Reboot

New design. New mission. New inspiration. Same pants. Lollipops & Oyster Crackers is back.

That's An Option

300 is an awful movie. You need to understand my opinion of the film before we start. Read my review. Now let’s begin.

Everything in the movie is a device, designed to appeal to a certain something. Some video game nerd got a directing job and is browsing down a self-made checklist of “What Will Make This Movie Fucking Awesome.” The Producers and the Studio don’t have to worry about pulling in the young male audience, considering it’s an ultra-violent war epic with gratuitous nudity and its source material is a comic book. They’ll already be lining up outside the door weeks in advance.

The trick is getting their girlfriends (Sadly, yes they have them, another injustice of life.) to come. Anyone other than the heterosexual, video game playing, reluctant-to-leave-adolescence-and-Ring Pops-behind male is going to need something more than that “Fucking Awesome” checklist to persuade them to pay money to see this film.

I thought the answer to that was muscular men. It’s really frightening actually. They’re everywhere, glistening with sweat, talking about freedom, and…well…being “fucking awesome.” It’s a shallow device, but the amount of bare male body in this movie is excessive to the point that I thought I was watching an infomercial for the Ab-Doer.

But my friend Tyler saw the exposition of man differently. While I thought it was girls and gay guys going to the theater and staring at the shirtless men, he thinks it’s actually the straight men gawking the most. To them, that kind of person, the daring and doomed Spartan, is “an option.”

And you know what? Tyler’s right, not just because I caught him doing push-ups later that night after the movie, but because of the phenomenon it has become in spite of average reviews. People really think that is an option.

It’s nothing new. We’ve always wanted to be the characters we see in movies, to live the lives of people we’re not. That’s what makes all stories so endearing and keeps us coming back to the movie theater week after week: the escapism. But we’ve severely lowered our standards.

I mean, come on people. Gerard Butler? This is the kind of person we envy? This is whom we want to be? The guy’s main contribution to the world is playing the Phantom of the Opera in an equally crappy screen adaptation of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. Why him? Because he bangs a hot queen on the screen for five minutes and has a digitally-enhanced six-pack? Go buy a magazine, for the love of God. Take your soft-core porn elsewhere and leave my movies alone.

What is so appealing about these Spartans? They don’t even win. I’ve heard the argument that it’s the honor of dying in the name of freedom, but that’s bull. We wouldn't have a shortage of troops in Iraq if people wanted to die in the name of freedom. Maybe the Army should change their uniforms from desert fatigues to capes and panties. Enlistment would soar.

And here's a history lesson for you all: the Spartans were not fans of freedom. Not in the cliched "Muslims hate freedom" sense, but in the we're-an-oligarchical-society-that-constantly-fights-with-the-democratic-Athenians sense. And the Persians weren't terrible people. They had an empire, but the different regions were allowed to govern themselves autonomously. Maybe I shouldn't have watched The History Channel before seeing this movie. That was my error.

I just watched The Philadelphia Story the other night. Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart: those are guys I would want to be, the "option" I would pursue. Sure, they're fully clothed and not chopping people's heads off, but it's attainable. I can be quirky and witty like Cary or likeable and wholesome like Jimmy, and it doesn't require push-ups.

Plus wearing Fruit of the Looms and a bath towel around my neck like a cape was what I did as a kid to be Superman. I'm not about to go back to doing that over this film. Superman could fly, see through walls, and never get hurt. A Spartan can...win a sit-up contest? I'm sorry, it's not an "option."

A Lesson in Learning

"Well, I hope you learned your lesson."

I was three years old and had just left the Emergency Room. By this time, I was becoming a frequent flier to the ER, and had there been some award redemption process I would have been the proud owner of something new and shiny. Perhaps a toy ambulance. That would be fitting.

This time it was Ant Killer. I had wandered off from my mother at a home and garden store, like mischievous little boys so often do. Unfortunately, I was not a plant enthusiast. Instead of daffodils and cacti, a bottle of toxic ant killer caught my eye. I picked it up and proceeded to march around with it like a two-foot tall drum major.

I've tried to remember why this seemed like a good idea at the time, but it's beyond me. We didn't have an ant problem at home, nor was I thirsty or anything. Maybe the bottle was shiny. I have, and have always had, an affinity towards shiny objects. One of my biggest fears is that someone will create a giant shiny human zapper (a la the current bug zappers) and that I'll be unable to resist. Or that some divine creator realizes his mistake and turns me into what I should have been: a moth. Or that my pillow is alive and will smother me one day for all the abuse I've done to it. I'm afraid of a lot of things.

When my mother found me and yelled at me to put it down, I did. Forcefully. That bottle hit the ground with enough force to frighten residents of San Francisco. The insecticide splattered all over my body, reducing me to tears and the workers and my mother to hysterics.

They hosed me off with a garden hose, which I suppose is appropriate given where I was. Most kids probably would love getting hosed down. It's what kids do: run around outside through the sprinklers with no clothes on, waiting for the Ice Cream truck to pass so we can buy something overpriced and probably orange. In another circumstance, I would have had the time of my life. This time, I'm pretty sure I just cried.

I was taken to the ER where they decided to (surprise) hose me off some more. It's hard to imagine what my chart looked like after they finished examining me. Symptoms: chemical burns all over body. Treatment: THE HOSE!!! So either ER doctors are as smart as garden store workers, or garden store workers are untapped medical geniuses. I can't recall whether they used a garden hose, though. Is there such a thing as a sterile medical hose? More importantly, do the hospital employees run through it with no clothes on when we're not looking? Because then maybe I shouldn't have dropped pre-med.

The point is: I learned my lesson. Never again have I carelessly transported a container of hazardous chemicals. I rarely even go into a garden store anymore and when I find a bug indoors, I catch them and release them into the wild like Ranger Rick would want me to. Conditioning worked. For all intents and purposes, I'm cured.

So why have I stopped learning? Why do lessons no longer change my behavior? I no longer use life experiences to better myself and what I choose to do with my life. And I don't know why.

Trying to make a list of things I've messed up recently is most easily encompassed by the two words "my life." It's so wide-ranging that I'd have to present a plethora of examples just for a stranger to understand. And mother told me never to talk to strangers.

My life is by no means terrible. It's actually pretty damn good, and my bitching and moaning could probably tick a lot of less fortunate people off. I'm sorry if I have. It's not my intention.

