Man in the Mirror

David Sedaris suggested that I start a journal or some method of writing everyday. Yes, this blog started that way, but it's tough to find the time to sit down and do it everyday like you can when physically schlepping around a notebook. Luckily for me (and all of you blogoteers out there), the entries from the latter can be transferrable to the former. Today's entry addresses vanity.

Anyone who has been following me on Twitter has seen that I am prone to ranting against the self-indulgent tendencies of those around me. For instance, one thing that grinds my gears like you wouldn't believe is when someone uses the "iPhoto" or "Photobooth" feature on their Macbook to take multiple pics of themselves. When I say multiple pics, I mean ENTIRE FUCKING ALBUMS. I have friends on facebook that do this all the time and it bugs me to no end. How self-absorbed can you be? What makes these people think that we want to see 35 variations of the same damn picture of just them? Using it every so often to create a new profile pic is one thing, but to stand/sit in front of your camera for that long to create 35 throwaway shots of yourself striking poses and making ridiculous faces IS NOT an ideal employment of the "variations on a theme" idea.

Really, random chick, really? REALLY???

Just last week, a girl in my Anthropology (DAAAMMMMMN, ANTHROPOLOGY???) class sat there and took various shots of her making kissy faces and perky boob shots. In the middle of class. A class with 300 other students. Far be it from me to get on someone's case for not paying attention in class, but really though? Is that what's hot in the streets? Nevermind the fact that this chickenhead wasn't particularly cute; how could anyone have that kind of wanton disregard for the people around them? There's healthy self-esteem and then there's brazen self-absorption, and this girl nailed option #2. I could never ever, IN A MILLION YEARS, sit in a class with that many people around me (read: ANY people around me) and do something that incredibly audacious. Needless to say, me and the few people who caught her doing this founds ourselves laughing together at the brash and oblivious vanity we were witnessing. I laughed to the point of tears, though those tears were mostly from weeping for my generation.

One reason why I would never do anything like that is that I'm self-conscious to a fault; I'm always thinking about how I will look in front of people, so I try not to set myself up for embarrassing things like that girl did. That sounds like a bad thing -- which it certainly can be most often -- but it makes me acutely aware of my strengths and my weaknesses for the most part. I know I can come off as judgmental and pretentious, but that's only because I'm twice as hard on myself, and with that in mind, I've been slowly coming to the realization that I'm a pretty vain guy myself (I mean, why else create a blog that may or may not be read by people?). Not outwardly vain in the sense that I'm braggadocious and like to draw attention to myself amongst a group of people like most vain people, but in the sense that I am not afraid (read: look for opportunities) to interject personal stakes in conversation and I care -- perhaps way too much -- about how I look. Let's just say that I'm always fully cognizant of and ready to use any mirrors around me.

For example, I have a hard time wearing clothes that don't match at least somewhat. It's a tough, self-imposed burden that I have to live with, but even when sitting around the house, I can't really bring myself to wear clothes that conflict in color. Not only do I want them to match, I want them to look good together. It gets even worse when I leave the house. One time, I recall wearing dress clothes to school all day and then coming home and changing into something more comfortable for a couple hours, only to change back into the dress clothes from earlier when it was time for me to go back out. What was I going back out to do, you ask? I was going back out to do one of the activities most people come to associate with formal wear, of course -- BABYSIT. I mean seriously, how absurd is that? Where they do that at? I still remember Gossip Girl getting on me about it that day ("Why are you wasting time changing? Those kids aren't going to care what you're wearing"). The irony of GG warning me that the dress clothes were a bad call is that I'm constantly perplexed by her insistence on getting far dressier for parties and bars than I do when we go out. Me and her don't always see eye to eye on things like this, but I generally dismissed this as the cultural differences between a young African-American male and a young Caucasian woman -- she just wouldn't understand my sense of style and my taste in clothing any more than a cat understands a dog's insistence on human companionship, and vice-versa. But guess what? GG was right, OH so right. I got to the house -- these kids lived in a trailerpark, I might add -- and those kids gave less than a damn that I was dressed up. I was clearly casting my pearls before swine, as they climbed all over me and tried to have me running all around and jumping up and down just like any other day.

