Don't You Hate It When...

Good morrow, fair gentles! It's been a few weeks, but what can I say? I'm busy - a brotha's got a whole lot of nothing to do, and it sure as hell isn't going to do itself. I've had trouble thinking of what to share with you blogomaniacs next, but then this morning, I found that my cup ranneth over with new ideas. Take THAT, writer's block!

So anyways, recently, I've found myself noticing and hoarding a boatload of everyday occurrences around me that quietly drive me up a wall. What are some of these things? I'm glad you asked! Here's a series of observational questions that I have for you all:

Don't you hate it when...
- You and your merry band of cronies are sitting around the university student center, shooting the breeze, when various reporters from the local news station and newspaper come to you asking questions about your feelings on the head football coach's DWI arrest the previous night? Actually, that part isn't so annoying - here's your opportunity to shine in front of a TV audience! The annoyance comes from seeing your quotes bastardized on TV and in print to not even include your best quotes. They keep the boring stuff - "It's unfortunate, you don't want to see this happen to your coach, etc"- but your "at least he didn't cover up a sex......... abuse......... scandal. Oh wait, is that too soon?" comment doesn't see the light of day. Hard for you to become a viral sensation when the local media is cutting your legs out from underneath you. How is the outside world going to gain access to your patented, delightfully sarcastic brand of whimsy when your best material is back on the station's cutting room floor? Lighten up, media.

Don't you hate it when...
- The earphone jack on your iPod completely craps out on you for no reason one day? If you're like me, you're used to your everyday life having a running soundtrack, and when it suddenly doesn't, the adjustment is not a simple one. Now you find yourself balls deep in a sea of people, most of which have this unbelievably irritating habit of talking to you. Sure, your iPod has speakers on it, but having a functional headphone jack allows you to circumvent that embarrassing question of "Who's the McAsshole blasting his music so loudly?" without having to out yourself and your deep-abiding love for Aaron Carter. And by "Aaron Carter," you meant Nickelback.

Don't you hate it when...
- The only times that Travel Channel plays "Man vs Food" marathons are when you're lying in your bed, dying of starvation? You want to swat away the flies and shoo away the vultures conversing outside of your room in order to get to the kitchen, but you just know you're going to be met with that same grave disappointment from lack of food that you always are. You've never seen cabinets so bereft of nourishment. "Man vs Food" has this sneaky way of making every kind of food on the planet seem appetizing while you're watching it. Last night, you probably found yourself having to stave off the advances of a sudden urge for a vegetable medley. On an unrelated note, you've always hated vegetables. But hell, you'd be willing to bet that even a vegetarian farmer would take out one of his sheep execution-style for a shot at a nice lamp chop after watching that show for hours on end...


Don't you hate it when...
- You're at home, feeling super DUPER parched, and yak urine just won't do the trick. (You're also out of oxen piss, as in your days on the frontier of the Oregon Trail, you tried to ford the river and your damn oxen died). So you go into the kitchen, open the cabinet, and immediately meeting your eyes is that package of kool-aid that you've been saving for just such an occasion. Your dump the packets into the pitcher and then return to the cabinets to find that - GASP! - you're FRESH out of sugar. Your house couldn't contain any less sugar. This issue has been coming up for years, but you always seem to forget to buy enough sugar to last through the packets of kool-aid that you buy. You've hit the point of no return because you sure as hell aren't drinking non-sweet kool-aid, and brown sugar isn't a suitable alternative. Congratulations you clown, you're now throwing the kool-aid mix away because you certainly learned your lesson after that one ill-fated adventure from your childhood when you finally found out that salt & sugar just LOOK the same...

Don't you hate it when...
- Your girlfriend sleeps with ANOTHER guy? SO WHAT if it's her husband? Has she NO respect for the sanctity and integrity of the adulterous booty call relationship? Is NOTHING sacred?

Don't you hate it when...
- You can't have your cake and eat it too? What is that about? It's YOUR fucking cake! We live in a day and age when it's somehow encouraged AND frowned upon to be out there, sewing your wild oats somewhat indiscriminately. On the one hand, they're your oats with which to do what and whomever you please. On the other hand, sewing oats requires being outside, and you're not crazy about being outside. Also, from a distance, sewing oats and picking cotton look vaguely similar, and your darker-skinned ancestry swore that nonsense off in the mid-1800s. Around 1865, to be specific.

Don't you hate it when...
- Your favorite pro football team thinks that the best way to ascend back to national relevance is to start the season 0-7? The average NFL season includes 16 games, and they've won 2 in a row since that glorious run of futility to kick off this season's campaign, but the odds of making the playoffs from here are slim to none. For those first seven losses, you watched your squad deftly dodge wins week in and week out, each new game bringing a new opportunity to see just how they might snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Things have turned around somewhat, but you'll never forget the magic of those first 7 games. You ignore these last two wins and hone in on the positive: while it's not IMPOSSIBLE that your team goes to the playoffs at this point, your team certainly isn't going to the playoffs at this point.

Don't you hate it when...
- The NBA locks out its players and a month after the season should have started, it's looking more and more like there will be no basketball this season at all? You don't even have any sorta follow-up joke for this, you're just bitter.

Don't you hate it when...
- You have no milk for your cereal? Or no cereal for your milk? Having milk without cereal can be doubly disastrous sometimes, because in anticipation of eventually getting new cereal, you'll just let that milk sit in the fridge for much longer than you should. That next week, when you crack open that gallon of milk to use in your Hamburger Helper, you realize that it's spoiled. Unfortunately, you don't realize this until after you pour the custardy, yogurt-like milk into the pan full of ground beef. Congratulations, you're about to have sleep for dinner.

If you have a roommate, they'll jokingly help you replace the wasted Hamburger Helper with an off-brand version from a local grocery store, something called a "Panburger Partner." You comb the aisles of the store looking for the mythical "panburger" ingredient for this exotic dish, but it's nowhere to be found. What part of the cow does that even come from? Eventually, you realize that the joke is on you, because "panburger" is just Spanish for "cow feces."

