90's Party

Yesterday, I questioned my decision to make a Nazi joke in my paper. Looks like I should have followed through on my doubts. Today, my paper from last week was returned and the professor didn't like it. The task was to be a critic of something, and being a smart ass, I chose to review a party from the perspective of a social critic. I used more alliteration than anyone ever in the history of literacy, and I still only got a "B." Oh well, I had fun writing it anyway, so I'm going to share it with you now:

90's Party: One Hell of a Time!

The 90’s were a time of teenage rebellion, decadence, and sex. An age of unapologetic hedonism. An era where just about any questionable action could be justified with the phrase, “Hey, it’s the 90’s.”

Leave it to Mead dormitory’s Involvement Tower to adequately bring Pitzer College back to everyone’s favorite decade! After a string of sub-par social events on campus this year, November 5th’s 90’s Party located upstairs in the Gold Student Center was the perfect occasion to redefine a party of both quality and substance.

Jenna Goldfein, the up-and-coming social planner, coordinated the party. She aptly achieved a simultaneous vibe of casual diversion and debauchery and quickly became the toast of the campus for her wildly successful celebration. No one enjoys a themed party more than myself, and the guests’ campy costumes added an aesthetically appealing element to a lively Saturday night.

Though the party’s ornamentation was on the trashy side, it did provide a solid example of how to decorate while on a budget. The computer-printed signs featuring text and endearingly grainy images served as excellent fodder for reminiscing, reminding us of Arsenio Hall, the attack on Nancy Kerrigan, and the phrase “All that and a bag of chips.” Additionally, the dozens of balloons strewn about the floor provided a welcome diversion during dance breaks, as well as the hilarious moment when Student Senate Vice President Alice Tavener screamed because of a self-professed fear of balloons.

At the snack table, a delicious cake with frosting as it is meant to be: sweet, not buttery. For those who haven’t exercised since the 90’s, an ample vegetable platter provided a delectably healthy option: this writer promised himself at least one carrot stick to every piece of cake! The sole dining drawback came from the traditionally salty option: too many chips and not enough dip! Fortunately, however, the spirits kept everyone spirited. Finally, someone didn’t skimp on the keg, with the beer featuring a rich, non-watery taste. In addition, the surprise appearance of three jugs of wine appeased the classier attendees such as myself.

Naturally, the music was the most crucial element of the evening, bringing us back to our favorite dance songs by Ace of Base, Right Said Fred, and Green Day. An overwhelming sense of “I can’t believe I used to listen to these songs” appealed to everyone’s guilty pleasure side; I even conjured up some ironic appreciation for Alanis Morissette. When Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” played, there was such merriment to be had in the mass moshing that I momentarily became unconscious of what it might do to my hair.

Moshing was hardly the only phenomenal dancing. The community’s dancing elite was out in full force, including Kat Conour with her mesmerizing hip swivels and fan-favorite Preston Johnson performing his patented elbow punching step. Claremont rugby star Alex Boskovich’s apparent lack of inhibitions, as exhibited through her wild movements earned her a Troll Doll as a prize, the perfect trendy gift to commemorate her unbridled 90’s beats.

As is the case at any hot event, the party read like a who’s-who of Pitzer’s campus. President of the Iranian Students Association, Raumene Rahatzad, performed his Michael Jackson dance impressions that were so spectacularly spot-on that had any children been present, they’d have been promptly removed for fear or molestation. Socialites Amelia Neptune and Daphne Churchill, a duo that always knows how to make an entrance, received rave reactions after putting their pants on backwards during Kris Kross’s “Jump.”

As usual, senior Ted Carmichael showed up absolutely trashed, causing a ruckus on the dance floor.

“I told him if he touches me again, I’m going to slap him,” complained Neptune, though the threat never came to fruition.

Fortunately, no one was about to let one sauced individual ruin the fun for everyone, and the dancing continued in spite of his presence.

Student body President Michael Pearson came wearing his trademark bandana and ripped pants, looking positively garage band grunge. His date, First Lady Jessica Davis donned a glittery red spandex suit that was so daring, so revealing, so inappropriate that it was exactly what the Spin Doctors ordered!

Of course, Davis’s outfit wasn’t the only thing that had people talking. Her provocative dancing with freshman debutante Amy Callahan added an appreciated amount of drama and scandal to the evening.