I'm not vain.... Unless this is considered vanity

I tried to assuage some of my disappointment in their ignorance -- I looked sharp! I didn't dress like this just everyday! Couldn't children of 10, 7, 3, and 2 years of age appreciate that? -- by telling myself that more than anything else, dressing up was about making a good impression upon their mother, who certainly couldn't have been used to having a babysitter put in that kinda effort. Both of her arms were fully functional, so I was puzzled as to why she wasn't patting me on the back when I realized that this woman was questionably -- at best -- qualified to be a four-time mother, let alone give out recommendations based on the impression she got from the dapper-looking young man watching those kids. But when it really came down to it, my own vanity had as much to do with me wearing those dress clothes over there as anything else did. I wanted people to see me looking good, so much so that I deluded myself into thinking that such a thing might matter to these people. FAIL.

I'd be remiss if I didn't admit that I'm somewhat of a pretty boy. At times, I accessorize outfits like a teenage girl, and though I'm not particularly proud of that, it's just the way I am. I cannot say in full confidence that I own many clothes -- or any shoes at all -- that I would be totally comfortable getting dirtied. Yes, I know I have exposed some of my more effeminate qualities here today, but I am what I am; so sue me.

Y'all see where I get it from. 

The obvious question is: where do I get this all from? Well, the older I get and the less I want to admit it, the more I notice some of my own qualities in my dad. He came to visit a couple weeks back, and for all of the ways that we can butt heads on our differences in opinion, conflict can arise amongst some of our similarities as well:; most notably in this case, our affinity for getting dressy for banal activities. When he showed up here, he was decked from head to toe in formal wear featuring various shades of blue. He got to the house and sat around all evening and night in these clothes and shoes, which, at first glance, appeared to be gators. He insisted that they were, but as a gator perpetrator myself, I knew better; you can't bullshit a bullshitter. But throughout the weekend, I felt at times that I was looking into a slightly more compact body-length mirror. That mirror became even clearer once his late luggage finally arrived and I realized that he had packed very little in the way of clothing that could be of even any use on a potential camping trip. I guess it's a good thing that I quit the Boy Scouts so early as a kid.

My tangential anecdote was not so much about his visit as it is about the light that was further shed by it: my sometimes misguided sense of vanity is hereditary. While someone's sense of "style" is subjective (me and him differ A LOT in that regard), their obvious vanity is not quite so much. As I find myself speaking out more and more against the various forms of arrogance and self-absorption that permeate my world, it's only fair that I point those judgmental eyes at the man in the mirror.

Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off.... Yall stay classy now.

Quick Update

Salutations blogosphere! Sir Marcus back here, Bringing Da Noise and Bringing Da Funk.

It's been awhile since we last spoke, and for that, I beg a thousand pardons of you. Since then, my life has been somewhat eventful -- my dad came out here to visit a few weeks ago, me and the Old Lady have reconciled somewhat, and my writing idol came to visit Mizzou.

In reference to that last item, David Sedaris came to Mizzou last Wednesday night and it was a terrific experience. He is even funnier in person than he is in print, which shouldn't come as a surprise, but I wasn't quite expecting it. I don't want my praise of him to be too effusive lest I sound like a groupie, but good Lord, I'd love to do what he does for a living: be a full-time writer that gets paid to tour the world giving lectures and reading excerpts from his books. When I say he's my writing idol, I mean something closer to inspiration -- it wasn't until I started reading his books about a year or so ago that I really decided that I wanted to be a creative nonfiction novelist, a point driven home all the more by my attendance of his lecture. It was funny, quirky, charming, endearing and self-deprecating -- everything that his fans would have expected and then some. When the lecture was over, I stood in line for three hours -- something I otherwise would never do -- to get my book signed and to his credit, even after three hours, he was as gracious, engaging and unassuming as he was on stage. While I imagine this part of his life is unbelievably tedious at times, it is a testament to his humility and good nature when we met that if I had to do it all again, I'd stand in that line for three hours again every single time. Absolutely life-changing event for me; not even joking.