Don't you hate it when...
- You have a friend that you think you'd like to get to know better, but then you spend more time with them and realize that you may or may not like this person that much? Are they too opinionated? Too quick to correct people? Too hypocritical? Too self-absorbed? Too much of a cock-block? A jersey-chaser? Asian? Black? Blind? Joe Paterno? You guys smell what I'm cooking. Sometimes, it's best when someone is just your friend in theory instead of reality.

*******

Well kids, let's call it a night. I've enjoyed our time together here today. If anyone has any questions, comments, or suggestions, I'd love to hear them. Catch me on twitter at @MrWilliams88 or email at Gsuswalks88@gmail.com. Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams, signing off...

Y'all stay classy out there and take care. 

Sex Cymbals

Aloha, blogoshpere! Sir Marcus here with the latest in my series of rants, and this one is very near and dear to my heart.

Lollipops haven't been innocent since.

In that spirit, today's offering is called "Sex Cymbals," a topic and title that is predicated upon the homonymic relationship between "symbols," the things that are used to physically-yet-quietly represent something, and "cymbals," the very loud instruments generally used to garner attention. For instance, Marilyn Monroe would have been a regular "sex symbol" back in the 40's and 50's because her sexuality was understated and silently implied, while our day and age is saturated with overtly sexual beings like Pam Anderson and Madonna. Their sexuality is as subtle as a shotgun, making them "sex cymbals." It's brilliant wordplay, really, but y'all already knew that though.

Sex is obviously one of the more pervasive subjects in our society, something that guys reportedly think about every 7 seconds, on average. The contrarian in me thinks that this can't be true, but then the contrarian in him watches a porno, and we're back at square one. Well-played, libido. Anyways, my larger point here is that sex is, for the most part, inescapable for people of our age, especially when you're in and around a college setting. The obvious exceptions to that rule are Amish teenagers, but my guess is they just do their work in the dark more than we do; I'm hip to their jive.

Jorge Pedro says that she believes that girls think about sex at least as much as guys do. I think most of us have always suspected this, but it's hard to take what she says at face value, because word on the street is that she's a nympho. Don't tell her I told y'all that.

However, due to my own burgeoning identity as a presumably sex-driven skeezeball, I've recently found myself subject to criticism and to questioning from a group of my more conservative friends. Let me explain.

I'm certainly not the most sexually experienced person, but I'm also not apologetic about my thoughts and my liberal attitude towards it. As adults, I feel that sex is a perfectly acceptable thing to participate in and talk about within moderation and good judgment. Because of this, I'm apt to say things that suggest a free-swinging lifestyle. Anyone who really knows me knows that I'm not really a sex fiend, but I do have a sexually-suggestive sense of humor. I realize that everyone isn't quite as comfortable discussing such things, and that's fine, so if my mentioning in passing that I wouldn't mind sexing someone up rubs you the wrong way, then color me bad(d).

She might have been talking about this movie though...

However, my point of view about sex shouldn't be taken by my friends as indicative of a sleeping sex-driven deviant. As a point of reference, my homegirl Killa Cam has just as open a philosophy on sex as I do - probably even more so than I do, actually. In fact, she would openly admit that her attitude towards sex is closer to that of guys than of girls - "I think Friends with Benefits is a GLORIOUS thing," she says - so I take solace in the fact that I'm not alone on this issue. She has no qualms whatsoever with telling someone - with or without provocation - that, take it or leave it, all she's looking for is just a hookup. While I can't say I'm quite that bold upon first speaking to someone, I can certainly identify with her candor and open communication.

That being said, just because I'm not as conservative about the subject doesn't mean I'm the villain. I sometimes feel like they see me as some sort of sexmonger because I do admittedly have a perfectly normal-sized adult libido. On multiple occasions, I have gotten involved with someone who was more or less a member of their large circle, and both times, I've come away feeling at least somewhat unfairly villainized. I love these kids to death, and it's definitely no one's fault in particular, but I certainly don't think it's fair to me to only be able to hang with the group under the condition that I fully suppress my bachelorhood. Granted, it would be easier if I just learned not to shit where I eat, but that extra trip to the restroom takes too much time, ya know?

But I get it - one of the tenets of our religion is that sex should be reserved for marriage. Some of their concerns are based on that, which is valid. It's something that I was taught growing up, and those who make it that far by their own choice certainly should be proud of that fact. As it was, I would have had no problem waiting for marriage, but on that fateful night that I lost my V-card, the girl was freaked out when my grand finale was a proposal. Needless to say, we broke up soon thereafter. On the one hand, the surprise resulted in a hell of an "Oh" face. On the other hand, her startling lack of romantic sensibility for the moment is why we can't have nice things, folks.

I say all of that to say this, though: I feel I've become a living, breathing embodiment of a sex cymbal because of my openness to discussing my feelings about it. The irony is that I was a late bloomer when it came to sex - it was so far beyond my scope when I was in high school that my life then might as well have been someone else's life. I've recently experienced a noticeable upswing of luck in that regard, but anything seems like a lot compared to zero. That's not to say that I'm out here participating in or advocating serial fornication, but it's just not realistic to expect young adults to completely abstain from sex. As long as we're being responsible and somewhat discriminatory with our partners in terms of frequency and variety, then R. Kelly and I don't see nothin' wrong with a little bump-n-grind. When I'm before God at the pearly gates, I like to think that He'll forgive me a few indulgences. After all, what better way to show appreciation for the beauty of the female form than to...

Well, that seems like a good place to wrap it up, fellas. Your tool, that is. If y'all think that the precious time wasted putting on a condom is a pain, it'll seem like child's play compared to trying to keep your woman turned on while you change a diaper.

Nothing spoils a sexy party faster than a baby's eyes penetrating your very soul. 

