottage industry that subsists by making Sexy (insert noun here) costumes. Sexy whats, you ask? Well on Halloween, I saw Sexy: Doctors, Teachers, Lawyers, Woodnymphs, Schoolgirls, Witches, Devils, Nintendo Characters, Magicians, Dentists, Emo Girls, Satans, Vikings, Spice Girls, Cowgirls, Indians, Girl Scouts, Guitar Players, Accountants, and of course the old standby, Sexy Cops.
While females seemed to feel that less clothing was more, many males seemed bent on making their figures larger than life. For example, one of my friends dressed up as a gigantic magnet and glued pictures of chicks (as in baby chickens) to it, and was a chick magnet. Get it? It’s funny, right? I also saw people dressed up as Scrabble boards, pumpkins, playing cards, drivers’ licenses, Solo Cups, and pretty much any other thing that you can think of, only bigger.
Perhaps what I found most interesting was that the UNC basketball team all decided that they didn’t need costumes, and would instead just go to Franklin, stand in the middle of the street, and wait to be recognized by the throngs. Which I guess is kind of a perverse way to enjoy one’s notoriety, but it yields beautiful little nuggets, like when one of my friends found Deon Thompson (a forward on the basketball team) in the middle of the street and asked him, “Wait, what are you dressed up as?”
To which he replied, “Deon Thompson!” That’s kind of a conceited thing to say, but I guess he’s earned it. He did drop 14 points against Georgetown in the tournament. Off the bench. Yeah, he definitely earned it.
And what/who did I dress up as, in the midst of this madness? Hunter S. Thompson, author/crazy person extraordinaire, who wrote the literary classic Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (which was later made into a not-so-classic movie starring Johnny Depp). Once I donned my costume, it became increasingly apparent that not as many people as I would have liked actually knew who Hunter S. Thompson was, as evidenced by the fact that one of my friends asked me, “Dude, are you Chevy Chase?” In fact, only about 12 people the entire night commented on my costume, and of those 12, probably half of them were other people dressed up as Hunter Thompson. (See the picture for one such example.)
So, in the end, why do people go to Franklin Street on Halloween? As Captain James T. Kirk once explained to Spock (shamelessly stealing a line from some ancient mystic), “Because it’s there.”
Thursday, November 08, 2007
My first rap concert
If you read my last column, you’ll remember that I promised to write about the Lil’ Wayne concert I went to this weekend. I’ll try, but it’s almost impossible to condense three hours of cacophonous rap music, the faint smell of marijuana smoke, and manic, possessed dancing into a TDB column. And now that I’ve said I can’t do such a thing, here goes.
A few weeks ago, a couple friends of mine asked if I wanted to join them to go see Lil’ Wayne — who is, of course, one of the world’s best-selling gangster rappers — in concert at the Greensboro Coliseum. Wayne was slated to appear with Soulja Boy (the kid with the number-one hit in the country that is so bad it makes me want to overdose on something every time I hear it) and Eve (she had a few hits when I was in middle school, and I didn’t know that she still existed), as well as Lil’ Boosie, Lil’ Scrappy, and probably about four or so additional rappers whose names also began with “Lil’.”
Always up for something new and/or weird, I of course accepted the invitation. I told some of my friends from back home that I was going, and they told me that I was, to put it mildly, completely out to lunch. Heck, even my own mother told me that I might get shot. Nevertheless, I persevered in my Lil’ Wayne-based pursuits.
My associates and I arrived at the Coliseum circa 9:00 pm, meaning we missed Lil’ Scrappy and possibly somebody called “J. Holliday,” both of whom sound kind of lame. We did, in fact, make it in time to see the incomparable Soulja Boy.
Hate to break it to you, but he stunk. He sang four songs, two of which were “Crank Dat (Soulja Boy),” his big hit. I honestly don’t remember what else he played, but generally he just danced his little Soulja Boy Dance, and lip-synced along to the backing track.