The crux of the matter here is that when asking David what advice he would give to an aspiring writer, he said that I should just write everyday; he suggested starting a journal, which is what I've since done. Get ready for a bevy of blogs to come from hence forth, as that journal will be ripe with topics to share, such as the one following this update.

Hugs, Not Drugs

What it do baby boo? 'Tis Sir Marcus again here, providing yet another glimpse into the bucket of neurosis that is my brain; I do it because I care, people. Even HM would have to admit that I've been pretty diligent about these updates in the past few months, so if you see or speak to her soon, tell her yes, to answer the age-old question, I do want a cookie. While waiting on that, let's get right into this week's topic: drugs.

So as I was outside in Speaker's Circle people-watching between classes today, some guy comes up to me and gives me a flier from some group he's in -- the "Students for Sensible Drug Policy." I'm all for what they're trying to do. We can all acknowledge that our country's drug policies are less than perfect. The flier he handed me implores students to vote yes on Prop. 19 (California-based ballot for the legalization of marijuana). Though marijuana isn't for me, I've gone on record for conceding that legalizing it would do more good than harm, so it only makes sense that it becomes legalized. It's far less harmful than nicotene and alcohol, yet cigarettes and booze are both legal? That logic is unbelievably weak; no one's buying it and we shouldn't be selling it.

Here's the kicker, blogosphanatics: it's no secret that I'm straight-edge. That means that I don't drink, don't smoke, and generally don't take prescripted medications. That's just my choice - some of it has to do with my family's history of substance abuse, but it's mostly because I just don't personally find it that appealing. I'm certainly no C.M. Punk - I don't have an issue with those that do these things in moderation. It's your life and I say do whatever floats your boat, but keep in mind that said boat will most likely be sunk by the HUGEmongous crack rock that you're storing. You've been warned.

Speaking of crack... It still kills.

Back to the original premise of this post, the flier then proceeded to give "3 reasons that YOU should fight for sensible drug policies."This is where it falls apart for me. The first reason states "Your education is in danger," and then goes on to talk about how many students have had to drop out of school or find alternate means of paying for school because they had drug convictions and were denied financial aid. At the risk of sounding callous, I call tough titties on that one. Again, no one's saying that all of our drug laws are perfect, but at the same time, the law is pretty black and white about what's legal and not. It has always astounded me how people can willfully take part in an illegal activity -- that means ecstasy and meth as well, for those of you who are reading this from rehab -- but then act surprised or even angry when they are chastised for it. If part of the allure to breaking rules is that feeling of danger and the thrill of getting away with it, then part of that should also be the full resignation to the possibilities of getting caught and the subsequent consequences. You can't have your caked up crack rocks and eat them too.

Yes, even I will say that I think weed should be legal, but for the time being, it's not legal, and because of that, you are and absolutely should be subject to the full letter of the law; it's that simple. The flier also goes on to say that their 2nd reason is that the War on Drugs is a multi-billion dollar exercise in money wasting, but it doesn't suggest any solutions to this problem. Legalizing marijuana isn't going to mean that the drug industry WON'T cost money to maintain, and while it isn't legal, obviously we can't just stop spending on it cold-turkey, lest we risk freelance drug-dealing and usage running amok. So tell me, how would NOT spending money in the War on Drugs help? Don't worry, I'll wait...

Finally, there is reason #3 -- most drug-related violence is based on the prohibition of them as opposed to the abuse of them, consequently causing police to spend their time chasing the wrong criminals -- which also brings the weak sauce. That implies that cops are completely ignoring criminals for crimes not related to drugs. Rapists, arsonists, and those that murder just for the hell of it are no less important than drug dealers or those that murder over drugs, and this flier shouldn't try to reduce that issue  -- or any of these issues, for that matter -- to something so black and white; something so trivial. It's ridiculous to even begin to suggest that the time spent on drug-related crimes -- something that rightfully is very important -- is what has really been preventing cops from catching a serial rapist. Don't bring that weak shit into my house.