It's just that no one likes getting the same thing wrong over and over again. When you take a test about U.S. history and get a question about who was the third president of the U.S. wrong, your teacher tells you the right answer: Thomas Jefferson. Now imagine that you keep writing John Adams, even though you know (you know!) it's good old TJ. No matter what you do, you can't get the question right. That's my frustration.

Today is St. Valentine's Day. But it's really just another Groundhog Day. Because just like Bill Murray in the film, I wake up each day facing a series of the same. I will make the same mistakes I made the day before, regardless of whether Andie MacDowell is around (God, I hope not) or I'm in Pennsylvania (see previous paranthetical quotation). It just keeps happening.

In writing for television, characters move in a circular fashion as opposed to film where the character development is linear. Film characters start with a set troubled personality and fix their problems as the plot progresses so at the end they've completed their development arc. Michael Corleone goes from timid estranged son to the new Godfather. On the other hand, TV characters are created as likeable flawed people who throughout an episode try to correct their flaws but end up back where they started so the next episode can attempt the same. Those people on Lost are still on the island, don't forget. I obviously belong on TV.

A lot of people wish they were kids again. They want to return to those days of yore when they had no worries or cares. Life seemed endless and the weight of the world slid off one's shoulders like a cascading waterfall.

I want to be a kid again too. Not for the lack of responsibility, but for the malleability, the ability to learn and change. Children celebrate in June because school lets out for summer. No more Mrs. Diamond and her yard-long finger nails. I yearn for August when instruction resumes, for Mrs. “Demon” to pinch me and correct my faults.

There's a CVS pharmacy just down the street. It's 30 degrees and snowy outside, but they might still have pesticides for sale. I might catch hypothermia, but a good hosing seems to be my first homework assignment.

Prejudice, Kellogg's style

We’re taught since childhood that prejudice is a horrible thing. We’re told about its rampant past and the terrible path of destruction it has carved through history. That may make one think it’s over and done with. But, no, it’s still here. Maybe it’s a bit subtler and sophisticated, but it’s still here. And the most shocking form of it I discovered today. In my breakfast cereal.

What happens when you find something different floating in your milk? That’s right, you cast it away, shun it. And more often than not, that different something is a piece of cereal that is the wrong color. Cereal pieces should all be one color and a color other than normal is deemed not worthy of digestion.

And what color do I mean by different? Let’s face it, they’re the brown and black ones. The Rice Krispie that’s too dark from being cooked too long; the Cheerio that’s browner than the other Cheerios; the Corn Flake that’s just plain whacked out. We’re all guilty of this kind of prejudice, even though there’s nothing nutritionally wrong with the abnormal cereal.

But look past the abnormalities, look past what’s different and occasional, and see the everyday truth: people prefer white cereal. Rice Krispies, Kix, Cheerios, Corn Flakes, Special K: they’re all light-pigmented cereals. Your eating habits are promoting white cereal supremacy.

Not only are white cereals preferred, dark cereals are seen as unhealthy and disgusting. The #1 cereal hated by mothers concerned with their children’s nutrition: Cocoa Puffs, the flag bearer of dark cereals. Other honorable mentions include Count Chocula and Reese’s Puffs. Even though Cocoa Puffs has no more sugar than Lucky Charms, one is loved and the other hated.

Lucky Charms are white and Cocoa Puffs are dark, but the battle between these two boils down to their mascots. One is a charming and intelligent Leprechaun; the other is a schizophrenic dodo bird that keeps belligerently yelling at us about being insane for a food product. Lucky the Leprechaun tells us that Lucky Charms is steeped in tradition and sophistication while Sonny the dodo bird merely flaunts his neurological disorder. The prejudice is clear.

Take the example of Frosted Mini-Wheats. Normal shredded wheat falls under the category of health food, loved by parents and hated by kids. But suddenly, when the mini-wheat becomes frosted, the cereal is universally loved. Why? Because frosting is white. Kellogg’s has taken a light-skinned cereal and made it whiter. And all us prejudiced consumers appreciated the change.

Now I know what many of you are thinking. You’re thinking: “What about Raisin Bran?” I agree that Raisin Bran is a very popular cereal, and a dark one at that. You may be quick to admit a flaw to my thesis, but not so fast, Mr. Smarty-pants. We all know what the best part of Raisin Bran is. It’s the sugar on the raisins. And, you guessed it, sugar is white. Case closed (the law & order sound goes here).

And for the love of God, people: milk is white. Milk: the essence of cereal. The Eve to cereal’s Adam, the Ying to Yang, the trolley to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. No one would dream of putting chocolate milk on their Captain Crunch. There’s no way around it; cereal is prejudiced.

Okay, so what’s the hidden meaning? Am I saying that prejudice is everywhere, even in the most mundane aspects of the day? Am I saying that looking for prejudice everywhere in life is ridiculous? Well, I don’t really know. Maybe deep down I am prejudiced and this is just an outlet for that. Or maybe I do find the world ridiculous. Or maybe in another life I was the Trix bunny. Who knows? It’s just comedy, not a social treatise. You’re supposed to laugh, and to laugh one has to think, which is more than outraged political backlashes can manage these days. Maybe I’m being insightful and progressive. But…no, I was probably the Trix bunny in a past life.

So next time you’re looking at your breakfast cereal selection and thinking about what you’re going to eat, why don’t you pick up that cheap ceramic bowl and look at your reflection? It may turn out your motives are as spotty as the Froot Loop I found this morning.

Errors In Exsanguination

The phone rings.

It's a Tuesday night, and I've just walked in the door after a day at work. My brother answers the phone; it’s for me.

"Hello?" I ask.
"Hi, this is (insert generic name here) from LifeSource."

Brick wall. It's over. There's no escape.

LifeSource is the area's blood bank. I've given blood once: my senior year of high school. It was the first time I weighed over the 115 pounds necessary to donate.

"Would you be able to help us out by donating?" the genderless, nasal voice asks.

Unfortunately, my skinny, malnourished, pale body is still above 115. I sigh and quietly resign myself to parting with a pint.

"Yeah, sure."

There's really no way to refuse. They're a nonprofit organization that saves lives. I'll shoot down telemarketers any day. But for some reason, the minute LifeSource calls, I imagine an adorable baby with a large laceration on its leg, desperately asking me to “donwate bwood.” Which, now that I think about it, is probably just something wrong with me and completely non-relatable. Sorry.

Plus I'm spineless. If it’s at all reasonable, I’ll say yes. Hey Bobby, can you drive me to the airport? I’m not busy. Why not? Hey, I need to borrow some money? Fine. Take your shirt off and feed me grapes! Ok, but this is the last time.