“We’re old friends, we go way back,” Davis commented when confronted with the rumor, only adding further fuel to the fire of quickly spreading gossip.

The party was so amazing that even the guests who left to attend Claremont McKenna’s over-hyped Black and White party returned rapidly to the 90’s shindig, undoubtedly recognizing it to be the night’s more colorful option.

At 1 AM, Mead Hall Director Chris Brunelle appeared to ensure the event would be ending as scheduled, eliciting a collective groan from the party-goers, including an especially loud one from moi, who thinks Mr. Brunelle should quit being such a stickler for rules and recognize that some parties, particularly those that involve going back in time, are meant to last all night!


A Trippy Trip

For my Creative Journalism class, I have to write a travel piece. This assignment poses a problem considering that I like to leave the house as little as possible. Oh how fun it would be to get so fat that I could only venture to the out of doors when the fine folks at Home Depot volunteered to lift me by crane. After briefly contemplating composing a piece about crippling agoraphobia, I decide it's best to do a serious topic, like a trip to the supermarket, or something significantly more serious than that even. San Francisco could work, but I know so little about the locale aside from that big orange bridge from the Full House intro. A description of my European vacation would be apt, had National Lampoon not already told my story. I suppose I could write about the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, Vermont since that's been an annual destination of mine for almost my entire life. As much as I want to just make a lot of Sound of Music jokes throughout the piece, I know I could approach it from a legitimately journalistic manner and then get a good grade. After behaving throughout the entirety of the four pages, I can't help but tack on the final sentence "Even the Nazis wish they had come."

Two questions:
1) Why do I always sabotage my own academic pursuits?
2) Why don't travel publications more regularly utilize Nazi jokes?

'Tever. You can hiss at me for my poor sense of humor, but if you do, I'll come after you! Oh, who am I kidding? I'm not about to leave the house.


Super Pop

Whenever I have a Blow Pop, I peel the wrapper from the top so that it is still attached just below the sucker and then spread it out so that it dangles like a cape. Then, if no one's looking, I fly it around like a super-hero. Sometimes I even eat it after I'm done playing.



Unwilling to take the flight back to the East Coast, I had a family-less Thanksgiving this year, opting instead to road-trip with friends to San Francisco to visit the hilarious Kurosh. It was great, but the whole time I kept comparing how my experience would be different if I were with my family. Together, the seven of us comprised a group of people who are not the most competent cooks. I had never peeled a potato before: I managed to not only cut myself, but stab Desiree in the process -- there were probably no knife wounds at my family's. None of us knew how to cook a turkey, so we tried the ol' guess and check method in the oven. Unsure of how to baste it properly, we dumped any available liquid on top to keep it moist. Furthermore, there was difficulty discerning the bird's head from its ass, leading to a genuine fear that we might have shoved the stuffing up the butt rather than the neck -- there were probably no anatomy errors at my family's.

Surprisingly, everything turned out fantastic: both the potatoes and the turkey were perhaps the best I've ever had. The dinner conversation consisted of Joan regaling us with stories including the time she got her first period and when her cousin once secretly traded her soiled panties with Joan's so that she wouldn't get in trouble. Now I can't be sure, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say those topics were probably not discussed at my family's.



In Celeste's high school psychology class, the teacher had the class do an exercise in imagination and the subconscious. The students were asked to picture themselves approaching a house and then describe it, as well as things they discovered inside. It sounds like fun except that Celeste missed the part in the prompt that said they were exploring their "dream house," instead believing she was inside of an abandoned house and writing her answers accordingly. So while others' houses were gigantic and beautiful, Celeste's was rotting. On top of the kitchen table, many found feasts and expensive electronics, while Celeste only saw cobwebs. Hence, when it came time to analyze everyone's answers, Celeste looked rather fucked up, which, I can assure you, is somewhat untrue.



Well, I feel better about my family.


I Just Called to Say I Lard You

A while ago, I found an abandoned sweatshirt that I've taken a liking to, so I wear it sometimes, particularly when it's cold. After hearing that it might belong to someone specifically, I did my best to conceal the fact that I was wearing it whenever I was around her. Finally, my secret was revealed, but fortunately, it turned out the sweatshirt did not belong to her. Shortly thereafter, I expressed relief to her that it was not hers, because if it had been, I would have had to tell her she looked fat in it so that she wouldn't want it anymore.