I will admit that I appreciate their enthusiasm though. Obviously the War on Drugs is much bigger than what I've mentioned here, but you guys get the gist. I believe they're sending the right message and plugging the right product, but their packaging is a little off. They need to come stronger than that because you can't sell me bullshit -- I know the prices. 

Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off....... Yall stay classy out there and take care now. 

Self-fulfilling prophecy, FTSwindle

I smell what he's cooking

Oh blogosphere... Sometimes you have to laugh to keep yourself from crying.

Self-fulfilling prophecies are when things come to fruition because people indirectly cause it to happen, whether it be via their own neurotic tendencies or by someone else's subconscious actions. For example, Spencer Pratt believes he's a famous celebrity. Does he have any discernible talent? Not that I've seen. Is he an unbearable douchelord that most of us wish would just go away? Undoubtedly. But guess what? Those of us that hate him yet talk about how much he sucks (hello, ME!) are helping his celebrity grow because there's really no such thing as bad pub when you're famous for no reason to begin with. SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY.  

Nice flesh-colored beard, dick. 

Why do I bring this concept up, you ask? Well, I have a self-fulfilling prophecy of my own that reared its ugly head this afternoon. My belief is that Murphy's Law - whatever can go wrong will do so - was originally created with my love life in mind. The only thing that was more surprising than The Old Lady sending me the "we need to talk" text this afternoon (we all know what that means) instead of coming over to hang out like we planned is the fact that we even got to the relationship stage to begin with. I say that not out of a lack of confidence in myself - far from it, I know I'm a catch - but out of an increasing paranoia that anytime I try to get involved with someone, it will somehow find a way to unravel. But then again, maybe it is me, as one can only run into the same coincidence SO many times before he has to find the common denominator of his problems. The more I say I'm not superstitious, the more I find myself being superstitious about things, and I've trained myself to not become too comfortable talking about relationships and potential ones because I actually believe it will jinx them. I wish I were kidding about that.

As a self-proclaimed romantic, I'm just not wired like most guys. It takes so much effort and so many things falling the right way for me to even get into the ballpark that most guys reach so effortlessly that when these things inevitably fall part, it's unbelievably disheartening. I'm not into "chasing tail" or adding notches to my proverbial belt - anyone who knows me can tell you that. Call it a lack of game or whatever you wanna call it, but there's no point in trying to be something you're not, and like Kanye said, everything I'm not makes me everything I am. Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying I'm better than those guys because I'm certainly not above the friends with benefits type of thing in the right situation. But 9 times out of 10, when it comes to dating, I'm much more of a slowly get-to-know-you kinda guy, preferring to go about it the less pressure-filled, easygoing way of talking to someone personally as opposed to approaching a girl in public at a bar and trying to manufacture a connection out of thin air. As far as I'm concerned, slow and steady wins the race because life is a marathon, not a sprint (ironic because I was a sprinter in high school track: I HATED any distance-related events).

It stands to reason that the one relationship I've had as an adult that would have lasted as long as I wanted was the one that I couldn't ever fully get invested in. I'm not so delusional that I think I'm the only one to experience this, but that doesn't make me feel any better and I can only complain about my own lot in life. Tonight is one of those rants that my boys back home would refer to as "homotional," but writing is the only real immediate catharsis I have ever known. Dammit, I'm one of the good guys, am I not? I just don't understand how the good guys are the ones who tend to strike out more when we're trying to do it the right way with the right intentions when Tucker Max is out there serial fornicating and not even apologizing for having nothing more going for him than being a literal and a figurative dick. It's like being broke and seeing those pro athletes that make millions upon millions of dollars and then end up broke when they retire; How in 5 hells does Antoine Walker blow $100 million in a career? Why should he be rich instead of someone who can take care of their money? What kind of world are we living in?

I blame Adam and Eve for taking a bite out of that fruit when God told them not to. Everything was perfectly peachy until they got too curious and here we are thousands of years later living in a messed up world.

Serpent: GOTCHA, BITCH!

Ha, that serpent was a rascal. Like I said, sometimes you have to laugh to keep yourself from crying. Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off....

Yall take care now.

