The Pope Party: Perhaps The Most Offensive Thing I've Ever Done

The departure of Pope Benedict XVI reminds me of one of the most offensive things I’ve ever done: throwing a giant Vatican-bashing bash on the day Pope John Paul II died.

To be fair, it wasn’t intentional. Well, not entirely intentional. Allow me to explain.

At my college, the Suites Around the World party was one of the most anticipated annual traditions. All of the recycling money collected from the student body’s empty cans and bottles (so obviously we’re talking serious $$$) gets redistributed to the students to buy more alcohol (in some sort of circle of life for alcoholics) for this international affair. About 10 suites in the dorm would volunteer to pick a country and serve customary booze and food. For example, Mexico would serve Tecate and tequila, Japan would serve Saki, and Germany would serve various German beers.

I should note that this is a progressive liberal arts school, so don’t equate it with those supposedly “cultural fraternity/sorority parties” that turn into black-face and offensive stereotypes that you read about in the news. Generally, the Asian exchange students would represent their home country, the Chicano students would host Mexico, and the white kids would do something boring like Australia or Ireland. Yes, the party was primarily an excuse to get drunk. I also won’t claim I “learned” much about the countries from these parties. And I won’t argue that nothing about the party was problematic, but I stress that it was about traveling to the different suites to taste the different spirits and foods, not put on costumes and do bad impressions.

My suite, however, did become super offensive… even though we were only trying to be semi-offensive. A month and a half before the party occurred we had to select a country, and we wanted to choose something funny. After searching a map, my suitemates Kurosh and Alice thought it would be amusing to pick Vatican City. It was approved by the school administration, and I was told by a friend on student council that the deans had chuckled at the idea.

A few weeks ahead of time, we received the recycling money and started preparing. We bought red wine for “Communion” and Sprite and vodka to mix as “Holy Water.” Our snacks were crackers, cookies, cheeses, breadcrumbs… anything that was small and round that could stand in as Communion wafers.

We made trips to the local Family Christian store and bought religious paraphernalia to hang on the walls. I printed out a poster-size photo of John Paul II. We dressed the mannequin up as a priest (though on his bottom half, he still wore a speedo – his signature attire). We put red curtains up over the shower stalls to turn them into confessionals. Alex rigged a sound system to play Gregorian chants in the bathroom. It was an amusing set up and we were psyched for the party.

A few days before the party, Alice announces, “Wait, did you guys hear that the Pope is sick?” There were questions about whether it was appropriate to have the party while he was seriously ill. But here’s something you have to remember about John Paul II: in his last several years, he was repeatedly “gravely” ill. I kind of figured they kept exaggerating that nonsense so it seemed miraculous each time he recovered. “He’s not going to die! He’s always supposed to die but he never does!” I argued. We continued putting the finishing touches on the party, all while keeping an eye on the news… just in case.

On the day of the party, the Pope did in fact die. As ironic as it was, the best we could muster was nervous laughter. We had been planning this party for six weeks, back when John Paul was still fine, but most people who attended wouldn’t realize that. There was a major crisis of conscience and we considered cancelling the party. Some tried to quickly formulate an alternative country for us to do. In the end, since everything was already decorated and purchased, we just decided to accept eternal damnation and move forward with the party. One friend wrote “In Loving Memory” over the Pope poster.

I know some people who boycotted our suite that night because they found it offensive. Others came in and toasted to the Pope. But, sadly, a lot of people who attended had no clue what was going on. College kids who live in a dorm aren’t necessarily aware of current events on a Saturday. I remember a conversation between two drunk girls who were holding on to each other for support: “Wait, didn’t the Pope die today?” “I don’t think so.” “Oh, okay.”

As if things weren’t disrespectful enough, by midnight things got pretty debaucherous. I can’t imagine the Pope would be too keen to see people grinding against each other as Missy Elliott played. The Communion wine was getting chugged. Some people (not me) started hooking up in the makeshift confessionals (okay, maybe me.) Even I had to do some Hail Marys when I spied someone do a line of cocaine to the echoes of the Gregorian chants.