Apparently, some people found this comment offensive. But here's the thing: I would never make a "fat" reference to anyone I thought was actually fat in the slightest. So you see, essentially, if I'm calling someone fat, it should be taken as a compliment. Understanding this rationale, Tanya said, "You can call me fat anytime." Then I called her "lard" and we embraced. I'm such a charmer.


Hi, Dan

Everybody, please welcome Dan to this blog. After learning of Kevin Babbles existence and providing the requisite "You have a blog?" in both disbelief and disgust, Dan says that he reads blogs not to learn about other people, but to see what other people are saying about him, which he attributes to "egotism."

It occurs to me that this phenomenon is true of most of you reading these entries. You all come back from time to time to see if I'm talking about you. Under the guise of entertainment, I am reporting stories about friends, who then feel compelled to verify that I am not entirely discrediting their respective reputations.

With this concept in mind, I'm implementing a new strategy to boost ratings. At a higher rate of frequency, I will be badmouthing the people who play roles in my life. You'll just have to load this site regularly to make sure it's not you.

We'll start with our newest member, Dan. Dan sucks. Not only does he acknowledge he needs my blog to be about him for him to find it interesting, but he is the inspiration for the ridicule about you that is sure to follow. Remember, blame Dan. We all hate Dan.


Random Thought on Children's Literature

The Berenstein Bears... are they Jewish bears?

That would explain why Mama Bear would never let the kids eat candy, having to keep kosher and all.



On Monday, my Media Studies classmates brought wine again. Prior to going, I had committed myself to not drinking, because I didn't want to make imbibing a weekly habit. Figuring it wouldn't be best to demonstrate any alcoholic tendencies in front of my professor/thesis reader, I opted to slowly sip on one glass so as not to seem too anti-social. Midway through class, however, the professor, also participating in some wine tasting, expressed what a great idea it is to turn class into a "symposium-style" and that ey hopes this tradition will continue in future senior seminar classes. That, combined with the fact that I learned this class would be the last time we would meet together as a large group, was enough to sway me to "catch up" to the fellow lushes and enjoy class in an altered state. Returning home on my bicycle (which though illegal, is significantly less lethal than a car), I failed to notice until I was nearly back that I had accidentally turned the gears into the most difficult position, making my uphill ride a complete disaster.

Tonight, I went to an event where two professors screened and discussed some of their video projects. It was great and, you'll never believe it, also featured an immense amount of wine. The Media Studies department is facilitating a rapid descent from intellectualism to alcoholism. Who needs grad school when the Claremont Colleges are handing us the tools to move straight to tortured artist status?


A Fun Mental Image!

Mariah Carey pleasuring herself with a rusty nail.


Stop It, Bobbitt

After being unable to locate Tonya Hard-On, I decide to watch John Wayne Bobbitt: Uncut instead because Pitzer’s AV department owns a copy. I ask to watch the movie and there’s some snickering from the staff as they direct me to a private room in the back. Normally, students view movies in the front, in public view, but clearly I’m being labeled a pervert and must conceal my scholarly pursuit.

“If you don’t turn the volume too loud, you can leave the door open,” I’m told. As much as I don’t want to leave the door open, I definitely don’t want there to be speculation as to what I’m doing with the door shut, so open it stays. Before the feature presentation begins, the video contains sexually explicit advertisements with naked women bouncing.

“What are you watching?” I hear. I turn to see a professor standing behind me. I tell him that it’s for class, to which he responds with a look of disbelief. “What kind of class has you watch that?” Before I can explain, he’s asking several more questions, including “What do you hope to get out of this?” After informing him that I need to write a paper analyzing it, he asks what I’ll write about, to which I can only say, “I don’t know, I haven’t watched it yet.” Another professor joins him and asks questions of her own. Though they’re clearly judging my viewing habits, they’re also staring at the breasts on the screen.

“Sorry,” I say, shutting the door, effectively ending the conversation. Frankly, I’d rather have everyone think I’m masturbating.