“Great,” says Mildred (I decided that’s her name). “Oh, you’re AB+. That means you can donate platelets.”

Brick wall number two.

Platelets give humans the ability to heal; they’re the little buggers that cause wounds to clot. They also take about two hours to donate. You get hooked up to a machine; they extract your blood, filter the platelets out, and put the blood back. It’s like taking a car out for a spin and coming back without any seatbelts or airbags.

Now I really can’t refuse. Turning down a donation of whole blood is like not helping a car accident victim; they might die anyway, whether they get your blood or not. Turning down a platelet donation is like saying, “Ha. You will die from that paper cut, sucka!”

“Great, we’ll see you this Saturday then,” the voice concludes. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I respond, crossing off “Be Emo and Cut Myself” from my weekend To-Do list.


Saturday rolls around. I miss a boating opportunity and show up for my appointment. The bleak decoration, the smell of sanitary conditions, the awful taste in magazines: this must be the right place. I sign in, exchange perfunctory greetings with the woman behind the desk, and am handed the infamous Clipboard of Personal Questions.

Now, the Clipboard does have a real purpose. I realize the importance of obtaining accurate information about donors so as to prevent the distribution of tainted blood. However, the Clipboard’s main purpose is to remind me of two particulars:

1. The small number of places I’ve traveled to.
2. The lack of sex I’ve been having.

“No” gets checked a few hundred times and I return the clipboard to the receptionist.

Then the nurses argue over whether I weigh enough or not. Then they argue over whether my veins are large enough. But the weird thing is they ask me, as if I should know their rules and regulations.

“Do you weigh enough?” one asks.
“Umm…you tell me,” I respond.
“Are your veins large enough?” questions another.
“Is that something I should know?”
“Do you understand anything about the aphresis procedure?” the first nurse condescendingly demands.
“Well, I have ER out on DVD from the library, but I don’t think it’s come up yet.”

Finally, I get the green light and take a seat in a blue donation chair. A list of films is thrust into my hands and I’m asked to pick one. After a careful conference with my mood and taste, I select Planes, Trains and Automobiles. The DVD plays and a snack pack of Oreos is dispensed to me. I snack and watch in comfort as I wait for the inevitable needle-stick.

But it never comes. My nurse (or technician or stewardess, whatever they are) seems to be fussing with the machine quite a bit. It’s a bit distracting. I’m trying to watch John Candy annoy Steve Martin to hell, but it’s P (something Slavic) annoying me with the constant beeping of the machine. She replaces something with a new set. After that, she calls the company on the phone and follows their directions. No luck.

Two hours after arriving at the clinic, I walk out the door. They couldn’t fix the machine and someone else was using their other one. Because my paperwork had been filled out for platelets (or, more likely, because they’re lazy and didn’t want to get a new form), I was not allowed to donate whole blood in lieu of platelets.

So what I did today: miss boating on Lake Michigan with my friends and instead deplete a nonprofit organization of its snack foods and t-shirt supply.

I leave, hoping the paperwork somehow goes through and it looks like I did donate today, meaning they’ll never call me again.


They call again.

I experience the same bleeding baby image, the same platelet request, and respond with the same pained resignation. As a creative writer, it’s rather pathetic that I can’t invent an excuse to get myself out of something as easy as blood donation. On the other hand, it gives me material to share with you lovely people.

So I show up at Life Source again, this time on a Thursday night after work. The Clipboard of Personal Questions appears again; I weep internally.

Different people are on duty tonight. They argue less over whether I weigh enough and things seem to be going smoothly. The machine is working this time and my veins must be large enough because the needle slides in easily. My snobbish cultural education decides a viewing of Groundhog Day is in order, and I settle back to watch Bill Murray’s misfortune.

But the misfortune on display this evening would turn out to be mine.

My nurse (oh, let’s just call her Petunia, k?) keeps fussing with my machine, staring at some sort of pressure meter. Eventually, she’s satisfied and walks away.

A moment later the needle starts vibrating around in my arm.

Now, vibration is not all together a bad thing. For example, the ability to hear is something I enjoy. This sensation is possible due to sound waves causing my ear drums to vibrate, sending a decipherable signal to my brain, allowing me to understand that you just said, “no means no.” Another example: The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” An excellent song, defining for later generations what a perfect single is. I’m sure some of you can imagine another example of vibration (and did so right away) without any of my help. All of these are good.

A shaking tube sucking the blood out of my body? Not so good.

I stare at the jittery fluid extraction device, the cheer Harold Ramis had provided me with quickly draining away. Someone takes notice.

“Is anything wrong?” Petunia asks.
“Well, yes, unless this thing has a spin cycle,” I answer.

Suddenly, I have more attention from the staff than the TV did a moment earlier. They adjust the needle, driving its point further into my arm. It hurts. It hurts pretty badly.

They fuss some more; the grimace on my face increases in intensity. I begin to think that maybe forcing the needle further and further into me is not the best course of action. I’m not a bottomless cavern, after all.

My old friend P (something Slavic) appears and comes over to help. She touches my arm just above the needle; it’s rock hard.

“Alright, we’re going to have to stop,” she says.

The needle had gone through my vein. I was leaking fresh blood into my arm along with the blood being sent back to me deprived of platelets. Happy happy joy joy.
They unplug me and strap a bandage on. I notice that the tube is full of my blood as Petunia comes back.

“We weren’t able to reinfuse your blood. So unfortunately you won’t be able to donate again for 56 days.”

Life needs a soundtrack because in my head Handel started blaring from all my brain’s synapses. In 56 days, I’ll be a thousand miles away from this place and their wretched, life-saving Samaritan ways.

I return to the lobby, grabbing a seat for the required fifteen minute “cool down.” I eat some Oreos and browse the newspaper. The receptionist just sits there watching me.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she says.
“Oh, thanks. I guess these things just happen,” I say. I’m too forgetful to hold grudges, so I usually anticipate the memory lapse and don’t care from the start. I joke instead.

“Shouldn’t you guys have some Anne Rice novels lying around?” I inquire.
“What hunny?”
“Anne Rice. She’s a popular novelist, writes about vampires.” Still nothing. “This is a blood bank.” Zero reaction. “You know what? Forget it.” I throw back the rest of my juice and depart, my opinion of the place falling and falling.

And the bastards didn’t even give me one of those goddamn stickers saying, “Be nice to me. I gave blood.” I at least deserved one saying, “Don’t touch my arm. I tried to give blood and earned a hematoma.”