Years later, I still think back and shake my head at the party that turned more tasteless than a Communion wafer. It’s the kind of party you would never get away with if you actually planned for it… so I appreciate the 11th hour Divine Intervention that helped turn our night into a tacky-fest. Y’all can judge us for going forward with the party anyway, but it’s not like we covered up chronic pedophilia, so let’s remember to keep the sinning in perspective, okay?

Magic-less Mike

My household hosted a Magic Mike party a few weeks ago, organized by my friend Alex. His plan was to invite over only women… and himself. He never ran the event by me, only my female roommates, but I got to attend anyway by virtue of living there. By the time the invitation spread, the male/female ratio was 50/50 anyway, so if Alex's plan was to get the ladies hot and bothered and to be the only male there once they were riled up, that got foiled.

It wound up being a wild night, which I guess I should have anticipated given that we were watching a stripper movie. Some people consumed a lot of Mike's Hard Lemonade (yeah, it's gross, but it's also super thematic) and two people ended up throwing up - one before the movie was even half over.

The event was extra special because I invited over a couple of friends who had actually worked on Magic Mike but hadn't seen it yet. They aren't really the Hollywood types, but in LA, it's how you get paid. They were able to annotate the experience with background information like that one extra kept doing a Catholic cross and praying between takes because she felt so sinful having to lust for half-naked men. Or that Matthew McConaughey (I'm not going to bother to look up how to spell that) wanted his character to have a photo of himself holding a snake in his home so they had to arrange a photo shoot with him and a snake. We clapped for them when their names appeared in the credits and when one even made a really quick cameo.

It was good that they were able to give commentary because otherwise the movie was pretty… boring. There really was no plot. It's not that I was expecting a good one, but having one in general would have been appropriate. All of the sudden the movie was over and I was shocked. How is that an ending? I realize the main point is for hot people to take off their clothes, but even Showgirls has a clear arc, dumb as it is.

All the same, the movie did put me in a stripping mood. I put on my tear-away pants that used to be basketball warmups and yanked them off dramatically in one quick move* to the delight of my friends. Then I put on roller-skates and circled around them in my briefs until I got too self-conscious. Although I spent half of college pants-less, I'm not really an exhibitionist anymore. However, sometimes you gotta ask yourself, What Would Channing Tatum Do?  

* The downfall of tear-away pants is you can whip them off effortlessly but then it takes about five minutes to snap them all back up again. This is why strippers might be the hardest working people in the world. 

Presidential Porn

After attending my Media & Sexuality class in college, I joined some friends for lunch at the dining hall and regaled them with a description of the strange lesbian porn that my professor had just seen fit to show to the class. While I was in the middle of detailing the strap-on scene, the president of the college walked up behind me. 

"Do you mind if I join you?" she asked. It was a rhetorical question because you don't say no when the president of the college wants to sit with you. Periodically, she would come to the dining hall to mingle with the students in the same manner that a politician stops at diners to show he can connect with the common folk. I don't know why she chose our table - probably because one of the students was a familiar face to her from student council - but of course she decided to come to interrupt our lesbian porn.

I don't think she overheard what I had been talking about, and, obviously, the conversation did not continue once she took a seat. You just don't talk about porn with the most authoritative, intimidating, and dignified person on campus. Instead, she asked us questions that your aunt who you only see once a year would ask, like, "What are you studying?" "How are you liking school?" and we gave very G-rated responses.

In hindsight, I should have just continued with the lesbian porn story, or, failing that, told her more specifically what I was studying when the question arose. If she had had a problem with the topic of conversation, her problem really shouldn't have been with me, right? I mean, if she's the president of an offbeat liberal arts college, she should know what kind of taboo things are going on in the classrooms. When I'm paying hundreds of dollars for a class and we're watching something I could see on Skinemax for a few bucks, that's something the president needs to know about… in full strap-on detail. 

Surprise, You're Gay Married!

