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In a motley motel room 20 miles east of Memphis, where the only thing cheaper than the beds was the liquor we spilled in them, I stood staring into a rusted mirror behind a bathroom door which on another night had been broken in violence. Outside, my companions drank their shares of the night’s conquest and smoked to the rhythm of lo-fidelity music spitting from crappy laptop speakers.
For the past several months my life has been hijacked by CNN and MSNBC. I am an election coverage addict. So deeply in tune with the oscillations of the news cycle, I could scarcely be bothered to leave my couch for trivial things like classes, meals and bodily hygiene. And today, with election results coming in, and the cable channels unveiling a 24-hour parade of Wolf Blitzers, Chris Matthews and Anderson Coopers, I surely couldn’t be bothered for something so menial as voting.
“And I will be satisfied not to read in-between the lines.” —Van Morrison
Let it be known in no uncertain terms that ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ by Cyndi Lauper is the greatest song of all time.
Last time I checked, scientists had not documented any conversationally transmitted diseases. Yes, despite a culture of rampant diversity and multiculturalism set in an era of unprecedented information flow, it remains safe to entertain mind-altering discussions with any number of different partners night after passionate night. And yet, instead of experimenting with new and unfamiliar situations, instead of rolling the dice on the chance of intellectual ecstasy, we are content to trade exotic romance for another night of cold pizza, cheap beer and old friends in a symbiotic circle-jerk. While there is a certain comfort in familiarity, at a certain point one must question the motivation for continued abstinence from new experiences, especially given the apparent lack of consequences. Why, then, do we continue to practice safe syntax?
And we be beat pimpin’, smoking teas. The beats came of age at the end of World War II; younger brothers and sisters of the men and women who had fought the war. Their generation missed out on the convenient definition afforded by great conflict.
Summer nights in Virginia Beach I like to troll the boardwalk and pretend I am Bruce Springsteen in "Fourth of July, Asbury Park." I ramble on to my friends, pointing out points of tangent from the song and gesture wildly at the scenery ablaze with tourism and commerce and life. I hear them laughing. They always laugh, but I don't stop.
Allow me please to paint a picture; a picture most of you have probably experienced at least once or twice and perhaps many more times than that. You meet someone, and start hanging out with them on a regular basis. Weeks pass by and you continue to enjoy the company of said someone. Somewhere along the line, you start to wonder about the romantic prospects of your budding relationship. You suspect your someone is having similar thoughts, but despite any evidence you might have seen you insist that you cannot be sure. It becomes increasingly clear that a conversation looms. Sooner or later the two of you must fess up to your feelings or watch the relationship die away. For the sake of argument we'll assume that both of you do like each other and would ideally like to pursue a romantic relationship if all goes well. Eventually, one of you utters the fateful words: we need to talk. Thus, the trap is set.
All things considered, the results of a weekend series between the Braves and Yankees impact my life more than the actions of the United States government over the same time period.
One cannot read The Chronicle editorial page these days without happening across another claim of racism or cultural insensitivity levied by one interest group against another here at dear old Duke. From the maelstrom surrounding the Sigma Chi party and the subsequent demands to the more numerous and less severe claims of social segregation and media bias that dot the daily opinion landscape, it seems we are a campus divided against itself.
Over the summer I worked as a summer hire for the Department of the Navy. The command I worked for, like any good Navy command, had a summer picnic where the families of the sailors and civil servants came together for an afternoon of beer, burgers and good, clean, American fun. After hob-knobbing with my coworkers for a bit, I became tired of the formality and expectation of adult conversation and went in search of an activity somewhat less boring.
Gather around all you Democratic presidential hopefuls. It's time for Uncle Andy to tell you a little story--the story of the Political Economy of Bowling.
As hot summer air settles in across the American landscape, the sweltering masses flock to their favorite leisure venues in search of the latest innovations in underwhelming entertainment and overpriced food. Being the good citizen that I am, I followed the smell of grease and the sound of cheering straight to my local minor league ballpark. Walking through the concourse on the way to my seat, I was assaulted by a myriad of food and beverage choices. All of the usual suspects were there: the hamburgers, the hotdogs, the cheese fries in the mini batting helmet, but I was in no mood for ancient and ordinary. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw a sign: Deep Fried Twinkies.
Economists say that the middle class in the United States shrinks every year. As the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, those left in the average income no-man's land struggle to come to grips with an American dream fading faster than the paint on a mid-90's Ford Tempo. The storied middle-American ideal of the two-story house with the white picket fence in suburbia is no longer a fortress of solitude for the average man. It has become the cave of the unwilling hermit, hiding from the polarizing socio-economic forces that threaten to tear his world apart.