It’s been almost a week. I still have a bruise.

And so arises a challenging conundrum: I will at some point in my life again be petitioned for blood donation. What do I do?

It seems unfair to stop helping save lives because of this experience at one place. On the other hand, I’m 0 for 2 in the span of a few weeks. Maybe I’m just cursed.

As I type away, the computer screen illuminates the inner part of my arm, bringing my gaze to rest on the yellowish bruise. I scoff at their incompetence, yet as I do, I can’t help but think that if I had massive internal bleeding instead of a bruise, I would want there to be donated blood there for me.

I decide to give it another shot someday. Not now. Not for 56 days, at least. But someday, I’ll try again.

The phone rings.

No. It can’t be. It’s only been 5 days, nowhere near 56. Maybe they’re calling to apologize, to check up on me. That must be it. Or it could be someone else entirely: a friend, a relative, a wrong number. Somehow I’m not convinced. I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

My heart is pounding. I can’t hear the first couple words because of the resonance of my thumping rib cage, but the last two words cause my heart to beat more violently.

“…to donate?” the voice of Satan asks.

Silence. Not only on the phone line, but in my mind. This wasn’t one of those moments where thoughts rush over me and I have an inner freak-out. There was literally silence in my being. I couldn’t think about this phone call not really happening because, as far as I was convinced, it wasn’t happening.

“Hello?” Lucifer asks impatiently.
“What?” I manage to squeak out.
“This is the Salvation Army. Do you have any clothes to donate?”
“What?” I’m still in a daze and the request confuses me.
“Clothes. To donate. Do you have any?”
“Just clothes?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, sir. Just clothes.”
“Do I have to fill out a clipboard?”
“No, just leave the clothes outside and we’ll pick them up.”
“Do I weigh enough?”
“Huh?”
“I only weigh 123 pounds.”
“Um…yeah, that’s fine. Just leave the clothes on the porch and our truck will pick them up.”
“How long will I be hooked up to the machine?”
“What? There’s no machine. Just put a box of clothes outside.” He’s getting frustrated.
“What if you can’t reinfuse me?”
“Just put the clothes outside! This isn’t difficult. I’m not trying to draw blood.”

I faint.

Paper Jam

All my life, people have been trying to get me to do work in advance. They’ve suggested outlines, first drafts, schedules, assignment notebooks, rewards, punishments (if you’re into that sort of thing), and therapy. None of them succeeded. I thrive on the deadline and always work right up to it, printing out my finished product moments before class.

But if there is one thing that could possibly make me change, I’ve found it: IT. The Information Technology computer lab on Cummington Street is doing what others could not.

It’s the experience of being in the lab, not the lab itself. My behavior is not miraculously changed just by descending to the basement. If I could fix most of my problems by descending below sea level, I’d be attending the University of Death Valley.

I climb down the stairs to the lab and search for a computer, the most daunting part of the printing process. Everyone in the room, all (and I’m estimating here) two hundred of them, turns to look at me as I enter. You’d think I was holding a gigantic steak in front of a swarm of snow leopards. Is what’s currently occupying all of their screens so dull that the mere appearance of another student satisfies them in ways only Lost usually can?

Fortunately, I’d earlier emptied my pockets of spare meat products, effectively safeguarding me from the snow leopards playing minesweeper in the fifth row. After a short search, I find an unclaimed computer and nestle myself in front of it. I enter my approved password, one that satisfies all of the requirements put forth by BU: capital letters, lower case letters, numbers, punctuation marks, and a reference to the presidency of Calvin Coolidge. It’s accepted and I go about my printing business.

Now, I know you’re supposed to wait for the infoprint message telling you that your job is done. They practically teach that as doctrine. The computer says it; posters posted all over the room say it; the technicians behind the counter incessantly repeat it. I’m half expecting a Bruce Springsteen song about it to come blaring over the PA system.

However, I don’t see the logic in it. Since I’ve clicked print, I’m just going to sit there and read Robinson Crusoe. Why not log off and allow someone else to use the computer rather than take up an entire machine by simply waiting for a confirmation? Perhaps, I’m being too utilitarian.

I log off and lean against the far wall, reading my book. After twenty minutes or so, I go up to the window to see if my printout is ready.

“What’s the name?” the attendant asks.
“Rkennedy,” I respond.
“Hasn’t come out yet. Wait a few more minutes.”

I return to my perch against the wall and devour a few more pages of Defoe. Time is short and I need to head off to class soon, so I move for the line once again. At that exact moment, every person in the lab, all four thousand of them (once again, estimating), sprints for the line. I end up somewhere in the middle.

As I stand there, quietly reading, my companions-in-waiting begin to disturb me.

“Hi,” a girl chirps.
“Hello,” I reply and keep reading.
“Why doesn’t my boyfriend like me?”
“Pardon?”
“He’s never excited to see me. There’s no intensity anymore. I need that; I need someone to want me desperately, like in a Julia Roberts movie. Do you know what it’s like to be seen by someone as the cutest thing in the world?”
“Um-”
“Do you think he’s settling for me? I want him to be happy, too. I don’t just want him settling for any girl.”
“Honestly, I don’t think he’s the one that needs to be settling.”
“Why did my beetle die? I was keeping him in a jar and feeding him leaves twice a day?” asks a boy.
"Am I bizarre?” asks another.
“Quesadilla?” offers someone else.

This is ridiculous. Just because I’m standing in close proximity to someone does not mean I’ve agreed to be their psychologist. I didn’t marry Oprah in order to launch my career and get my own TV show. Leave me alone.

“Rkennedy,” I plead to the man behind the counter when I finally get there.
“Did you get the infoprint message?”
“No, I didn’t wait for it becau-“
“ALWAYS WAIT FOR THE INFOPRINT MESSAGE!!”

The man then pulled a kitten out of a drawer and decapitated it, just to drive his point home. Stunned, I stumbled back against the wall, content to wait just a little while longer. As I watched the line slowly shrink, I began to outline my paper due early next week, just to get ahead, and hopefully help the poor kittens keep theirs.

Order in the Court?

I’ve always thought that people who neglect their duty as citizens by not serving on a jury are bastards. You live here and you enjoy the benefits this country presents you with; the least you can do is help run the system that protects all that. Not serving because it’s inconvenient or annoying is unjustifiable, and those guilty of it are bastards.

Today I was a bastard.