Wait, wait, wait. Did I just say that Soulja Boy lip-synced? I paid money to see somebody dance and lip-sync to their rap song? The durn point of a rap song is to rhythmically speak to a backing track which isn’t that hard in the first place, and to deprive your audience of that one sentimental piece of musical authenticity just folds the entire system into little tiny pieces and cuts it up like one of those snowflakes that you made in elementary school when your teacher felt like being lazy and didn’t want to do actual work. Lesson is, Soulja Boy makes me want to punch myself in the face repeatedly.
Next came Eve, who was aggressively boring. I didn’t know anything she sang, other than “Let Me Blow Ya Mind,” which was a minor hit when I was in seventh grade. I honestly can’t think of anything else to say about her, other than she had backup dancers who were supposed to detract from the fact that at this point in her life, she is less than skinny.
Finally, after agonizing minutes of anticipation, a fake news story flashed upon the Jumbotron explaining that Lil’ Wayne was incarcerated, but for fear of riots, he would be transported to Greensboro Coliseum for one night only. Then, Weezy F. Baby (as Wayne is sometimes known) was lowered down onto the stage in a cage. You heard me right — a cage. It was, needless to say, one of the most face-blowingly awesome events I have ever witnessed. From then on, he performed some of his greatest hits, such as “Hustler Musik,” “Ride 4 My (this word starts with an N and ends with a lawsuit),” “Stuntin’ Like My Daddy,” and “Leather So Soft,” on which he demonstrated his surprising proficiency on the guitar.
In case you were wondering, my friends and I were some of the only white people there. But you know what? It didn’t matter — everybody there treated us just like they would an old friend, and everybody had a great time.
Quick story regarding after the concert: That night was also the night of UNC’s homecoming concert, where the band Augustana played. Around 1:00 in the morning, my friends and I got back and went to a friend’s suite on the eighth floor of her dorm to hang out. We ended up sitting on the balcony, chatting, when up walked two dudes wearing really, really tight pants. Because I’m an insensitive jerk, I made fun of them. They heard me, and told me to do something that is anatomically impossible. Little did I know, those two guys were in Augustana. Not many people can say that they’ve met a world-famous rock band, but even fewer people can say that they’ve met a world-famous rock band... and made fun of them to their faces.
Jam of the Week: “Good Life” by Kanye West and T-Pain. I’m convinced that anything T-Pain touches turns to gold, and this song is no exception. Lyrically, the song is pretty simple. Basically, Kanye talks about how happy he is now that he has money, and T-Pain thoughtfully concurs. And yet the song is so, so good. Why? Pixie dust and drum machines, man.
A few weeks ago, a couple friends of mine asked if I wanted to join them to go see Lil’ Wayne — who is, of course, one of the world’s best-selling gangster rappers — in concert at the Greensboro Coliseum. Wayne was slated to appear with Soulja Boy (the kid with the number-one hit in the country that is so bad it makes me want to overdose on something every time I hear it) and Eve (she had a few hits when I was in middle school, and I didn’t know that she still existed), as well as Lil’ Boosie, Lil’ Scrappy, and probably about four or so additional rappers whose names also began with “Lil’.”
Always up for something new and/or weird, I of course accepted the invitation. I told some of my friends from back home that I was going, and they told me that I was, to put it mildly, completely out to lunch. Heck, even my own mother told me that I might get shot. Nevertheless, I persevered in my Lil’ Wayne-based pursuits.
My associates and I arrived at the Coliseum circa 9:00 pm, meaning we missed Lil’ Scrappy and possibly somebody called “J. Holliday,” both of whom sound kind of lame. We did, in fact, make it in time to see the incomparable Soulja Boy.
Hate to break it to you, but he stunk. He sang four songs, two of which were “Crank Dat (Soulja Boy),” his big hit. I honestly don’t remember what else he played, but generally he just danced his little Soulja Boy Dance, and lip-synced along to the backing track.