Another Weekend Update

Bonjour Blogosphere! Sir Marcus again here bringing you the latest musings from my world. Good ol' HM, bless her heart, not so subtly reminded me last night that the infrequency with which I blog is not acceptable to her. I can only assume that she's speaking for the general blogosphanatic populace, so yall owe her some gratitude, as here I am. Ready to take a ride? As with most rides, that question was rhetorical, as we're taking off right now, regardless of your preparation levels.

- As of last night, your boy is officially no longer single. Take a moment to digest that statement, as it constitutes fairly significant progress on my part.

Me and my new flame - I call her Old Lady - have been talking for about 2 weeks now and I must say, I am thrilled to death about it. In our short time seeing one another, we've just clicked from the very beginning and I feel good about where this is going. She's a great gal - very considerate and open-minded, and most importantly, she gets me and my sense of humor. I happen to think that my sense of humor is my biggest asset, so it's a HUGE plus when a girl gets me comically; that's more than half the battle, as far as I'm concerned. The rest of the battle is the girl being a fan of chocolate, so I think I'm good there - for now, at least. I haven't decided whether I'll be black tomorrow or not.

This represents progress because those of you who really know me can vouch for the comedy of errors that my love life has been seemingly since I hit puberty. Shortly after we became facebook official - the true barometer of any relationship's legitimacy in 2010 - there was quite an outpouring of support and reactions from some of my friends. Perhaps these people were legitimately happy for me in a relieved sort of way or maybe their reactions were just a release of previously-subdued pity, as if I had been the one-legged guy struggling to compete on American Gladiators. I'm not sure which one it is, placing me in the conundrum of not knowing whether to express gratitude or curse these friends of mine, but for the time being, a great big fucking thank you will have to suffice.

TV's most inspirationally-depressing hour ever.

- Last night was the 2010 MTV Video Music Awards, and those of you who remember my running "color" commentary on last year's train wreck (WFW pt. 2), will be sad to hear that this year's edition did not provide as many noteworthy moments.

Taking over the hosting duties this year was Chelsea Handler, who unfortunately will probably need to leave this gig off of any future hosting resumes. Most of us - with maybe the exception of this wholesome angel - generally find Handler to very funny or likable in some way, but the minute I heard she was hosting, I thought the decision was questionable, at best. The reason I say that is that those of us familiar with her work  - whether on TV or in her books - knows that her material is best served for mature audiences, a group that is probably not consisting of the trendy music-lapping, Jersey Shore watching teenage clientele who still watch MTV regularly. Handler's monologue mostly fell flat or went right over the audience's heads, something she probably didn't even realize. She had a throwaway line in the monologue about her being high because she decided not to drink that night that she probably included for humor purposes, but she most likely was high because the fact that her jokes weren't landing never appeared to even register to her. She seemed to be having a ball up there regardless of crowd reaction, which is good for her, but did not make for the most compelling television ever. 

As for the show itself, there wasn't much else to speak of. Of the apparent 6 awards that they probably handed out last night, I'd say Lady Gaga or Justin Bieber won 5 of them. Taylor Swift proved that her forgiveness can be earned but only after waiting AN ENTIRE YEAR, when she can bring it up at the same awards show with her song about Kanye West, "Still An Innocent." The night ended with Kanye performing publicly for like the 2nd time since last year's gaffe and giving his best apologetic effort to date, basically taking shots at himself and providing me and my cronies back home our group's new anthem in "Runaway." 

Besides that, nothing significant really happened. There certainly was no black guy trying to get away with a time-honored social faux pa that would have racial implications; Oh wait....

Blackface: this CAN'T go wrong! 

- NFL season is upon us. Just being able to say that after months and months of anticipation means that many fans across the country needed a change of pants shortly after the Saints/Vikings game kicked off this past Thursday night. My Dolphins are off to a 1-0 start, giving them a half-game lead over the hated Jets for all 6 AFC playoff spots. SO WHAT if the Jets don't play til tonight? The point is that they're in our rear-view mirrors at the moment, and shame on you all for making me say it.