You know how people defend marriage equality by saying "If you don't like gay marriage, don't get gay married?" Well, I am a homophobe's worst nightmare because I won't give you a say in the matter. In fact, I have been known to gay marry people without their knowledge.

Little known fact about me: I am an ordained minister. It was a long, grueling, ordeal - or maybe just a five minute process on the internet - for me to become a minister of the Universal Life Church. In doing so, I joined the esteemed ranks of Conan O'Brien, Tony Danza, Tori Spelling, Courtney Love, and Hugh Hefner. With a click of the mouse, I am now able to marry you… although I wouldn't be insulted if you went with Tony Danza as your officiator instead.

The problem was, as a freshman in college, I didn't know anyone looking to get married. After having my certification for a while, I got antsy and wanted to put it to use… with or without a couple's permission.

That's when I found two of my female friends lying down in a dorm hallway together, half asleep. I don't know that they were quite "cuddling", but their bodies were touching somewhat, so it looked close enough to love for me.

If I had asked them whether they wanted to be married, there is a strong chance they would have declined, so I just began the ceremony without first informing them. So as not to arouse suspicion, I resorted to mutters and whispers. Unsure of what I was doing, the girls asked, "What are you saying? Can you hear what he's saying? What are you doing?"

Finally I got to the point of the ceremony where they needed to accept each other. For the more artistically inclined girl, I drew a pictogram of an eyeball and blade of grass with an arrow pointing to condensation on the top of it. "What is this?" I asked her. "Eye… eye dew?" she guessed. Then I asked the other girl, the bigger pop culture buff, to remind me the name of that Lisa Loeb song. "Stay?" she guessed. "No, the other one," I said. "I Do?"

And with that, my muttering turned to a loud voice: "I now pronounce you wife and wife!"

There were objections, primarily from the brides themselves, but I explained that it was too late. Though they never signed any legal documents to make it official official, they were now linked in holy lesbian matrimony in the eyes of the Universal Life Church and - by association, I suppose - Tori Spelling.

The legal documents are irrelevant anyway. The law can't tell you who to love. Heck, sometimes even you can't tell you who to love, and I have to decide for you. That's just part of the divine wisdom I received when obtaining my internet certification.

Ten years later, one of those girls is about to get married again… to a man, unfortunately. Talk about a quitter! And a bigamist. Perhaps if same-sex marriage were more accepted, she'd be merrily celebrating her 10th anniversary instead. Courtney Love is not going to like this outcome.

So beware, supporters of "traditional" marriage. You never know when someone might come up behind you and gay marry you without your consent. That's right, gay marriage is coming for you next! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

To Tell the Truth

Mike Daisey is in hot water today following reports that he fabricated details in his This American Life report on the working conditions in Apple factories abroad. Take into account the Kony profiteer getting busted for masturbating publicly, and it’s a bad day for fraudulent activists.

I’ve known of Daisey for five years now thanks to another publicized controversy with which he was involved. While Daisey performed a one-man show, 87 audience members got up and walked out of his show due to the “offensive” content, with one man stopping to dump a bottle of water on Daisey’s script. (See the video above.)

These 87 audience members were students and staff on a school trip from a public high school in a conservative area of Southern California. It’s worth mentioning that I was a teacher at a public high school in a conservative area of Southern California five years ago. I don’t like giving too many professional details on my blog, but it’s also worth mentioning that I am very, very familiar with these students and staff members. You can draw your own conclusions!

In their departure from the theater, one of the school authorities identified themselves as a “Christian group”, which is neither an appropriate nor legal label for a public school. That may have been the community’s general attitude, but not all of the students were Christians, like it or not. And objecting to the language used? Kids at that school hear the word “fuck” from their peers at least a dozen times a day – that’s not even a detention-worthy offense. Furthermore, the sexual content may not be in line with the school’s abstinence-only policy, but I think the number of pregnant students showed how well that was working.

To be clear, Daisey was not the controversial part of this incident. That can be chalked up to my dear acquaintances who proved that their “moral outrage” was entirely hypocritical by not only disrupting the show, but trying to destroy it on their way out. How Christianly.