A week ago, I received a jury summons for The Circuit Court of Cook County, requesting my presence on the 30^th of January. This date occurs after I return to Boston, effectively preventing me from attending. All I had to do was tell them that.

But I didn’t, and I left for the east coast. And what do I find in my mail box upon my return? A jury summons for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. How fitting.

It’s not that I’m a bad person. I’m no saint; I do have impure thoughts from time to time. But compared to most people, I’m a nice guy. Open-minded, caring, thoughtful, smart: all concurrent with the personality of a male who rarely gets dates.

And while some complain that being a nice guy is the worst because it keeps one celibate, it’s even worse to be a nice guy and summoned to jury duty because you’re guaranteed to get picked. Think about it: you’re the prosecutor and your choices include an ugly bigot machinist named Fritz, an elitist trophy mom named Belle, or an English major named Bobby Kennedy (remember, you’re in Massachusetts). They might as well send me a room key with the summons.

So I call the number for information about being excused because of undue hardship. A travel distance of one thousand miles must surely qualify. And, of course, it’s an automated menu.

“Press 1 if you need directions to the court house. Press 2 if you need to be excused from duty. Press 3 if you have any special needs or dietary restrictions. Press 4 if you thought Mariah Carey and Pamela Anderson looked hideous at the Golden Globes.”

I pressed 4, hung up, dialed again, and then pressed 2.

“If you are seventy years or older, press 1. Otherwise press 2.” I press 2.
“Enter your Juror Number.” I do.
“To be excused automatically, enter your bank account number and PIN.” I hung up.

The form says requests for excusal need to be submitted in writing. So I wrote up this nice little letter for the Jury Administrator.

Dear Sir or Madam,

What’s that? I can’t hear you! Maybe it’s because I’m in New England during a monsoon storm. My power was out all morning and I got soaked through on my way home from class. Or maybe I can’t hear you because sound doesn’t travel this long a distance easily, and neither do I. But I probably can’t hear you because this is a letter and you’re probably not even vocally addressing me in the first place. I’ve included pictures of me lying in a puddle, sleeping on a park bench, giving the governor the finger, and riding a statue of Samuel Adams to prove my whereabouts. Have a wonderful day of dealing with jurors and keeping Judge Judy’s podium stocked with Midol.

Your friend and a little more,

Bobby Kennedy

So that’s one summons down, one to go. But there’s no way to get out of the Massachusetts one. It specifies that students studying and residing in the state at least 50% of the year are obligated to serve. I check my schedule and that day in March is actually a light one. Jury duty it is.

Not everyone believes my letter will do the trick. They think I should have been more formal, including official University documents rather than pictures. They’re being absurd. If there’s one occupation I know that prefers to break the rules and just do the fun thing instead, it’s a judge.

I don’t hear back from the Chicago office. What could possibly be taking so long? One look at the pictures proves I’m a hardworking student unable to break from his studies. I have a legitimate reason to be excused here.

Why is the Judicial branch picking on me? It’s not my fault that it always places third to the Executive and Legislative in importance during social studies class. Why didn’t the founding fathers give it some awesome power? Like the ability to command cod or the power to tax chewing gum. Maybe then it’d stand out and be more highly respected.

I checked my mail today. In it was a summons to be a judge in the state of California. I give up.

Touched By an Angel: The College Years

So I'm incredibly busy with readings, papers, problems, musicals, and presentations. Thus, I'm gonna recycle a great story from last year. If you've read it before, relive the memories. If not, make some new ones.

This story, like most stories, centers on something very dear to our hearts: a thong.

On arriving back to our room one night, my roommate and I were greeted by an unexpected visitor. There, hanging from our doorknob, was a pink and white striped thong. A message was scribbled on our white board, reading "I'll be by later boys..." with the “o” in boys being heart-shaped.

The silence was frightening; questions filled the still, prison-like air. “Whose butt floss is this?” “Are they really coming back or is this just a prank?” “What if my RA sees this?” “Is this mine?” I opened the door carefully, making sure not to touch the hanging cloth. We decided to leave it there and see who came by.

Sure enough, people did stop by, but none of them were the owners of the garment. To pass the time, we discussed how many STDs the thong could have. We had no idea where it had been or how many times it had been there so the decision was made to play it safe and not disturb the mysterious artifact. It remained on the doorknob overnight.

After a grueling night in which I dreamt hordes of unmentionables were performing deviant sex acts on my paralyzed body, I awoke to check on the potential biohazard just outside my dorm room. My worst fears were fulfilled with a glance out the door: the teensy cloth of death remained.

From when I took a shower in the morning to when I returned from dinner in the evening, the thong remained, taunting me constantly. “I've touched girls in places you've only dreamed about.” This only added to my distress. Not only did I have a thong on my doorknob, I had a mind-reading thong on my doorknob.

Later that night, after brushing my teeth, I walked back across the hall to my humble abode and, without thinking, grabbed the doorknob, receiving a large handful of cotton along with it. The gravity of my situation set in like a train wreck, propelling me to use my already contaminated right hand to throw the cursed underwear down the hall and out of my sight.

In the morning, it was gone. The floor was bare and there was no sign of the pink and white striped abomination. This discovery lifted a heavy burden from my heart and I felt as giddy as a school boy. I sang show tunes in the shower, much to the dismay of my floormates, and skipped down Commonwealth Avenue to class, much to the dismay of the Catholic Church.

I returned to Floor 17B after my morning class and was stopped dead in my tracks by an old nemesis. There, taped to the rafter on the ceiling of the corridor, was the thong, its pink and white bands a pastel warning of the evil to come.

But this time I noticed a change in the thong's appearance. It seemed happy, almost regal. Gone was the slumped posture that characterized our former relationship; the bad aura it had reeked of departed as well. This was a thong reborn. It was no longer a vessel for Genital Herpes, but instead a bearer of good faith and inspiration. A sign taped next to the hallway halo proclaimed the deity's new found wisdom: “Yes my son, there will always be better days.”

This thong has become a guardian goddess for the men of the 17th floor. Her Grace remains there, affixed to a rafter, showering us with love and Chlamydia as we head out into the world at large.

A Bite Size Problem

I was kidnapped.

That’s the only way to explain why there was no story last week. People kidnapped me. They grabbed me from my bed on Wednesday morning and forced me onto a plane bound for Chicago. Then they called my parents to pick me up at the airport and made me spend a whole weekend at home. Horrid, I know.

I think this had something to do with what happened earlier that week.