Get a Room

In the corner of the dining hall, two people sit, paying more attention to each other than their food. Between each bite, they kiss. He won’t keep his hands off of her, stroking his arm up and down her leg. Together they share food off the same plate. She cuts his meat for him, which might seem unnecessary until you realize that his hands are otherwise occupied, nearing closer and closer to her crotch. Throughout it all, they never speak a word to each other: presumably, their lust is enough to sustain a quality relationship. Besides, why speak when they can rub their partner’s buttocks in public? Of course, my friends and I can’t stop staring. If they’re going to be so openly amorous, I think it’s only fair to make them the object of our ridicule.

When he gets up, a family with several young children sits at the adjacent table. Returning, the guy brings two slices of pie, having so chivalrously chosen the dessert for his beloved. They exchange bites of their pie via some intense mouth-to-mouth action, not of the CPR variety. She pats his back extensively, not of the Heimlich variety. Though it does seem like they should be choking, the way they’re gnawing on each other’s tongues. Now, even the children are watching. Stop it! Stop it!

“Are you watching that couple?” a stranger at the table next to mine asks.
“It’s pretty disgusting,” I acknowledge.

Evidently, the entire wing of the dining hall is mocking the spectacle. Amazingly, the couple remains oblivious to anything but one another, inappropriately touching for the remainder of the meal.

Get a room, and by that, I do not mean the cafeteria.


Shooting Stars

Wow, what an amazing night. In New England, it's not unusual to see a sky ripe with stars, but here in smog-central, it's difficult to even make out the moon some nights. Not tonight, however. Tonight, I see stars everywhere. Before entering the dorm, I stop and sit on the steps, deciding to take advantage of the rare view. As I marvel, I notice that one of the stars is moving. A shooting star! And look, that one is moving, too. And that one is blinking a red light! And that one... is most definitely an airplane. Come to think of it, they're all planes: the sky is littered with them. Initially, my instinct is to stand back up in disgust, but I choose to enjoy it instead. In LA, I suppose that's as close to a natural experience as I'll get.


Go Spread Your Seed Elsewhere

En route to school, I passed a student sunbathing alone in the middle of the rugby field. Bikini-clad, she had a shirt covering her head, so she couldn't see me. More importantly, she couldn't see the groundskeeper, only a few yards away, staring at her body intently. As I approached, the groundskeeper quickly ran to the closest bush as though he had been pruning all along.

My goodness, perverts sketch me the fuck out. From now on, I'm planning on peeing on every plant I see to make this guy's life more difficult.


Wine Whine

At senior seminar class on Monday, my classmates brought seven bottles of wine for about a dozen of us. As I understand it, it's a sophisticated ritual for mature adults to discuss intellectual matters over cocktails. For this reason, I agreed to partake, otherwise, I totally don't think it's appropriate for students to drink in class... or anywhere, really.

As time passes, one glass of wine turns into... oh, I don't know, but it might rhyme with my name, Kevin. I'm not classy, so I don't usually drink wine, so I was pleasantly surprised to find how, let's say "educated" I became toward the end of the class. Under some circumstances, this state might be wonderful; alas, I had to give a presentation worth 10% of my grade at the end of class. Truthfully, I can't recall what exactly I said, but it certainly all went downhill when, mid-presentation, I began choking on a freshly Foreman-grilled grilled cheese. How high society of me.


Tonya Hard-On

My Media & Sexuality class is slowly killing me. Earlier this week, I watched the infamous Deep Throat, the highest grossing pornographic film of all time. It’s about a woman who doesn’t receive pleasure from sex. After one last attempt wherein she has intercourse with no fewer than a dozen men, she decides it’s time to see a doctor. The quack diagnoses her as having her clitoris at the back of her throat, insisting that she will orgasm if she gives fellatio, which, of course, he promptly demonstrates. In the end, out of nowhere, she accepts a marriage proposal from a man who wants to rape her. Presumably, they live happily ever after. Meanwhile, I ran to watch The Amazing Race: Family Edition to cleanse my pallet.