This story was just one of many I included in my award-winning Masters thesis about why I didn’t want to be a teacher anymore. It really did win an award. I think the Education professors thought they were being progressive by recognizing a thesis that poo-pooed on their profession, but the plaque I received fell apart within an hour of them giving it to me if that tells you anything. My advisor even encouraged me to publish it, but I couldn’t do that, mainly because I had fabricated an interview with a student’s parent. I couldn’t get the parent to talk to me, my university told me it was a graduation requirement and to find a way to make it happen, so boom, I added some sentences and pretended I met with a parent I never met with.

I don’t feel that bad about lying in this instance because I was put into a corner, but I also wouldn’t have that work disseminated to the public knowing that it contained a lie. Never mind that it contained a lot of truths that I think would be valuable for those in the education profession to consider – by including a lie that could be uncovered, it discredits the whole piece.

And that’s where Daisey went wrong. His intentions were probably good, and his Apple factory piece is still probably mostly true, but no one can trust it anymore, thus undoing any of the good it did. We all have that friend who is a chronic exaggerator whose stories we can’t even take seriously anymore. We all have moments where we find ourselves so caught up in the story that we’re telling that we start adding hyperbole without even realizing it. But we shouldn’t let exaggeration get in the way of something when the honest-to-gosh facts can do the job alone.

If you look at how Daisey captions the earlier YouTube video, he says that the Christian group “physically attack” his work. He’s overstating what actually happened, even though the video speaks for itself. I suppose we should have seen this exaggeration coming.

Deliciously Evil

"She would offer me her old clothes because they were 'too big' for her but might still fit me. Oh, and she would ask mutual friends to hypothetically state who'd they rather eat if we were stranded on a deserted island to trick people into saying I had more meat on my body than her."

- My friend describing her freshman roommate with a "competitive eating disorder"

What Grown-Ass Women Do

My college's snack shop stocked a small selection of movies available for loan. One momentous day, someone introduced a couple of porn DVDs to the collection, which sent my dorm-mates in a tizzy. Everyone wanted to see the porn, but no one wanted to actually check it out. Watching a bunch of college students get nervous at the thought of renting porn, our then acquaintance Joan told us we were all ridiculous and left. Five minutes later, she returned with one of the porn films. "You weren't too embarrassed to do that?" we asked. "I'm a grown-ass woman, and I can get porn if I want," Joan said.

We put the DVD on in my room and about a dozen people awkwardly watched and tried to cut the weirdness with humorous observations. Joan tried to enjoy it at surface level despite our interruptions, but ultimately dismissed it entirely. "It's not hot! It's porn, it should turn me on. This isn't hot! I'm taking it back!" She promptly returned the movie and told the snack shop employee what she didn't like about it, as if the guy were the director or something. Needless to say, Joan soon went from an acquaintance to a friend.

A year later, we went to a record expo together where various vendors were selling music and movies. After separating from me briefly, Joan returned with an armful of porn flicks. "Where'd you get all that?" I asked. "That guy sold it all to me for just $10," Joan said. Feeling uncomfortable looking at what "interested" her, I again turned to humor to cover up my embarrassment. "That's a lot of fuck for your buck!" I exclaimed. 100% earnestly, Joan then gave me a disgusted look and said, "You have a crass mouth." Granted, she had an image of a woman gnawing on a penis in her hand, but it was my mouth that was crass. We all have lines we don't like having crossed, and I love how unpredictable Joan's lines are.

How R. Kelly Helped Me Earn My Masters Degree

My last assignment in grad school was for my Race & Education class. The professor wanted us all to present on the history of American schools for our own ethnicity. While there were plenty of White, Asian, and Latino students, for the first time in all the years my African American professor taught the class, there were no black students, so he asked for volunteers to be in the black group. My hand shot up (because what did I care which group I presented on?), and then the professor actually thanked the people who didn't try to switch groups and took pride in their own culture. Here I was trying to help the professor out, and then he kind of implies I'm a race traitor. Awesome, whatever.