-  I just finished reading The CollegeHumor Guide to College, an incredibly funny take on the various experiences and aspects that are common to college. Granted - not everything in here will apply to every single college student - but I tell you all, this book is HILARIOUS. It's a bit long for a book that reads like a handbook - around 350 pages - but you will not regret reading it. I'll even let you come over to my house and read it if you're my girlfriend. Be forewarned however - this is not for the young, the naive or the Amish; there is talk of sex, drugs, alcohol and electricity in this book.

Next up on the reading list: A.J. Jacobs' The Year of Living Biblically, in which the author actually attempts to live a year following the Bible as literally as possible; should be quite the ride. Stay tuned for further developments.

On that note, I think it's time to wrap her on up. It's been a joy catching up with you all, I hope you've enjoyed it as much. Until next time, holla at a playa when you see him in he streets, trick! No but for serious, yall stay classy and take care out there; this is Sir Marcus T. Williams, signing off....

Summer Series Part 6: Summer's Over

How's it hanging, blogosphere? Sir Marcus again here, bringing you the final installment of the summer blog series, in lieu of us now being in the second week of fall semester.

I know what you're thinking and you're right: The updates to my page here are pretty fuckin sweet. Bear with me, as the whole thing is still a work in progress. For those 3 or 4 of you out there still fondly reminiscing the days of Myspace/Blackplanet/Xanga/Bebo, we'll just say my page is still "under construction."

If you weren't thinking about the page, then you were probably thinking that it's been far too long since you heard from me here, and I will also agree with that. As was brought to my attention by my former partner in crime - we'll call her Honey Munchkins, or HM for short - I don't keep up with this thing as much as I should. Always the one to try to keep me in line, HM raised a valid point and helped me see that the true victims of my procrastination are you, the blogosphanatics for which I do this. She actually didn't say that last part in so many words, but the two of us have an innate telepathic synergy that allowed me to infer that on my own. So for that, I apologize and will try to make a better effort.

With the obligatory half-assed apology now taken care of, let's get you all updated on the happy haps of the world as I've seen it since we last spoke.

- This is officially my 9th semester of college at the University of Missouri, placing me in what is commonly referred to as the "super-senior" year, or my "victory lap," if you will. While there are things about college that aren't as glamorous - I'm talking to YOU, any and all math-related courses - I have thoroughly enjoyed my tenure here at the 'Zou. Were the decision left up to me, I would probably stay here forever, just skating by on making friends and celebrating the enjoyable parts of college, a la my man Van Wilder, but my mother doesn't quite see it that way. Parents just don't understand.

- This week concludes my 3rd consecutive stint as a temporary textbook stocker at the bookstore, and this time was even better than the previous two, chock full of more hijinks and shenanigans than your average Animaniacs cartoon. (If you got that reference, then you're my kinda person, but if you didn't, then shame on you for not growing up watching cartoons in the 90's; your ignorance is astounding).

Anyways, aside from a few less-than-reputable characters, I made some good friends with the guys and gals that slaved around the store with me everyday. I even tried my hand at starting my first ever workplace romance, and though that - much like many attempted ones before it - predictably failed not long thereafter for reasons perhaps out of my control (think George Costanza), if given another shot, I don't think I would go about it any differently. In my defense, this girl - the ol' Ball & Chain, as we've so affectionately dubbed her in our circle - has dimples that can not, will not, SHALL NOT be ignored; don't even bother. I certainly never had a shot. Though the only logical explanation to the failed courtship is that she clearly has abysmal taste in men - this much awesomeness must be off-putting - she's a great gal and I consider myself lucky to know her, regardless of the extent of our friendship going forward. Okay, now give me a moment to wash the feeling of sappiness from that last line off of me....