Let’s face it: I don’t eat very much or weigh enough. I tell myself to eat better, but I don’t. I remind myself to work out, and then forget. I write myself letters of concern, yet end up using the paper to draw pictures of dancing vegetables.

Making a list of all the things that weigh more than one hundred and twenty pounds proved too costly; the list was enormous. Look at it this way: when you go to the zoo, everything not living in the small mammal house is heavier than me.

So food isn’t something I’m a real expert on. When people ask me to recommend a nice place to eat, I tell them my percent body fat and they run away in tears. Skinniness: thou art me.

This is a touchy subject, I know. Believe me, I’m not trying to gloat or offend anyone. All of this is necessary to establish my character. Everything has relevance and I’m in complete control here. This story will go somewhere because I am completely focu-oh, look a chipmunk!

So that week prior to Thanksgiving had been a nightmare for me. Everyone was talking about food all the time; it was unnerving. I couldn’t escape the gluttony no matter where I went. The dorm, the classroom, the ghetto, Seattle Sutton’s Healthy Eating: they were all full of people fantasizing about the holiday and the amount of calories that came with it.

I tried talking to one of my more petite friends about this. She was smaller than me so I thought she would understand what I was going through.

“Isn’t all this talk about Thanksgiving getting on your nerves?”
“THANKSGIVING!?!?!”

She then proceeded to devour my notebook and began working on my forearm before I fled the scene.

There is one comfort food I will always retreat to in times of panic: cereal. It’s the chink in my armor, so to speak. I bought a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats at City Convenience and holed up in my room, away from all the ravenous mouths.

But upon pouring myself a bowl of this personal ambrosia, I was taken aback. The mini-wheats were not mini at all; they were large.

“What? Is Wayne Szalinski working for Kellogg’s now? Honey, they blew up the mini-wheats!”
“Don’t ever call me ‘honey,’” my roommate responded.
“Sorry.”

What was going on? Why was the world inflicting larger portions of food and larger quantities of food-related conversation on me? Closer inspection revealed the box to contain Frosted Mini-Wheats: Big Bite.

I’m not going to lie; this pissed me off. I didn’t want Big Bite; I wanted Mini-Wheats. Plus, the title is paradoxical. How can they be Mini-Wheats if they’re Big? Technically, it should be titled Frosted Wheats because the mini and big would cancel each other out. If the world was going to try and force its inflated consumption and bad grammar on everyone, it was going to have to go through me first.

That’s why I scheduled an appointment with the president of Kellogg’s. We met the Tuesday before break in his office and I immediately launched into my argument.

“Well, Mr. Kellogg, I suppose you are wondering why I needed to meet with you.”
“I’m not Mr. Kellogg.”
“You’re not a Kellogg?”
“No. I’m a Finkelstein.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Finkelstein, I wanted to meet with you to discuss the irritating error in the title of one of your cereals.”
“Oh, phew. I thought you were going to tell me that Special K is the title of a narcotic and I was going to have to explain that we had it first.”
“No, I mean Frosted Mini-Wheats: Big Bite. How can they be mini if they’re big?”
“What are you doing? You’re putting your nose where it don’t belong, buddy. You mess with the ‘llogg, it’ll mess right back.”
“The ‘llogg?”
“Shut up! Don’t make me call my mafia.”
“Oh, so now there’s a Kellogg’s mafia.”
“Of course. What do you think Tony the Tiger’s brothers do for a living?”
“This is stupid. You’re threatening to have a cartoon character’s blood relatives whack me for recognizing a paradox.”
“I’m going to grind your bones to make my new Scooby Doo Berry Bones.”
“This meeting is over.”
“You watch your back, English Man! Because I’m going to be Fruit Snacking on it!”

And so I left. My abductors must have been the ‘Llogg Mafia, Tony’s relatives. They made me go home, where my family forced me to eat for 25 people and their pets. And you know what, it wasn’t half bad.

Maybe I’ll try this eating phenomenon. It can’t be all bad right. I mean, everyone else is doing it. Peer pressure is always so hard to resist, and I’ve resisted so long. But what has it gotten me? Nothing really, just a waist size that’s impossible to find. I’ll try it, but I may need some time.

You can’t just jump into this kind of thing; there’s got to be repercussions, like The Bends. I don’t want to end up a Paranoid Android in My Iron Lung, wandering High and Dry around some Fake Plastic Trees because then I’ll just Sulk and blame it on a Black Star. I do it to myself, I do, and that’s what really hurts. And I don’t want to fade out again.

I’m just going to take things one Saltine at a time...

Unstuck

Dear Sticky Tack,

I’m not entirely sure how to say this, or what it is I’m going to say. I just know that something needs to be said, and every time I try to tell you it never comes out right or you don’t understand me.

I know we haven’t been together that long. It was about a month ago today when I picked you up at the campus bookstore. You were by yourself on the third floor and I worked up the courage to come over next to you. We ended up coming back to my place; I took off your wrapping. You were so beautiful and soft, so blue. The way I could squeeze and knead you in my hands was exhilarating. We spent many hours together that first night, intimately entwined in each other’s presence. I was stuck on you.

But reality had to set in. I was a student and you were a mounting agent. While I read King Lear, wrote film reviews, and participated in theatrical productions, you stayed at home, quietly holding up pictures of friends, family, and a guinea pig named Sigmund. The rift was vast, but I always hoped we’d hold onto that raw energy that characterized the early stages of our relationship.

Lately, I’ve put a great deal of strain on you, I know. It takes quite a bit of strength to hold up large posters of Radiohead and The Muppets. Don’t get me wrong; I greatly admire your courage in undertaking a task of this magnitude. It made me realize how much you really did care for me, how badly you wanted to please me.

But I can tell something is wrong. You’re not holding things up with as much flair as you once did. The pictures are drooping a bit and the whole collage looks a lot less perky than it once had. What’s wrong? What happened? Did I do something? I wish you’d tell me because I can’t figure it out myself.

Take the other night for example. Some people might relish the experience of waking up to John Cusack right up in their face, staring at them; however, it freaked me out and I broke a lamp. That High Fidelity poster was supposed to stay up on the wall for decoration, not end up lying on top of me while I slept like in some sick late 80’s fantasy.

Today, things were dropping like crazy. Posters, pictures, cards, croquet mallets: everything landing squarely on my head. I’m not going to lie; it pissed me off. You have no right to abuse me like that. And don’t give me any of that crap about gravity. You could have held them if you tried, or at least given some sort of warning. But no, you let them drop right on me.