Things got worse when he said that each group would be expected to creatively incorporate their ethnicity's heritage into the presentation. While my group was diverse racially, none of us were black, and each idea we brainstormed to make our presentation seem "more African American" had potential to be taken offensively. I felt like we were being set up to fail or get picketed by the NAACP.

Finally, I quit trying. I was already checked out and ready to graduate, so if the professor wanted me to do something I found objectionable, I would make an even bigger mockery of the assignment on my own terms. No, that didn't mean blackface, but it did mean incorporating a famous black figure who I doubt most African Americans would choose as representative of their culture: R. Kelly.

My thought was that I could rap my presentation in honor of the hip hop roots of African Americans, except that I can't really rap, so that's why I switched over to R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet" as it gave me license to ramble, use half rhymes, and cram as many words as I wanted to into one line without worrying much about the beat. I downloaded an instrumental version of the song and sang my way through one hell of a presentation:

The first crusade for black education in the south took place during and after the Civil War
While the second crusade occurred from 1910 to the 1930s

The second crusade was really quite chillin'
It finally created schools just for the black children

Before it could get off the ground and really make a splash
To make segregated schools, they were gonna need some cash

So they got do-na-tions
From private foun-da-tions
And many black citizens
Provided the benjamins

Now here's a question that i know you're gonna ax
These black people still had to pay their normal tax

Meaning they paid for the white schools
As well as the black schools
That's right, it's quite whack fools
But those were the quack rules

In fact the government kept raising the tax amount
But it went mostly to the white kids, they wouldn't help a brother out

Ultimately black citizens owned 44% of their own schools
Since the U.S. wasn't helping, they had to provide their own tools

And so this creation
After much dedication
Spawned a sensation
A cause for celebration
And even elation
For the black population
Of that generation
Fine-ly a formation
Of a good education
But there was some frustration
Because there's still segregation
And the U.S's discrimination
Offering little affiliation
'Til the blacks found motivation
The 50s led to a termination
Of the unfair situation
And allowed integration
And equal edu-ca-tion-ca-tion-ca-tion-ca-tion...

While I don't think I was any more "black" while giving the presentation, I definitely wasn't white: I blushed my whole way through the song. I wanted to stop to pinch myself and ask, "Are you really singing 'Trapped in the Closet' for your final major assignment before earning a Masters Degree? Is this what educated people [of any race] actually do?" Instead, I kept my eyes on my paper so I wouldn't be deterred by any disapproving glares. But by the time I faded out with "ca-tion ca-tion ca-tion...", my professor gave me a standing ovation, saying he loved the song choice.

I don't know how many professors out there are R. Kelly fans, but I sure lucked out in that regard. My intention was to show my disdain for the assignment (as well as my senioritis), but then he declared it one of his favorite presentations ever and awarded me an A. So hooray! Thanks for being you, R. Kelly, and thanks for helping me to become a better, blacker, more educated me.

Have a Nice Life

Going to a college reunion doesn't just mean reuniting with your old friends, it also means reuniting with your old acquaintances. Katy found this out the hard way when she greeted "Marjorie". Except that Marjorie's name is actually Miri, and Miri told her as much, leaving a sensitive Katy to offer an apology.

The mistake is a little more embarrassing considering that we were all wearing name tags, but Katy is dyslexic, and after five years of not seeing someone, these kinds of things happen.

The thing you need to know about Katy is that she is the sweetest person you'll meet. If anything, she's friendly to a fault, so of course she felt bad about botching an old acquaintance's name, even if the circumstances made it understandable.

As the reunion was ending two days later, Katy ran into Miri again. Katy gave her a long embrace, told her how nice it was to see her again, and parted her with, "Have a nice... life."

You could tell that Katy was searching for the right final word. Saying "have a nice day" to someone you haven't seen in five years is kind of silly, but "have a nice life" is hardly appropriate either. It's a kiss-off. That's how it read to everyone nearby, who audibly gasped, as well as Miri, who threw up her hands and sarcastically thanked Katy.