Aside from the ol' Ball & Chain, my social life has been infused with some much-needed testosterone.  This is not intended as any slight to Gossip Girl and Bo Peep, but I don't think they truly realize that being the male tour guide in the college meat market for two attractive young ladies like them made it that much tougher for someone as introverted as myself to meet new girls when I was either busy helping them fend off creepers or quietly brooding to the side as guy after guy approached them, regardless of whether I was there or not. When doing this on a week-to-week basis, I'm sure that me being attached to them so often has resulted in my sexuality being quietly questioned multiple times, so a change of pace was sorely needed. I mean, let's face it - when guys go out together, it's more or less a team effort so more often than not, there's a wingman to rely on. That same dynamic might apply with girls too, but when the group is a mixture of the two, then all bets are off. So basically, if you're a guy going out with girls, whether they wanna admit it or not, once they're approached by a potential suitor, their accompanying guy friend is on his own; this is the situation I most often found myself in this summer, and as fun as it sounds, I find it hard to get myself up for this week after week.

So anyways, me and the fellas from the store have gotten pretty tight - namely me and my boys Chuck Goldenrod (CG) and Baby Deer (BD). Between the 3 of us, we've managed to form quite the team of cutups, whether it be belting out our delightful group melody of "Afternoon Delight" on a whim, delegating some of our own work assignments on the lesser temps (namely B&C and her cohorts), constantly quoting "Anchorman," "The Hangover," and "Stepbrothers," or making "Formal Fridays" a mighty force to be reckoned with, the three of us clicked pretty much immediately. In fact, we've long harbored a theory that our supervisor has been slowly and systematically devising ways of breaking down our tripod so as to consolidate power to himself and the permanent staff. So much for team morale, right? Haters gonna hate, I guess. But even though our time as coworkers draws to a close, I'm sure that me and my bromosexuals will continue to kick up shit together all year, because we refuse to let the man hold us down.

- Football season is finally here. While we're still in the preseason for the NFL, Opening Day is only like 2 weeks away and I'm sure I speak for us all when I say it's about fucking time. Though I've grown to appreciate baseball more than I used to, there really is no substitute for some good ol' pigskin. Something about seeing big, strong, buff men in tight.............. helmets run around and be a little violent speaks to sports fans in a very superficial and aesthetic way. Football is a release for the inherent violent testosterone that most of us men need and for those of us who can't do it ourselves anymore, watching it allows us to live vicariously through those that can, even if we sometimes allow our thoughts and feelings to hinge a little too much onto what is really just a game. The summer months, for all of their brevity, sometimes seem too long when they don't give us sports fans something to occupy our time. And no offense other little-to-no contact sports, but golf and baseball just don't cut it for me. So come September, I'll be all too happy to welcome the mighty Dolphins of Miami back into my life, and if there is a football god, he'll allow those insufferably arrogant NY Jets to crash and burn this season. Let the church say amen.

This seems like as good a stopping place as any. I've enjoyed catching up with you knuckleheads, so let's not wait so long before we do this again, mmmmmmmmkay? Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off..... Ya'll take care now.

Summer Series (part 5): Don't be a Groupie, Keep it Movin'

How's it hanging, blogosphere? Sir Marcus here again... New blogpost time!

- This summer has flown by faster than any summer I can recall. I think that's because normally I spend my summer back home in Richmond lamenting the fact that I'm not in CoMo boozing it up with my fellow college students. And by boozing it up, I mean babysitting them as they get drunk and I quietly sit in the corners of random bars and house parties, weirding everyone out with my sobriety; Talk about a Debbie Downer.


Bo Peep: Now apart of the gang
But that's what this summer has mostly been about: hanging out at bars and such, with the occasional class being laced in every week. Gossip Girl and I have become part of a triumverate with our friend Bo Peep. We go waaaaaay back with Bo Peep to the days of 3rd floor of North Hall, which seems like an eternity ago. Back then, we didn't really hang out with Bo Peep quite as much (thanks to another of our acquaintances who tried to hoard her most of the year), but around the end of this school year, we happened to run into her at our favorite Wednesday night watering hole, and the rest - as they say - is history. Week in and week out this summer, the 3 of us - with the occasional assistance of her always-hilarious, never-boring bff ET - have made it our business to weed CoMo of its bar scene sleeziness, one gelled-up, collar-popped douchelord at a time. Any of you who have ever been out in any college town know that the bar scene tends to be over-saturated with them, so your army can never be too strong. Welcome to the gang and to the cloudy stream-of-consciousness that is SirMarcusRantsAndRaves, Bo Peep.