For a paper for the aforementioned class, I’m looking to obtain a copy of the film Tonya Hard-On. Apparently, it’s an exciting romp featuring a threesome between actors portraying Tonya Harding, Nancy Kerrigan, and that guy that busted Nancy’s knee. (I suppose it’s likely that said knee-buster might be playing himself, considering he’s probably not up to much better, except for maybe a prison sentence.) In the flick, Nancy Kerrigan, not having enough attention paid to her, whines “Why not me?” or so I’ve read in the cleverly-titled article “Crackers and Whackers: the White-Trashing of Porn” in my Porn Studies text. Unfortunately, in my journey to two sex shops today, I found it at neither one. At one location, when I asked if they had “Tonya Hard-On” in stock, the two cashiers laughed at me. Excuse me? If I asked them for a DVD of a leprechaun mounting a pig, they would probably direct me to aisle five without passing any judgment, but when I request a little movie about consensual sex between rival figure skaters, I get laughed at. Fuck them! Actually, no, they’d probably enjoy it too much.



Well aren’t we a bunch of negative nancies? California voted no on all of the Propositions. Should minors have to get consent to have an abortion? No. Should teachers have to wait longer before getting tenure? No. Should we provide discounts for prescription drugs? No.

Here’s how the next election will go:

Proposition 81: Should we give all children access to a good education?

Proposition 82: Should we forbid people from shooting puppies in the head without a license?

Proposition 83: How about free candy for everyone?

Please, California. I want candy.


Look Ma, I'm on TV

My episode of The Price Is Right aired this morning. I was on screen frequently, looking rather bored. For a show so full of fanfare, it was one of the most lackluster, underwhelming experiences of my life. If you’ve taped the show, you can play Where’s Waldo and spot me picking my nose, doing a monkey dance, and making an evil face.

Still, the one to watch is Kim. Poor Kim: it was her birthday and she couldn’t be more miserable after standing in line since the night before. When the show first begins, you can spot her laughing, not out of enjoyment, but rather at the absurdity of the unfolding scene and the realizations that she waited thirteen hours for this. Later, when a contestant “coming on down” was wildly slapping high-fives, Kim recoils, clearly frightened by the flailing arms.

Since I wore a gaudy shirt announcing Kim’s birthday to the show, I decided to wear it again today, knowing that Kim would want it that way. Actually, she’d absolutely hate that I wore it again, which is a more accurate reason for me wearing it. I wore the shirt to: the 99 Cent store whereupon a kid gave me a funny face, class whereupon I was asked who Kim was, the voting location whereupon they knew I was named Kevin without showing my ID, and the cafeteria whereupon I met some television groupies who wanted me to pose for a picture and explain how great Bob Barker is, neither of which I did. Later when I noticed an email had been sent to the entire school advertising a Price Is Right trip later this week, I immediately removed the shirt, not wanting to condone such an action. It’s worse than pooping your pants.


I'm Better Than You

Flipping through an old celebrity magazine, I learned that Paris Hilton stole Mary Kate Olsen's boyfriend shortly after splitting with her fiance. Intriguingly, the fiance and the boyfriend are both Greek shipping heirs. Is this a fad I'm missing out on? Are Greek shipping heirs the new Kabbalah? Furthermore, what exactly are Greeks shipping that's making them fortunes? The only Greek export I'm aware of is John Stamos, which is most definitely a Freudian explanation for how Mary Kate wound up with one in the first place.

From another source, I learned that Paris Hilton's boyfriend (which I'm guessing is neither of the Greek shipping heirs because the stories were dated a month apart and we all know the only things Paris commits to are frequent yeast infections, unless of course it's a new Greek shipping heir entirely given how desirable they seem to be) paid a homeless person $100 to pour a soda on his own head. It's quite disgusting that anyone would flaunt eir wealth for a laugh of that sort, but what would one expect from someone who dates Paris Hilton? It's all quite despicable.

Tonight, I shared a late-night snack at The Hat. The Hat offers "world famous" pastrami; I had a cheeseburger. Short on change, Mike asked if he could have three cents. Grabbing the money out of my wallet, I accidentally dropped the first penny on the ground. After he bent down to pick it up, a mean streak came over me and I threw the others at his feet as well, forcing him to take my charity in a manner like the bum he is. And you know what? It was fun. Maybe I have it in me to date Paris Hilton after all. Plus, I once transported the film My Big Fat Greek Wedding to and from the video store, which practically makes me a Greek shipping heir in my own right.