Someone heckled "You're a cold bitch!" at Katy as she stuttered in her high-pitched voice that she didn't mean it like that. We had to assure her that it wasn't a big deal because for all we knew that would be the last time she'd see Miri.

Except that it wasn't. Though the reunion was over, people stayed in the general vicinity and not even an hour later, Katy stumbled upon Miri at a local farmers' market. "Didn't think you'd be seeing me again so soon, did you?" Miri told her.

When you tell someone to have a nice life, you better be pretty darned sure that you won't be seeing that person ever again.

Catch the Turtle!

While at our college reunion, a bunch of us wanted desperately to break into our old dorm building, which we were purposefully locked out of. I tried for fifteen minutes to find a way in, and then Phoebe, like a true badass, was just like "Let's just take off a window" and was inside in no time flat.

While inside, a bunch of us played Turtle, one of my favorite college games. One person puts a cardboard box over his head (like a shell) and then gets a fifteen second head start to sprint away (okay, that part's not turtle-like) from a mob of angry people. Finally, someone screams, "Catch the Turtle!" and everyone goes chasing after the Turtle (who can't exactly see with a box over his head) and tries to beat him to the ground.

We used to play this game a lot in the dorm halls, causing quite the ruckus. The Turtle must be destroyed. More than once I was legitimately injured, due to unknowingly running into a wall, being body checked into a wall, and being pushed down a flight of stairs. For real, Turtle is a game only for the brave and the stupid.

This game of Turtle that was captured on video isn't a typical one. Generally, when a turtle gets knocked down, he gets knocked down hard and stays down, but Ted was clearly a tenacious turtle. He also didn't get a fair head start. But it was great fun anyway. I miss doing dumb things with these dumb people on a daily basis.

Allison's Three Ingenious Plans to Obtain Alcohol

On the first night of my college reunion, everyone partied/drank to excess until unfathomable hours. By the second night, however, everyone was understandably exhausted, and headed to bed early. Well, everyone except for my friend circle. While we definitely didn't have the reputation of partiers in college, we pulled it together to be the last people standing.

At 2 AM, we were out of alcohol. It threatened to end our party, but Allison refused to give up. "I've got a plan!" Allison announced. "I know how we can get alcohol... I'm going to steal it."

I liked her plan, but then I asked her who she was going to steal from and how. It turned out that those details wound up being the difficult part of the plan. Finally, someone uncovered some forgotten alcohol and the party continued, without theft even!

Three hours, an Oasis sing-along, and plenty of pants-less dancing later, we found ourselves without alcohol again. As other people expressed an interest in going to bed, Allison proposed her second plan: "I got it! Let's go to a champagne brunch!"

It was another brilliant plan. Alas, it was 5 AM, and a champagne breakfast in the quaint town we were staying in was nothing but a dream. Unfortunately, her continued suggestion of finding one didn't make it any more of a reality.

By 5:30, Allison changed her tune with plan three: forget the champagne brunch, let's just buy some champagne. I asked her where we'd buy it, and Allison named the town's one liquor store. I pointed out the time, and she exasperatedly cried, "But the sun is coming up!" Yeah, liquor store owners! If the sun is starting to shine and you're not open yet, you're lazy!

Just before 6, everyone went to bed, except for Allison and Jef who were determined to obtain champagne one way or another. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but when I awoke a few hours later, I saw a large, half-consumed bottle of champagne sitting in the walkway, and I was proud.

Disregard that she was unable to function the next day. Allison proves that if you dream it and plan it, you can achieve it! A champagne toast to you, Allison!

Photo Booth

Whoops, another weekend went by without any blog posts. That’s mainly due to ”June 2011: Kill Your Liver” continuing. I spent the weekend at my 5 year college reunion, which was an absolute blast. I have anecdotes to share in the near future, but after four consecutive nights of minimal sleep, I have never felt more exhausted.