I don’t understand where this hostility comes from. Never have I cheated on you; I’m not experimenting with push pins or anything like that. I swore to you that the roll of double-sided scotch tape you found was not mine. How long will this relationship last if you never learn to trust me?

Sometimes I think this just isn’t going to work. We’re too different, and you’re not as young as you used to be. The allure of your elasticity has worn off. Plus, one day I want to have children, and I can’t risk you having a temper tantrum and inflicting multiple lesions on their silky-smooth skin. That’s why I’ve decided to buy some more sticky tack. Don’t look at this as rejection; it’s just support, emotionally and physically, like an intelligent bra. You need someone to help you hold up everything on the wall and who understands the perks of being a wallflower.

I know what you’re like. This could be the last conversation we ever have. Think about what I’m saying and try to see things from my point of view because I don’t want to come home to a blank wall with faint blue marks that’ll never wash off.

I wish things didn’t have to change between us, but they have. We need to accept that and decide what we’re going to do now. Recapturing that former excitement is probably out of the question. We know each other too well now for that kind of naivety. The infatuation has worn off and it’s time to look around and see what we have: a sticky situation.

I hope we can always be friends. It’s hard for me to imagine the rest of the year without you here to help give my abode a sense of style. Hanging out with you was always a delight, even if you never said very much. If you think otherwise though, I’ll understand. Can’t get stuck in the past; the future is one big blank slate waiting to be covered with someone else’s pictures of Johnny Depp.

Good luck in whatever you choose to apply yourself to, be it a dorm wall, classroom ceiling, apartment window, or prison cell. I know you’ll hold your own.

Your friend,

Bobby

InCOMpetence

This is it. I’ve finally made it. Nothing can stop me now. The road has been a long one, littered with bad decisions, challenging obstacles, and Capri Suns; nevertheless, it’s over. I’m going to be in COM.

The journey began when I applied to college. I was under the spell of a very powerful drug, ignorance, and didn’t really think about what I wanted to do with my life. So I chose Pre-Med because ER was a quality show at the time. It’s not that bad if you think about it; at least I didn’t use Charmed for career inspiration.

This path of science was populated by people who enjoy wearing goggles and celebrate a holiday dedicated to the mole. Clearly, I was in the wrong concentration. I tried English, but it still lacked something. I wanted to create something new to contribute to the world, not just critique what other people had already made.

Then I found the College of Communication. Here was a place I could let my creativity run wild and put up a façade of intellectual achievement at the same time. I made a solemn vow to get myself transferred.

My first step towards moving to COM was to enroll in Introduction to Communications Writing. I thought it would be fun: write some stuff, meet some people in the same boat as me, good times. But class operated a little differently than I expected.

“Do you know what a ‘verb’ is?” my teacher asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, great, here’s a sticker. Ooh, a scratch ‘n’ sniff one!”

The real tragedy lay in me being one of only a handful of people to leave class smelling like blueberries. Yet I endured the course and made my public school writing teachers proud.

Now the only obstacle in my way was a 3.00 grade point average. I decided to load up on easy courses, ones in which I could sleep, draw bunnies all over my assignments, and never take off my ipod while still getting A’s. Statistics 115, Intro to Computers, Seduction 101 (okay, fine, I got a C in that): these blessings from the Registrar brought me closer to my desired future than I had ever been. The time had come for transfer paperwork.

And that brings us up to date. I’m about to enter a meeting with a representative from the College of Communication to discuss my transfer application. In a few minutes, I will be a Film major and finally have a sense of belonging. The door opens and a man appears.

“Bobby Kennedy?” he asks. “Hey, that’s a pretty famous name. Do people ever tell you that?”
“No, never, you’re the first one.”
“Really? Well, come in.”

I enter the room and sit down across the desk from the man. He opens a folder and looks at what I assume is my paperwork.

“We’ve reviewed your application. It seems you have most things in order: a GPA of 3.00 and an A in CO201.”
“Yes, those are all the requirements, right?”
“Well, officially, yes. But this is a very prestigious institution. We have a number of other pre-requisites that do not get publicized.”
“Like what?”
“Well, our intensive background search has revealed to us that in the fifth grade you wrote a historically inaccurate story about the American Revolution in which one of your characters was a Hessian named Chad. Chad is not a German name, and therefore is an incorrect use of diction. We just cannot allow someone into this college who makes an error of that degree.”
“But-“
“I’m sorry. The decision is final. I’ve passed this information on to your advisor in the English Department. They may be suggesting Mathematics to you as a major within the next few days.”
“But that’s stu-“
“Well, it was nice meeting you. Watch out for Sirhan Sirhan on your way out. Ha ha. Get it?”

Why is this so hard? It’s not like I’m trying to cheat the system. I didn’t know I wanted to be in COM and now I do. College is supposed to be a place where you can find yourself and be educated accordingly. I know it’s my fault for applying to CAS instead of COM, but why should I be punished now for the follies of my youth? I just don’t see how forcing me to earn a degree in something I don’t want makes any philosophical, economical, or moral sense.

Alas, there’s only one thing an intelligent and composed person can do in this situation of unbearable loss and unreasonable rejection: make fun of it in the Freep. At least I can’t face any fall-out from the University over this piece. Everyone knows the administration doesn’t read The Daily Free Press; they just do the crossword.

Halloween Hardships

Halloween has never been my favorite holiday. It’s not that I have any moral objections to demanding candy from people; that would be a bit overly principled, even for Baptists. No, I think it stems from my timid demeanor as a child.

I was always a shy kid around people I didn’t know. Thus, the idea of walking around and asking complete strangers to give me sugar seemed completely ludicrous. I made my parents come with me (not just with, up to the door) until I was 13 years old.

The goal of most kids was to look as scary as possible. Not me. I tried to dress as cute as possible, that way my neighbors would just say, “Awww,” and give me the candy without me having to utter a word. Other kids started at dogs and progressed to Scream masks. I went from Mickey Mouse to an M&M in eight moves.

I mean, it’s only three words: Trick or Treat. I could say other phrases only three words long no problem: “I am hungry,” “Hippos are fat,” “Gym is stupid,” “That’s my pipe.” I suppose it's kind of ironic then that I ended up a writer. I couldn’t even beg for food the one day people are dying (wham! Halloween pun) to give it away. How am I supposed to do it as part of my living?

But that’s the past. Here in college the object is not to look scary and get candy. It’s to look like a slut and get laid. Nurses, witches, cats, police: all with cleavage and most certainly wearing stockings. If not one of the top four, your costume is designed around what would look absolutely ridiculous when you’re completely trashed at the end of the night. Let’s just say there was definitely a Winnie the Pooh stumbling its way around the World Series riots last year in Kenmore Square.