- In non-sequitor news, I - along with just about everyone else, I'm assuming - just moved. As in this morning. My roommate's girlfriend - hereby known as #2 - and her family assisted me in getting my shit outta Gateway before the ridiculously asinine checkout time of 10 a.m. That's 10 a.m. on a fucking saturday morning in the dead of summer, I might add. However, after managing to easily defeat the checkout time at Gateway, we then proceeded to try to move all of her stuff out of her old apartment and into her new one - right next door to ours - by 12. This task proved FAR more difficult, as #2 owned most of the stuff at her old apartment, most of which hadn't really been packed yet. And even once it was, all of her other stuff paled in comparison to what came to be the crescendo of our moving experience - trying to get her piano down the structurally-weak wooden steps of her previous residence and into the bed of her brother's truck. The good news is that we just barely beat the clock at her old apartment. The bad news is that between that piano and the TV that Gossip Girl just gave me, I've worked up quite the sweat moving things recently, and we all know being sweaty just ain't sexy. Given, the TV was harder to move up the stairs at Gateway when I first got it, but it still sucked today too. Put these moving experiences together with the fact that this week was my 1st week back textbook temp-ing at the bookstore, and I dare say that a brotha hasn't worked this hard over the course of 1 week since slave days.

Haha jk, slavery wasn't THAT hard.

The crux of the matter here is that moving is, without fail, always one of the least pleasant activities that one can put themselves through. Obviously I'm not breaking any new ground here by announcing my hatred for moving, but that doesn't make my statements any less valid. Has anyone ever had even an OKAY time moving? Don't be silly, of course not. Obviously moving is a necessary evil, but still, there's gotta be a better way. Dear Lord, I can't wait until the technology is developed that allows us to blink and have whatever we're thinking happen because moving is gonna jump right to the top of my list there.

- Just found out that a friend of mine from high school is on a women's roller-derby team. This news pleases me immensely. It awes in the awesome. Not so much because I'm tight with this girl, but because on the low-low, I've always loved roller derby. I feel that rollerskating is a criminally underrated and neglected pastime, so I practically climaxed with joy the first time I saw that someone had made it into a contact sport. Much like Slamball, it takes two great aspects of sports that in theory should coexist pretty well and fuses them together to make a hybrid supersport. Much unlike Slamball, it doesn't suck out loud to watch.

- A new season of Jersey Shore started this week. I always thought it would be a cold day in hell before there was something with "Shore" in its name that was worse than Paulie, but then again, my feet have been unusually cold as of late, so there you go. That all being said, J-WOWW can get the Dickens.

- I've spent the past 3 months or so trying to cultivate a nice set of waves in my hair and I'd actually made quite some headway in that regard (did you see what I did there?), but on the other hand, since I don't get my hair cut that often, I currently find myself sporting a mini-afro. I won't lie to you, I've given some thought to growing out a full afro and/or bringing back the cornrows, but my hair grows slower than trees do, so no one I hang out with now would even really get to fully enjoy it. I'll probably get my hair cut sometime this week for "Formal Fridays" (a campaign I've tried to start at the bookstore), so the mini-fro looks to be a short-term thing anyways. Stay tuned for further developments in this case, as I'm quite the flip-flopper with cosmetic things like this.

- Last time, I suggested that you all get up on "Shutterbug" by Big Boi. This time around, I'm throwing it back to the old school and suggesting that "Can You Stand The Rain?" by New Edition finds its way into your musical lexicon. It's a much more mellow song, but a damn good one. You're welcome.

Well blogosphanatics, I think that's as good a point to end on as any. The infrequency with which I've been blogging recently has been bothering me, so I felt I needed to jump back into the game for a minute. If I'm ever gonna reach my goal of being a writer, I'm gonna need to build up a bigger catalog anyways, so hopefully we can get together more often. Don't hold your breath on that one cuz I am - first and foremost - lazy, but know that the desire is there, if not always the execution. Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off..... Yall stay classy now.