*******

There it is, folks. Watch your steps, 'cuz I just dropped some knowledge all around y'all. As always, it was fun - let's not wait so long before we get together again. If anyone has any topic suggestions, questions or comments, I thrive on feedback, so please feel free to let me know, either in the comments section or by emailing me at Gsuswalks88@gmail.com. 

Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams, signing off.... Y'all take care and stay classy out there. 

Playing Catch Up

What does it, blogosphere? Sir Marcus here. It's been almost two whole weeks since we last spoke, which, compared to the infrequency with which we usually get together, means I'm basically smothering you guys at this point. I do it because I care, people.

As you might imagine, the embarrassing amount of free time I've recently found myself with lends itself to all kinds of shenanigans and half-baked ideas for how to remedy this issue. I fancy myself as something of a whimsical vagabond; a roving beatnik with the freedom to come and go as I please, but my somewhat limited resources have hamstrung me from fully exploiting said liberties. It's hard in these streets, I do declare. Fortunately for me, the hubbub of my social universe - the Mizzou Student Center - is easily accessible, giving me ample opportunity to sit around people of my age, drink them in, and collect delightful little scraps to share with you all. The following are apart of the aggregation of developments over the past few weeks:

Billy Rays Cyrus gets you, Taz.

- I spent the last few weeks on the #WorkStruggle watching my coworker - we'll call him Taz - in his uphill battle for the attention from a certain girl that was, more or less, completely oblivious to his charms. Seeing him strive largely unnoticed, week in and week out, for this girl's affections brought about in me a tinge of familiarity that made me shudder and laugh as only one who had been there could. I'm usually that guy, so I knew exactly what he was experiencing - the uncertainty of whether or not his effort would be reciprocated or even noticed, and the muted sense of excitement over even the most benign shows of acknowledgment. It was like looking into a slightly shorter, fairer-skinned mirror. He's admitted to being willing to play the waiting game with her, which is good because whether she eventually comes around or she lets him down easily, both are good for the achy breaky heart.

- One place besides the MU Student Center that I happen to frequent is the Plasma Center downtown. I spoke recently of how bizarre a place it can be, and nothing about that has changed. Make no mistake about it, blogomaniacs - you WILL stare the depths of society right in the eye at your local plasma donation center. You haven't regretted meeting this many people since that time your "old-fashioned" grandfather took you along to his lodge clubhouse that doubled as his KKK meeting place.

In a Venn Diagram, the two subsets would be "normal college-aged students" and "weird Columbia townies who bug the shit out of normal, college-aged students," with their intersection being "people who go to the plasma center." Unfortunately, putting up with said weirdos is a necessary evil in our volunteering for free money. My biggest concern, besides the fact that one of these townies might try to talk to me, is that to the naked untrained eye, we would all look the same to someone who just saw us in passing. The fact that someone would even mistakenly associate me with a grown-ass man in his 40's wearing a wife beater as a regular shirt and with his hair in braids is a truly harrowing thought to me. Grown men wearing cornrows is one of those things that one shouldn't need to be told is wrong, much like beastiality or one clicking the "like" option ON THEIR OWN DAMN FACEBOOK STATUS (seriously, my crusade against brazen acts of self-indulgence like this will never end).

A good ex-husband is neither seen nor heard. 

- One good thing about frequenting the Plasma Center however is that it allows me to see and catch up with Miss Frizzle, who works there. As one might imagine, we don't talk nearly as much now as we did when we lived together, so twice a week, we re-convene and get to be pretentious with one another as we express our disappointment in the world of dimwits around us. This past week, she was telling me about how her ex-husband seems to be popping up around her much more often these days. This man has this awful, unbelievably rude habit of still talking to her, and he's recently complemented that with sketchy, borderline stalker behavior. It's always a joy to hear a "mysterious ex-husband" story from her, because I'm detached enough from the situation where I don't know him, but I'm close enough to get her firsthand account of his tomfoolery. Sometimes, he'll just show up and give plasma like a normal person, but other times, he'll step up his game. We're talking about a fella that isn't above to running up behind you outside your place of work and throwing a bag of gifts at your feet and scurrying away like a squirrel. She says that she recently went on a date with a guy and over the course of the evening, saw Mr. Ex-Husband at THREE SEPARATE PLACES. Classic mixup. Who amongst us hasn't had this conversation: "Oh HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY there! What a coincidence! I didn't see you come in when I followed you - er, got hungry for the exact same dessert that you did after we ate the same dinner. What's that? You're going back to your place tonight? Weird, so was I..."

- You guys know those tennis shoes with the skate wheels built into them? I believe they're called "Heelys?" I shit thee not, I saw a grown man cruising around the Student Center in them. I staunchly believe that, much like one-piece bathing suits, there are a select few people that should be wearing these, a subset that "Adult Male" is decidedly NOT apart of. I will not argue this point. At least not until a dong pocket is installed in the bathing suit.

Why love your kids when you can just get them Heelys?

But adults, much less men, shouldn't wear Heelys either, and this guy violated the hell out of that law. You've never seen a law so violated. But to see him that day, you wouldn't know that he was committing an egregious crime against fashion and humanity. He looked so easy and carefree, like the world was his skating rink. He was practically gliding across the floor, which stands to reason, as I imagine people are much lighter without all of that pesky dignity weighing them down.

- Speaking of law violations, one of the most widely-known tenets of Man Law is that guys don't crowd the space of other guys in public places. This applies, first and foremost, to the urinals in a public restroom - girls hate it when you touch them with hands stained with someone else's pee - but that doesn't mean that something as simple as sitting in a lobby gets a free pass. Naw buddy. Whenever I'm out and I sit down somewhere, there never fails to be some McAsshole who unabashedly disregards Man Law and parks his behind right next to me, regardless of open seats being available all around us. This has been happening to me with startling frequency lately, and I need to understand why and when these guys feel that they are above Man Law. Certain things should be coded into our DNA, and for guys, some aspects of Man Law should be included. Come on, fellas; IS NOTHING SACRED? If you had miles of open road ahead of you on a freeway, would you drive side by side with the car in the next lane? Get your heads out of your asses; we're trying to have a decent society here.