Yet old habits die hard and I’m still going with the cute angle today. For the party tonight, I’m dressed as someone protesting how Mother Nature decided to skip fall and go straight to winter this year. So yes, that means I don’t have a costume. However, it also means I’m always cute. Result!

I arrived twenty minutes late, like usual. Someone buzzed me in and I climbed the stairs to apartment 3. The door was open and I walked right in. The apartment was dark but I could not see any sign of a party.

“Hello?” I asked.
“Salutations,” a voice responded, a voice I’d heard somewhere before.
“Is this the No Dressing Up party?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where is everyone?”
“This is everyone.”
“Are you trying to be difficult?”
“Sorry. Wait, why am I apologizing? I’m the killer.”

And then I remembered where I’d heard that voice before. It was Jigsaw from the movie Saw.

“What do you want from me?” I pleaded.
“To kill you, of course.”
“But I haven’t done anything. Don’t you normally kill people who are leading their lives wrongly? What’s your name, anyhow?”
“Todd.”
“Well, Todd, I think you’ve made a mistake. I’m an angel.”
“I was too. But then I went to a doctor who was also a veterinarian. He got confused between animals and humans one day. I was spayed.”
“That’s awful!”
“I got off lucky. He put my brother down.”
“I’m sorry, but what do I have to do with this?”
“You are a Pre-Med student.”
“Were. I dropped it within a month of starting freshman year.”
“Oh. Bugger.”

By this time I had found a light switch and discovered the door and windows to be locked. There was a Mr. Potato Head doll lying on a couch with a knife through it’s, er, skull, I guess you would call it.

“I’m such a failure. Now they’ll never let me star in the Saw spin-off, Chisel.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel too bad about it, Todd. The Horror genre is so creatively bankrupt anyway. Showing your emotional side is sure to garner you some buzz.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ve always dreamed of being a respectable dramatic actor like Val Kilmer.”

Silence ensued. I felt the minutes tick by as I waited for my mystery host to release me.

“So what do we do now?” I questioned after awhile.
“I don’t know, have a party I suppose.”
“Will there be balloons?”
“Oh yes, there will be balloons.”
“Great.”
“You want some Candy Corn?”

At the mention of this, Candy Corn shot out of the walls and pelted my non-costumed frame.

“Ow, fuck, man. That hurts.”
“Sorry.”
“Besides, nobody actually eats Candy Corn. It’s an element, like Phosphorus or Titanium. There was a certain amount of it here on Earth when time began and people just keeps offering it to everyone else. It never gets eaten, just passed around.”
“I see. Sorry I ruined your holiday.”
“Don’t worry about it. I always wanted to be tops at the box office.”

Soap Wars: The Phantom Playoff

It’s been a few days. Reality is starting to set in and I can see things have changed. These next few weeks will be different. How frighteningly different they would be I could never have imagined

It’s mid October and the Red Sox are not playing the Yankees in the American League Championship Series. Worse than that, neither team is playing at all. They’ve both gone home, destined to “wait ‘til next year.”

At first, I thought maybe neither team advancing was a good thing. I’m rather busy with schoolwork right now so the added distraction of a playoff race was not helping my grades. Now if only America’s Next Top Model would go off the air.

In addition to that, people’s feelings got hurt last year. When the Yankees were up 3-0, their fans were rubbing it in the Sox fans’ faces. Then the Sox fans returned the favor after each of the next eight games. I told myself that Boston University and the northeast corridor of the United States in general will be a much happier and less confrontational place than it had been the past two Octobers.

But things haven’t been that peachy, nor have they been peary, orangey, or appley either. No fruit-related adjective could describe the situation. Grapefruity might be the closest you can get because it’s sour, but I am quite partial to grapefruit thus ruining the necessary negative connotation.

Everyone here has this pent up aggression needing to be released. They’ve stockpiled all this vindictive energy for precisely this time of year, but now there is nowhere for it to go. Instead of yelling at televisions and denying our opponents service at respectable institutions like Jamba Juice, the fans are arguing vehemently over petty differences. This scene erupted on my floor just the other day:

“Hey, guys, look at this kid. He’s gonna shower using Irish Spring soap. That’s so lame.”
“Irish Spring has been the classiest soap since it was introduced in 1972. It’s much better than your worthless Lever 2000.”
“Irish Spring hasn’t won the National Soap Award since 2000.”
“But it has won more National Soap Awards than any other bar.”
“Yeah, well, when you’re owned by the Evil Empire, Colgate, you can afford to buy off those judges.”
“There you go with that Evil Empire crap again. Just because we’re good businessmen and are part of a mega conglomerate that will rake in more profits, our soap is somehow tainted. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that No Doubt’s best CD was Return of Saturn.”
“It was a big step forward for them.”
“Everybody knows that Tragic Kingdom was, is, and forever will be the best thing No Doubt have ever done.”

And on and on it went until a full-scale gang war ensued. It had it all: choreography, snapping, a Puerto Rican named Bernardo, everything. I tried to play it cool, but it was just too hard.

Now commissioner Selig, I know you are reading your copy of The Daily Free Press while digesting your morning dose of Fruity Pebbles and Ensure, and I implore you to do something.

The Northeast cannot survive the winter without some sort of playoff between these two teams. Why don’t we have a losers’ bracket? There’s no clear third or fourth in the American League now. The White Sox are first and the Angels are second, but how do we know who is third and who is fourth? The Red Sox and Yankees can’t tie for anything. Even when they both had the exact same regular season record, the Yanks were given the AL East title.

It may seem insignificant now, but this crisis will escalate. Folgers versus Maxwell House, Sesame Street versus Fraggle Rock, Reuben versus Clay, shirts versus skins (ok maybe that one wouldn’t be all bad): life as we know it will crumble in the face of unending competition.

And why is it that competition is so important to us? Why do we raise our children to embrace these rivalries and hold prejudices against people who cheer differently? I am afraid to bring a life into this world if he’ll be persecuted for the Triceratops being his favorite dinosaur or she’ll be ridiculed for not wanting to say Hello to Kitty. Things need to change before I produce someone that will perpetuate this system.

So, please, hear my plea, Bud. The well-being of millions of people relies on what you choose to do in this hour of dire need, especially me because I happen to prefer Zest.

*Published in The Daily Free Press on Friday, October 21st, 2005*