Wait, wait, wait. Did I just say that Soulja Boy lip-synced? I paid money to see somebody dance and lip-sync to their rap song? The durn point of a rap song is to rhythmically speak to a backing track which isn’t that hard in the first place, and to deprive your audience of that one sentimental piece of musical authenticity just folds the entire system into little tiny pieces and cuts it up like one of those snowflakes that you made in elementary school when your teacher felt like being lazy and didn’t want to do actual work. Lesson is, Soulja Boy makes me want to punch myself in the face repeatedly.
Next came Eve, who was aggressively boring. I didn’t know anything she sang, other than “Let Me Blow Ya Mind,” which was a minor hit when I was in seventh grade. I honestly can’t think of anything else to say about her, other than she had backup dancers who were supposed to detract from the fact that at this point in her life, she is less than skinny.
Finally, after agonizing minutes of anticipation, a fake news story flashed upon the Jumbotron explaining that Lil’ Wayne was incarcerated, but for fear of riots, he would be transported to Greensboro Coliseum for one night only. Then, Weezy F. Baby (as Wayne is sometimes known) was lowered down onto the stage in a cage. You heard me right — a cage. It was, needless to say, one of the most face-blowingly awesome events I have ever witnessed. From then on, he performed some of his greatest hits, such as “Hustler Musik,” “Ride 4 My (this word starts with an N and ends with a lawsuit),” “Stuntin’ Like My Daddy,” and “Leather So Soft,” on which he demonstrated his surprising proficiency on the guitar.
In case you were wondering, my friends and I were some of the only white people there. But you know what? It didn’t matter — everybody there treated us just like they would an old friend, and everybody had a great time.
Quick story regarding after the concert: That night was also the night of UNC’s homecoming concert, where the band Augustana played. Around 1:00 in the morning, my friends and I got back and went to a friend’s suite on the eighth floor of her dorm to hang out. We ended up sitting on the balcony, chatting, when up walked two dudes wearing really, really tight pants. Because I’m an insensitive jerk, I made fun of them. They heard me, and told me to do something that is anatomically impossible. Little did I know, those two guys were in Augustana. Not many people can say that they’ve met a world-famous rock band, but even fewer people can say that they’ve met a world-famous rock band... and made fun of them to their faces.
Jam of the Week: “Good Life” by Kanye West and T-Pain. I’m convinced that anything T-Pain touches turns to gold, and this song is no exception. Lyrically, the song is pretty simple. Basically, Kanye talks about how happy he is now that he has money, and T-Pain thoughtfully concurs. And yet the song is so, so good. Why? Pixie dust and drum machines, man.
My life thus far
So a quick recap of my last eighteen years: I was born in Charlotte, lived near there for a while, then Dad got a job in Polk County (isn’t it interesting how life repositions people here?) and I’ve been here ever since. I went to Middle School, Elementary School, and then High School—in that order—and then I got a job, and now I’m in college. Simple enough, right?
False. One of the weird things about college is how, like, difficult the transition from going to a high school class to going to a college class is. I’m not talking about the actual classes themselves—their insane, antagonistic difficulty that haunts your dreams and prohibits you from being a normal, loving human being is a given—I’m talking about physically getting to class.
See, I have class at 8:00 a.m. Every other day. This is officially an issue for me. Don’t, please, remind me of how I’ve gotten up at 6:30 every morning for thirteen years to go to school. That didn’t count, because I could get in a car and be protected from the elements, save for the thirty-odd seconds that it took me to get from the car to school. Life goes on, and we have to go on with it. I now get up at 7:00, take a shower, get dressed, forego breakfast in favor two pop-tarts (cinnamon chocolate flavor please; don’t give me any of that fruit-flavored nonsense, because when it’s this early, my tastebuds can’t handle that shock), brush my teeth, and grab a juicebox or two for the road. Total time: about thirty minutes, given that I have to usually wait for the shower, and half the time is spent packing up my stuff and worrying about whether I should bring a sweatshirt or not.
Getting up on time is, as you can see, not a problem for me. However, I have to walk fifteen minutes to my nearest class, and at 7:45 in the morning in late October, global warming and Al Gore’s Nobel Prize notwithstanding, it’s still pretty darned cold. And what happens when the drought temporarily stops on a day like today and it’s raining? Cold rain is worse than the Third Reich in my opinion. So starting around mid-November, I may just stop going to class.