Oh, the agility. Came THISCLOSE to not catching the butterfly.

- I have tentatively decided to try out for the Columbia Falcons semi-pro football team because honestly, I miss it more every time I watch football. Having not played organized football since high school (and the term "played" is stretched to pretty generous limits even there), I figured that 23 was the perfect time to make my long-awaited (by no one) comeback. Consequently, I will begin training and whipping this body into shape in the next few weeks in preparation for February's tryouts. By the time those roll around, I should be in good enough shape to resume my idling around the house again for the day after tryouts. Can't wait to be a former football player again.

*******

Well kids, that's enough for now. I can't tell you how fun that was. Get used to hearing from me a little more often as I try to not to be inundated with all of this free time. So let's not wait so long to get together again, mmmmmmmmmmkay? Anyways, until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams, signing off...

Yall take care and stay classy out there. 

The Work Struggle

Salutations, blogosphere! Sir Marcus again here with the latest entry in the clouded stream-of-consciousness that is my blogspot. It's been almost two months since my last offering and the only real excuse I have is that my kid was sick. But don't fret there, children, as I suddenly find myself STUPID with free time, which means that I'll have plenty of time to never write here.

So why do I have oodles of noodles and free time? Well, on the noodles front, everyone knows that Ramen Noodles is the #1 import of college students the whole country over. As for time, now that I am "graduated," I don't have any classes to take. I also just wrapped up my 5th stint as a textbook temp. this past week, a 5 month period in my life that I came to know as the "Work Struggle." Why was it a struggle, you ask? It sounds like an easy job (which it mostly is), but that place was also a veritable breeding ground for contempt. How so, you ask? Oh kids, let me count the ways...

1) As a temp, you're just a statistic

Make no mistake about it, there are certainly far worse things to get paid for than shelving books, but the job is far from glamorous. In fact, it's the simplicity of the job that strips you of most of your feeling of individual significance. Yes, short of being a prostitute, hitman, or drug dealer - three things that are lucrative, but also come with the concern of being allegedly "illegal" and you being "arrested" - it's tough to find paid work. But as a textbook temp, you should harbor no illusions - you're not invaluable. You're doing a job that any person on campus could probably do, and while you should be proud that you somehow coerced someone into paying you to do it, showing your friends the empty space that you have saved for that potential "Employee of the Month" plaque makes you look like a real McAsshole.

2) Mind-numbing tedium and monotony

Hard to stay motivated to scan and shelve the same books for roughly the 3,000th time, but hey, that George Orwell "1984" isn't going to walk its damn self back over to the English section. What's worse is that there are actually times when we run out of stuff to do. Those are the days that you watch the clock, swearing that the hands are moving backwards. But we all know that nothing makes that work day fly by faster than taking that 5-hour lunch break. Though to be fair, it was a REALLY moderately-sized lunch. 

3) Overwhelming sexual tension

It will never cease to amaze me that the cute foreign chick who worked in the technology department next door to us didn't start greeting me at the door everyday, bosoms first. I figured that was the logical next step after she teased me for so long by helping all of those customers and generally not knowing I existed. Nothing tests your resolve and B.S. abilities like having to explain why you're caught putting your scrotum back into your pants every morning. Those are the last times I make that mistake....

4) Soul-crushing incompetence of students/customers around you
Everyday, you get to meet college students who have no concept of what numerical or alphabetical order is. These kids clearly never learned their AB3's, relying on mommy and daddy to pay someone to make all of the big words and numbers go away. It was baffling how many students wouldn't even bother looking for their books first, opting instead to show up with a schedule in hand and come up to us saying "I need someone to get my books for me." Generally, I couldn't get on it right away because I'd be too busy looking for the question mark that surely got lost in transit on their way in, so I'd try to pass it on to someone who wasn't disgusted by such wanton disregard of politeness.

I often fielded questions about books and their respective sections that were within spitting distance of the person asking me the question. While it's understandable that one may, albeit incorrectly, think that their "Statistics 2500" class may located in the math section, chances are that your "Agricultural Economics 1042" will NOT be. Also, it will probably be located in the "A" section of the store, hobnobbing with the "Agriculture" and "Agricultural Education" books. And yes, if you get to the "Journalism 4201" shelf tag, you'll know you've gone too far. 

5) Some Coworkers. They're the worst.
A couple of years ago, when I first started working at the store, I spoke of this heffalump that I worked with that bugged me to death. In the interest of sparing her dignity, I won't name her again, but a short jaunt back to Textbook Temps will quickly jog your memory of whom I am speaking. She's a round, overly sensitive, less-than-hygienic, chatterbox of a girl, and unfortunately, those are the 3 qualities I appreciate the least in a coworker. She's one of those people who has a chronic issue of over-sharing information, especially if said information is tough to believe or inappropriate for the workplace. Wearing a scarf on the first day of September is odd, but we would have let it slide if we knew you were going to say "because my boyfriend gave me a hickey." Okay, first of all: EWWWWW. Secondly, no one's buying that, and you shouldn't be selling it. But whatever you say, middle school.

Before I left, I'd taken to just not speaking to this person at all if I could help it. I did this for two reasons: number one was because I have a VERY limited capacity to suffer fools. I'm not good at coddling people who are clearly fishing for attention, and it would have resulted in tears being shed. Secondly, she had this habit of explaining every single thing she did as if it were a mission handed down from God Himself. I hated that so much that I felt like even acknowledging it would validate her. How could I sleep at night knowing that I encouraged such behavior? Case in point, she brought cookies one day during our last week there. Upon my arrival that day, I was sarcastically talking to someone about how much I would miss the job when this girl interrupts our conversation to alert me that she had made and brought cookies. I was hungry that day, but knew that if I ate any cookies, she'd win, so I contemplated not eating any at all. But that's unbelievably petty. The much more mature thing to do was to eat them behind her back, making sure she never saw me and got that validation. Deception tastes DELICIOUS.