I Don't Endorse Endorsements

Call me old fashioned, but I take my voting privileges seriously. This Tuesday, California has its special election, and I've been reading up on all of the propositions. While most people seem to trust the recommendations of their affiliated , I like to reach my own conclusions on this type of thing.

Prop. 77 is about the exciting topic of redistricting. Someone came up with the ludicrous idea that we should let a trio of retired judges impartially determine districting lines instead of the politicians themselves. The commercials against this proposition feature three scowling old white men in black robes. These are the same actors that play the greedy insurance lawyers in the commercials that deliver the line "They hired Maloney and Maloney? We better settle this one." One of the main arguments against it is that the judges, since not directly elected, are not held accountable to the voters' scrutiny. Has anyone ever not voted for someone for something as unglamorous as redistricting? If anything, redistricting is manipulated in such a way to force people to vote for certain candidates. Propaganda is hilarious.

Since many seem to rely on what others tell them anyway, here are the Kevin Babbles official endorsements:
73: no
74: no
75: yes
76: no
77: yes
78: no
79: yes
80: yes

Keep in mind, I also endorse bestiality, so you should really make up your own mind.


I'll Be Coming on Down Soon

If you'll recall, I made a sad trip to The Price Is Right a while back. For those of you who have sat by the VCR ready to tape the event, your time is near... this Tuesday is the big morning!

To locate me, look just behind the (stage) right of contestant's row. After growing so disgruntled for the length of time they kept us in line, I decided to behave like a nut in front of the cameras, frequently picking my nose, beating my chest like some kind of gorilla, and shouting "Poooooop!" to the contestants as if it were the price of the bracelet on which they were bidding. If any of my theatrics make it on television, I'll finally attain the level of the excitement we as the studio audience were expected to express. Of course, I'd also settle for a nice shot of the petite old woman in pink behind me who was sagging in every area except for her breasts which were lifted so high she could have rested her chin on them. Those boobs were about as natural as Bob Barker's skin tone.

That's right, Bob Barker is gross and orange. Please do not be fooled by his charm, he is a creepy, sexist man. Half of the women in the studio audience were begging for the opportunity to give/get a kiss from him, as if it would cure leprosy or something. His "beauties" are totally the same women from the We Are 18 phone sex commercials; apparently, blonde and slutty-looking passes for beautiful these days. But what do you expect from a society that deems The Price Is Right a valid form of entertainment?



I have discovered the funniest site on the internet:
Bad Scrabble Hands

It will have you laughing for hours.



Looking 'Tarded in 'Tards


A Fickle Exchange

Kevin: You're a very fickle person.
Mike: No I'm not!
Kevin: Sure you are, you're always talking one way about one thing at one time, and then a week later you're the other way on that same thing.
Mike: Oh. I kind of think being fickle isn't necessarily a bad thing.
Kevin: I didn't say that it was, just that you are.
Mike: Yeah, I am fickle.
Kevin: That didn't take a week.


Go Fete!

As a media studies major, I'm expected to attend the Media Studies Fall Fete. Fete? Why not just say party? I think it's just a way to make an often belittled discipline seem more scholarly; I'm also an English major, and I had to check the dictionary to verify that fete meant party. (It's important to confirm these kind of things, lest I show up at a Media Studies Barn Raising event - though I suppose that wouldn't be very likely considering the Amish's sole critique of films would be "the devil's work" or some other crazy quip from their button-less selves.)

En route to the fete, I encounter some douches from the football team. Sorry, I'm assuming and that's unfair of me: they might be douch-y sumo wrestlers instead. These gentlemen have acquired a frisbee and are heaving it at parked cars to amuse themselves. Why, I bet they haven't laughed so merrily since that night they poured acid on a stray cat. After needlessly dinging many a vehicle, they decide on a new target: me. "Hit that kid!" I hear, followed by Cro-Magnon laughter. Shortly, a frisbee whirs by, landing five yards ahead of me. (Judging from their aim, they most certainly are on the football team.) Quickly, I trot past the frisbee as the thugs shout to me. "Hey, a little help!" "Throw it back, dude." First they try to strike me with the frisbee and then they expect me to toss it back? That's less likely than them having gotten into college on academic merits. If I had any intention of returning the frisbee, it'd involve inserting it up their asses.