Also, a sneak preview of the next column, because I’m just so darned excited about it: On Saturday night, I’m going to a concert. Which concert? Well, I’m glad you asked. I’m going to see Eve, Lil’ Boosie, the ubiquitous Soulja Boy, and Lil’ Wayne, who touts himself these days as “The Best Rapper Alive.” If you’re my age or are in any way connected to YouTube, you have definitely heard of Soulja Boy. His song “Crank Dat (Soulja Boy)” is number one on the pop music charts. Its infection beat and the fact that there’s a dance that goes along with it has captured the collective consciousness of America. Naturally, I can’t stand him. On the other hand, Lil’ Wayne is really, really good, and I’ve always wanted to go to a rap concert. Next column, I shall have a full report for you all.
Current Jam: “Buy U A Drank” by T-Pain. A former number-one hit, this song is pretty bad until you listen to it about a million times, and realize that its singer, T-Pain, is a genius. Between his vocorder and his pleas that he just wants to buy a girl a drink (which he mispronounces “drank;” hence, the title of the song) and then take her home, you’ve got to hand it to him. He makes a darn good argument when he says, “I know the club close at three. . . .what’s the chances a-you rollin’ wit me?” I mean, who wouldn’t roll with him?
False. One of the weird things about college is how, like, difficult the transition from going to a high school class to going to a college class is. I’m not talking about the actual classes themselves—their insane, antagonistic difficulty that haunts your dreams and prohibits you from being a normal, loving human being is a given—I’m talking about physically getting to class.
See, I have class at 8:00 a.m. Every other day. This is officially an issue for me. Don’t, please, remind me of how I’ve gotten up at 6:30 every morning for thirteen years to go to school. That didn’t count, because I could get in a car and be protected from the elements, save for the thirty-odd seconds that it took me to get from the car to school. Life goes on, and we have to go on with it. I now get up at 7:00, take a shower, get dressed, forego breakfast in favor two pop-tarts (cinnamon chocolate flavor please; don’t give me any of that fruit-flavored nonsense, because when it’s this early, my tastebuds can’t handle that shock), brush my teeth, and grab a juicebox or two for the road. Total time: about thirty minutes, given that I have to usually wait for the shower, and half the time is spent packing up my stuff and worrying about whether I should bring a sweatshirt or not.
Getting up on time is, as you can see, not a problem for me. However, I have to walk fifteen minutes to my nearest class, and at 7:45 in the morning in late October, global warming and Al Gore’s Nobel Prize notwithstanding, it’s still pretty darned cold. And what happens when the drought temporarily stops on a day like today and it’s raining? Cold rain is worse than the Third Reich in my opinion. So starting around mid-November, I may just stop going to class.
Also, a sneak preview of the next column, because I’m just so darned excited about it: On Saturday night, I’m going to a concert. Which concert? Well, I’m glad you asked. I’m going to see Eve, Lil’ Boosie, the ubiquitous Soulja Boy, and Lil’ Wayne, who touts himself these days as “The Best Rapper Alive.” If you’re my age or are in any way connected to YouTube, you have definitely heard of Soulja Boy. His song “Crank Dat (Soulja Boy)” is number one on the pop music charts. Its infection beat and the fact that there’s a dance that goes along with it has captured the collective consciousness of America. Naturally, I can’t stand him. On the other hand, Lil’ Wayne is really, really good, and I’ve always wanted to go to a rap concert. Next column, I shall have a full report for you all.
Current Jam: “Buy U A Drank” by T-Pain. A former number-one hit, this song is pretty bad until you listen to it about a million times, and realize that its singer, T-Pain, is a genius. Between his vocorder and his pleas that he just wants to buy a girl a drink (which he mispronounces “drank;” hence, the title of the song) and then take her home, you’ve got to hand it to him. He makes a darn good argument when he says, “I know the club close at three. . . .what’s the chances a-you rollin’ wit me?” I mean, who wouldn’t roll with him?
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