Unfortunately, not only has she ratcheted up her insistence on unknowingly irritating me, but she's been joined by occasional fellow temps that are equally annoying in their own ways. For instance, there are those people who talk too much, not in the sense of constant yapping, but in the sense of talking out of turn. Two hints that we don't want to hear what you have to say: one, no one directly addressed you in the conversation, and two, we've gone out of our way to close the conversational circle with you comfortably on the outside. No, we don't need your anecdote about how your sister just adopted a new puppy; not because it's not a cute story, but because it doesn't fit naturally into our "what's for lunch?" conversation.

Don't worry about my damn TPS Reports, wench. 

But you know what's worse than coworkers of your own age? Older coworkers that are nothing more than patsies who do everything they can to exercise any little bit of power they've been given. Specifically, this female linebacker who worked in the department next to ours had this awful habit of watching us and either directing us to go do work or going to our supervisor and snitching on us. We're grown-ass men and women - we don't need someone coming through our section and keeping tabs on us because it gets her rocks off. We're not in your jurisdiction, so just stay in your lane, chickenhead.

6) Because I'm melodramatic. 

All told, my experiences working as a textbook temp have been far sweeter than they have been bitter. I'm just a bit dramatic. If I weren't providing "color" commentary on it constantly, then how would you all know how real my struggle was?

*******

Well guys, this was fun. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, but I'm glad I did. Let's not wait so long before we get together again, okay? Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off...

Yall take care, and stay classy out there. 

A Guide to College

How's it hanging, blogosphere? Sir Marcus here with the latest set of rants and raves. Step into my web....

So I've been, more or less, in college forever. As with most things, that fact has it's distinct advantages and disadvantages. I've learned a lot since I started college seemingly back in the late 90's - most of which involves things found outside of a textbook. It's always bothered me how college is always portrayed in movies - a 4-year window in which to squeeze as much drug/alcohol/sex-fueled debauchery as one can. Don't get me wrong - within moderation, there's certainly a place for that kind of stuff - but it doesn't represent all of our experiences. So without further ado, let me share with you all some of the things that college has taught me personally:

1) Get your nap on. 
When I was a kid, I hated napping. It seemed just asinine to designate an hour or so during the day just for stifling the activity of energetic little children. Those daytime hours are prime juvenile delinquency hours - I sure as hell wouldn't be able to approach strange vans with "Free Kandy" written on the side when it was dark outside. Now that I've learned the perils of misspelled advertisements for sweet treats, I've embraced the midday nap as not only a viable option, but as one that should probably be implemented into adult life as well.

I'm not breaking any new ground here - people love to sleep. College students in particular love to do it, especially during the day. The more class time and daylight that you can siphon away while catching some Z's, the better. Sleep at night - who does that? What are you, a mature adult? Get your head out of  your ass.

2) You will most likely be flirting with poverty most of the time. 

As always, this doesn't apply to everyone, but it does to a decent chunk of the college populace. There's a fairly thin line between being a complete deadbeat bum and being an average college student, and generally, you're going to spend your collegiate years playing jump rope with said line. It isn't your fault, really - dorms, drugs, and textbooks certainly aren't going to pay for themselves. You figure you can only hit up mom & dad for extra money SO many times, lest you undermine that impassioned "I'M AN ADULT" speech that you gave as they dropped you off at school. Adding the interpretive dance number to Destiny's Child's "Independent Woman" was probably a bit much, though.

But alas, given the certain shortage of on-campus/in-city job options, you will need to generate some revenue in some way. This could lead to any number of non-traditional moneymaking ventures. Is stripping viable, you ask? There's nothing wrong with that, and one should never joke about the sublime art of burlesque dancing. If that doesn't tickle your fancy, you can sell a kidney. You can only do that once or twice at the most, so make sure to ratchet up the price to something reasonable - anywhere between 10 and 10,000 doll hairs should be fine. Finally, most cities also have blood/plasma/sperm banks that pay you to donate these commodities. I myself have been a donor of plasma for most of my college career, and yes, you will run into the sketchiest people on earth there. But I'm here to tell you that if you're going to put yourself at risk of the HIV and skepticism of people you do and don't know, then you might as well get paid for it; homosexual intercourse is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO 20th century. 

However you decide to supplement that income, it doesn't necessarily mean you'll avoid this next thing...


3) Your meal standards - and consequently, your weight - will change drastically on a regular basis. 
Common staples of a college diet include Ramen noodles, Easy Mac, crappy beer like Natty Light and whatever passes for "food" at the dining halls. You'll find that childhood favorites such as lunchables, Capri Suns, and Little Debbie snack cakes will come back into your life with a vengeance, only you'll be eating them as a meal, and unfortunately, without even a hint of irony.

But even then, I get it, folks - Lunchables can be quite expensive. Nowadays, a guy isn't getting the goods from his female friend on a date if he treats her to a REGULAR Lunchable - it has to be one that involves a food that replicates an actual meal course or requires heating. That "cold cuts on crackers" shit is dead. You have to pay the cost to be the boss; that means No Pizza, No Poon.

Either way, you are likely to see both a huge gain and then subsequent dropoff in poundage. The so-called "Freshman 15" will hit you HARD when you have access to on-campus dining halls, but when you eventually move into off-campus facilities, you'll gradually talk yourself into a mindset that one meal a day is really best anyways because you'll never be up early enough for breakfast, you may or may not be able to catch lunch if you can get your soup through an IV, and you can go out partying late into the night, which will lead you to having either beer or sleep for dinner.

4) There will never be a better time to experiment with and cultivate your religious, ethnic, and sexual identity.
If you grew up Catholic or Methodist, you won't be faulted by your peers if you want to take a dip into the Hare Krishna pool, though you should take last week's yarmulke off first - it'll clash with your robe. Are you a previously preppy Caucasian girl who has always wondered what it was like to date a black guy? Date a white guy that dresses and talks like a black guy. This way, you can still defy daddy without finding out whether or not real black guys' skin is so much darker because they accumulate dirt faster, as you suspected.

Girls, if you have ever been at least a little bit curious about what it's like to kiss another girl, college is the time to give it a shot once or eighty times. At the very least, guys are going to keep you around because they know you're down for a little girl-on-girl action. Guys, it's a much stickier situation in terms of sexual experimentation, but remember this: it's only gay if you are. Or if you get caught. Not that anything's wrong with that.

However, at the end of college, you want to be somewhat close to a finished product and ideally, the answer you're looking for is "Disarmingly handsome and charming, heterosexual Protestant African-American male." Or so I'm told...

5) Professors generally give less than a damn about you personally. 
Don't be fooled by the first day hijinks and contrivances - most professors don't care too much one way or the other how you do in their classes, despite their best efforts to pretend otherwise during that first week. That detailed syllabus is definitely for appearances, but it's also to absolve them of any blame when you inevitably miss that paper or exam.

This applies especially to large lecture classes. They aren't going to bother to learn everyone's name, so if you're not one of the handful of students that were clearly planted in the crowd to keep discussions going with inane questions and comments ("Well professor, I think the documentation of the document was very well, ummmm, documented..."), then you are still mostly a nobody. Much like a snowflake, every one of us is unique in some way, but at the end of the day, we're just apart of an increasingly-homogenized conglomeration of organisms that look the same to the untrained eye.

6) Your stable of friends will be fluid. 

What I mean by this is that you should expect a certain amount of fluctuation and change amongst the people you're going to consider to be your best set of friends. If you're from the state in which you're going to school, chances are that many of your high school constituents will be going there as well. Yeah, you probably shouldn't expect to see much of them once you hit college; too much opportunity to diversify there. In high school, you more or less forge an identity as a part of a specific group - jocks, geek fanboys, theater nerds, blackities, uggos - but college is much too big to have such well-defined cliques. As a result, your freshman-year friends and your senior-year friends are likely to be two separate groups of people, give or take a holdover or two. You're not going to spend all of your time with the same people for 4 years; that's just the way it is. The key is to get members of each group of friends to do incredibly stupid and/or ridiculous stuff that you can take pictures of and lord over them for the rest of their lives. Your previous suitemate got married and didn't invite you? That's cool, crash the reception with a picture of him going through that phase where he only slept in banana hammocks. Your former best friend have a job interview coming up? Fudge their resume with a blurb about their proud participation on the school's national championship-winning Dominatrix team.

*******

These are just a few things that I've picked up over my longer-than-usual college experience. There is a plethora of college-related learning to be had out there, all you have to do is look alive, detectives. Until next time, this is Sir Marcus signing off...

Y'all take care and stay classy out there. 

Return of the Black

I changed it to "Mack" in the early 90's to avoid controversy.

What's REALLY good, blogosphere? Sir Marcus T. Williams here again, but you already knew that.

I know, I know - it's been awhile since we've spoken. I always say that I'm going to update this thing more often. I'll be pretty good about it for a month or two, and then I somehow always fall out of updating it regularly, which in turn always prompts me to promise updating it more regularly all over again. It's a vicious cycle, I do declare.

So what have I been up to these past 2 months, you ask? well, here's a quick recap:

- **SIGH** I'm now on my fifth go-around at MU's bookstore. Sympathy cards and well wishes can be sent to my parents home in North Carolina, they'll make sure I get them.

- One thing I HAVEN'T been doing? Hearing from HM. You think you know a person...

One of us went in blackface for our last night out.

- Last month marked the official end of an era here at the Zou for the Triumvirate. In fact, if you include our on again/off again 4th member, it was the end of an era for the Quad-ricep that was comprised of me, Gossip Girl, Scotty2Hotty, and Bo Peep. Granted, it looks as if Gossip Girl will be around for awhile just like me, but Bo Peep and Scotty2Hotty have graduated and officially moved out of Columbia. For as much time as you think you have to live the college life, the actual brevity of that window of time is incredibly disarming, something that will absolutely pass you by as quickly as it snuck up on you when you were a teenager. The next thing you know, you and/or many of your dearest friends are moving onto big boy and big girl jobs, and you find yourself fondly reminiscing the days when you were eating in the campus dining halls, wishing for the world that you could go back and have those times again. Having spent a good amount of my college social life around these 3 fantastic friends, there's not a single day that goes by or will come when I won't think about the great times we've had. I like to think that I'm good with words to an extent, but even I can't think of a way to sufficiently verbalize how much I'm going to miss these people. It's been an absolute privilege to get to know them; we should all be so lucky.

It's okay to want a piece, Spanish Beyonce.

- On a much less gushy note, a few nights ago, I went with my friend AnnHog to watch her get a new tattoo. I've always quietly been interested in tattoo culture, so it was high time that I got to see it up close and personal. During a class trip to Spain back in high school, I briefly dabbled in the life of a tatted-up studmuffin, taking two bicep tattoos for a proverbial test drive. Upon returning to the states, my mom was less than thrilled with the perceived life decisions that I had made, so while those 2 weeks were a fun ride, the message was clear: don't bring that weak shit in her house anymore. That being said, I'm still interested in them. I think I wanna get one eventually, but I've never found myself with enough disposable income or in close enough proximity to a parlor to be like "today feels like a tattoo kind of day." So for the time being, watching someone else do it had to fill that void for me. Whenever I do get inked up, I'll probably go the cliche' route - either a cross/scripture on my bicep or a heart on my vajayjay. Stay tuned for further developments.

- Speaking of AnnHog, she and I recently had the privilege of attending a roller derby match here in Columbia. I've mentioned in this space before that I've always had a small interest in the sport, so when I was invited to go see it in person a few weeks ago, I couldn't say yes quickly enough. Much like my fascination with tattoos, roller derby was something that wasn't immediately accessible to me, so when the offer arose, I had to calculate my odds of having another opportunity come around soon and go for it.  Anyone who knows anything about ANYTHING knows that there are three main positions in roller-derby: the people in the middle of the pack are generally "blockers," the faster ones who circle in and around the pack are called "jammers," and the people in the stands are generally called "white-trash" and/or "Uh-Oh Oreos."(<------ "Uh-Oh Oreos" is also commonly spelled "Sir Marcus T. Williams.")

While there, AnnHog and I gave serious thought to me joining a roller derby squad. We conceded that were I to become a roller derby skater, I'd probably be a jammer. After spending the majority of the match racking my brain trying to come up with a killer potential name, it finally hit me: I would like to be called "Slow Jams." It acknowledges my open affinity for R&B music and it's ironic because ideally, a team wants its jammers to be fast. That's right, blogomaniacs - bask in the brilliant ambiance of my double entendre...

- Lately, it seems that everywhere I go, there are black people around me who are utterly determined to be fomenters of black stereotypes, essentially undoing the tireless amount of good will and trend-bucking that I do. Generally, it's in the form of a couple of black people being loud and obnoxious in a conversation between themselves. Sometimes, it's just their possessions that do the perpetration for them. Now, I certainly understand the need to rap every word of a song that you like, but your phone doesn't need the whole song as a ringtone. If you are in public, take the ring off of "Eardrum Shatter" mode and put your phone on vibrate like the rest of us - we're trying to have a decent society here, people. The most upsetting thing, though? Seeing other black folks eating fried chicken. Ugh, it's just like the encyclopedia says! This, my negro amigos, is why we can't have nice things.

On an unrelated note, I made some delicious fried chicken last night. But it was okay because no one else was here to see me eat it, and we all know that accusations only apply when there's a witness - or have you all never beaten a murder rap before?

- If you run into Jorge Pedro out in the streets, just say "areolas" and watch her face light up like a Christmas tree. WHAT. A. PERVE.

Come on, Pat Riley - you look ridiculous. 

- Last month, my beloved Miami Heatles fell victim to the blitzkrieg of a Dirk Nowitzki-led Dallas Mavericks in the NBA Finals, ceding the championship to them in 6 games. I will always maintain that Miami was the best team for the first 4 games, but unfortunately, 2 of those games included embarrassing 4th quarter execution that ultimately cost them the win. I'm not bitter though - Dallas absolutely deserved to win and Miami didn't, and I felt all along that if Dallas won, it would be karmic retribution of the 2006 Finals, when these teams also played for the title and Miami may or may not have gotten a little help from the referees. The weight of the self-imposed expectations and media attention eventually caught up to my Heatles, and in the end, though I'll always believe they SHOULD HAVE won, they didn't deserve to.

- Y'all remember that bike that I got for Christmas? About a month ago, I took her out for a ride on the town for the first time since purchasing it. It was an admittedly weird sensation at first, but you can't really forget how to bike. My apartment is situated at the bottom of a series of hills, so while the trek to campus was an arduous one, it allowed me to take solace in the fact that I would return coming downhill, which would save me quite a bit of work. Unfortunately, I had not calculated doing so while simultaneously being an idiot. Having not been on a bike in awhile, I didn't contemplate the nuances of maneuvering it while flying downhill at speeds excessing complete stagnation, and I soon had to begin planning how I was going to explain my last day of biking. As I swiftly approached the field that was about to make me its lady of the evening, all I could hope was that it would use vaseline. In an ill-fated move that was meant to salvage the situation, I tried to hop the bike over the curb and keep riding. But, much like the rest of my endeavors, said move was half-assed, and I crashed anyways. You can't fail that hard without actually BEING the Titanic. Luckily, I don't believe anyone who lives here saw me. Unfortunately, God certainly did, and I can only assume that the thunderstorm that soon followed was the sound of Him laughing at me. I can't say how long before I'll get back on the bike, but I can say that things will be awkward between me and that field for a very long time...

Anyways, this seems like a good place to wrap it up. It was good catching up, folks - let's not wait so long before we get together again. Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams, signing off....

Yall take care, and stay classy out there.

The Essence of Awkward

What what (in the butt) it do, blogosphere? Sir Marcus back here, and ohhhhhhhhhhhh boy are you in for a treat. Y'all don't even know. 

For at least as long as I have been in college, I have harbored an obsession - or should I say a "healthy fascination" - with the awkward. When I say that, I mean that I find awkward people and awkward situations especially humorous and captivating. I suppose I'm not breaking new ground by stating that I find awkward situations funny, but even so, I can't get enough of them - provided they don't involve me. 

Hate when this happens...

So as I was lazily perusing the interwebs today, I came across quite a few websites and articles detailing the various awkward situations that tend to arise everyday, the most germane of which being this one or  perhaps this one.That got me to thinking - there are probably far more awkward situations that don't get quite as much pub, but are no less common. Try as I might, even someone as awesome as I am is susceptible to finding himself engrossed in an awkward encounter from time to time, here are the ones most likely to happen to me or those I know:

1) That situation involving having to speak to a friend who is with a stranger. 

- This happens to me all the time. One advantage of being in college for half a decade is that it gives you plenty of time and opportunity to make new friends that you will stumble into on a regular basis. The disadvantage is that you often have to talk to these people in public. As fate would have it, you're most likely to run into this person when they are with someone that you don't know. For some, this is not an issue. For others, it is pregnant with potential for awkwardness. If you're like me, you're not socially inept enough to want to avoid speaking to people in public at all costs, but generally, the presence of that stranger is enough to throw you off your game a little bit. Consequently, you find yourself bumbling through awkward chit chat that feels forced from the jump. It often begins with you asking some benign question that you want to be a comment on something obvious - not so obvious that it doesn't even merit mentioning, but obvious and relatable enough so as not to alienate the stranger. Of course, rarely does it work out this way, and you most often end up making some completely inane remark, a conversational FAIL the likes of which haven't been seen since that first slave owner let an n-bomb slip the morning that he freed his slaves. "Oh hey, so what are you gals up to? You're writing with pencils? Nice, I had.... a.... pencil once" does not (unless you're intentionally being sarcastic - something that few can convincingly pull off) exactly make you come off as someone who is comfortable hatching conversations with people. Get your improv game up. 

2) That situation where you're the drunkest/highest/clumsiest person at the party. 

- Admittedly, I have no idea what this is like, and more often than not, it's most awkward for the people watching Mr. or Mrs. Drunkenstein, but awkward is awkward. Being a friend of the afflicted party is tough for awhile afterwards because you've often seen them in a different light or compromising positions. These cases lead to any number of unfortunate outcomes, such as:

     

Narcolepsy is a hell of a drug.

     *Dancing the night away at a family party and eventually throwing up all over your best friend. 

     *Waking up in the middle of your living room floor the morning after hosting a party. Your t-shirt and socks are still on, but your pants and underwear are M.I.A.

     *Making one swift, ill-timed dance move (again at a house party that you're hosting) and face-planting in the middle of your kitchen floor. But don't worry, the chipped tooth look is TOTALLY on the social upswing. 

     *Getting blackout drunk for the first time on a class trip to Europe and subsequently thinking that it's high time you took out your innermost frustrations on the door to your room. No, you're right - I definitely thought that if you built a full head of steam, you could take that sumbitch down. I mean, who expects an 8-foot tall, 4-inch thick wooden door to be anything but flimsy? Stupid European architecture...

3) That situation where you are again around strangers and have to pretend getting a call or text so as to avoid either making conversation or looking like a bewildered jackass. 

- We've all been here. I often find myself walking around campus or in a confined space with a stranger where I have absolutely no qualms with faking a call to avoid interaction. The walking one is simpler - you don't really have to speak to anyone but that also makes it trickier because you've realized that you have to turn around and go in the opposite direction and the people around are sure to see you do it. Without explaining to them what you're doing, you're going to look silly. And God forbid you do go outta your way to explain it - now you look both silly and self-important for explaining to a complete stranger something they give less than a damn about. What I do is always stop dead in my tracks, look around me for a few seconds as if the ghost who just called me may be close by, and then go back the way I came, faking exasperation and slight distress and muttering various things that sound like I'm confirming directions. Crisis averted.

The confined spaces one is probably far more common; so common in fact, that the other person is probably quietly upset or relieved that you whipped out the phone before they did. Of course, this is probably the oldest trick in the book, so they're also hating you because you're coming off as a snotty McAsshole who's too good to even stand their company for a small amount of time, no matter how brief.

4) That situation (FOR GUYS) where either the word "period" comes up in conversation, or worse yet - you are physically present to witness the purchase of tampons. 

- Okay, let me preface this section by saying I hate discussing bodily functions on any level with girls. I don't really ever think it's a proper conversational topic unless it absolutely can't be avoided, but those feelings are amplified tenfold when I'm conversing with girls. I can't imagine any guy is completely comfortable talking about periods, so gals, understand where a brother is coming from. It's just inherently awkward.

That being said, I'm willing to acknowledge that it happens. Much like the slaughtering of cows gives us the meat for burgers and their skin as leather for assless chaps, it's a necessary evil that, as long as you don't talk about it so much, we can live with turning a blind eye towards. But mention the word casually around some guys, and you'll see sphincters tighten up faster than Antoine Dodson's will loosen up in jail. 

That being said, sometimes we just don't see it coming. Nothing derails an innocent trip to Wal-Mart faster than spotting a rogue package of tampons in the cart. This is par for the course if you're with your girlfriend or wife, but if you're with a platonic, asexual friend, or worse yet - your mother - then you, poor sap, have been led astray somehow. You'll get temporary reprieve from the ordeal when you inevitably pass out from shock, but upon waking up from that blackout, the dirty truth will still be there, nestled ever-so-comfortably up against your box of Cap'n Crunch - what USED to be your favorite cereal. 

5) That situation where you have a friend that STILL regularly wears Ed Hardy. 

- Self ex-fucking-planatory. Get a new friend before the douchebarrel overfloweth onto you. 

6) That situation in which you're taking a picture with someone WAY cooler/hotter than you and you don't wanna touch them so you commit the cardinal picture sin: The HOVER HAND. 

Sweet glasses though, chief. 

- It's so tough meeting celebrities (or any strangers, for that matter) and being thrust into that surprisingly unnerving situation where you're about to be captured on film with them. You know - perhaps "hope" is a better word for it - that maybe, just maybe, this will raise your social profile and that people who see your facebook profile will see that you have met someone famous or that you don't just hang out with buffarillas. But when picture time comes, you're in a precarious position - do you just cozy on up to them  like you would any other friend, or do you feign contact by putting your arm around them, but not actually touching down on their body so as not to come off as too familiar? This quandary often leads to a mean case of the Hover Hand, which, ironically, often comes off as slightly creepier and more pathetic than if you had just gone for it - something you were trying to avoid, lest you seem creepy and yes, pathetic. 

This is a common affliction of the self-conscious, one I used to suffer from myself. But as I've grown and become more comfortable in my own skin, I've learned to shirk such trepidation and have realized that hey, she agreed to take the picture, so as long as you can subtly break the touch barrier without coming off like a pervert, then you might as well go for it. Don't treat her like a collector's item in its hermetically-sealed packaging -  MAN UP and make that picture worth your while, you pansy!

Anyways, today's offering was fun. I hope y'all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. There are no shortage of potential awkward pitfalls in everyday life, so if you think of some, let a brotha know. 

Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off...... Y'all stay classy out there.