You know what looks dumb until you’re so slap happy that you get talked into it? Dress-up photo booths. But I really need to learn how to pose. I worked for America’s Next Top Model, for fuck’s sake, why have I still not learned to take a decent picture?

Finding a Lecture

A couple of weeks ago, I heard about a lecture that interested me occurring at a nearby college. I don't think it was open to the public, but it didn't say it wasn't open to the public, so I decided to crash it. I've always been pretty liberal with helping myself to a free education.

I had looked up the building on the map before hand so I wouldn't get lost, but I still got really lost. I found the building with a common name - let's say it was "Jackson" - and proceeded to look for room 200. I went around the whole building, and none of the rooms were numbered. I even wandered into the cafeteria where I wasn't supposed to be without an ID, so I apologized and scurried out. Finally, I asked someone where room 200 was, and she said she didn't think such a room existed in this building.

Ready to give up, I found that there was a second building called "Jackson" not too far away. I understand that colleges want to honor the donors who give them the money to erect these buildings, but you've got to diversify the names a little more. Already about 15 minutes late to the lecture, I ran up to the second floor.

And there was Classroom 200. Students were still milling about, so I was glad to see I hadn't missed anything. There was a giant submarine sandwich that had been sliced up, and someone handed me a piece on my way in the door. I took it and found a seat in the back. After a minute, a professor thanked everyone for attending the first of several final presentations for the senior seminar on Gender and Philosophy. While it sounded like an interesting topic, that definitely wasn't what I had showed up for. I was in some senior class at a small college where everyone probably knew each other.

So I had a decision to make: stay and watch this other class, or awkwardly sneak out. For a moment, I resigned myself to staying. I already had a sandwich in front of me and the first girl had already started her presentation. Unsure of how long I'd be trapped there, however, I decided to bolt, leaving behind the untouched sandwich behind. I received a lot of confused stares, but none of those people knew me, so whatever.

On my way to the building's exit, I encountered a different room marked Auditorium 200. Evidently - there are not only two buildings named Jackson, but in one of the Jackson buildings, there are two rooms numbered 200. For a college that prides itself on being smart, someone should really point out how dumb this setup is. Although more than 20 minutes late, I took a seat in the back and enjoyed my time now that I was in the right place.

I always miss being in college, but nothing has made me feel this pang quite as much as being on an actual campus. You get to learn new things, there's free food, and your friends are never more than four minutes away. I don't care whether this college I don't pay to attend sets up a whole labyrinth to deter me next time - I'm still going to come back.

Harold and Maude

I almost didn't enroll in my first college writing class out of intimidation. The other people I knew taking the class had more impressive credentials, and I worried that I had no business mixing with real writers. Fortunately, from the first day, my professor took a liking to me and my writing. She joked with me in class, complimented my work, and even used it as an exemplar for my peers. I came to find out that not only could I hold my own with these students, but that a few of my classmates talked a bigger game than they could write.

Meanwhile, a funny bond emerged between my professor and me. Despite the fact that she was pushing seventy and I was not yet twenty, we had a good rapport, which did not go unnoticed by my classmates. One of them likened my relationship with my professor to the title characters in Harold and Maude. Knowing that it was a classic movie that I should have been familiar with, I just nodded and accepted the comparison.

While at home for spring break, my friend and I perused movie rentals. Spotting Harold and Maude on the shelves, I told my friend about the comment my classmate made, and we agreed to watch it. Imagine my mortification when Harold and Maude quickly end up in bed together. My friend cracked up: "This is what you're like with your professor?!" Before seeing the film, I had envisioned some platonic bond that transcended generations, not a great-grand-MILF romance. Not only had I humiliated myself in front of my friend, I hadn't even attempted to dispute the charge coming from my classmate.

But no, I did not have a sexual relation with my professor. All groping occurred over-the-shirt. I kid... I totally second-based that! There wasn't much I wouldn't do for good critiques on my writing. You know what they say about grades... if you want to get a 95 on your essay, you gotta do a 95-year-old.

Cum Trees

Mother Nature has a dirty sense of humor. How do I know this? Look - or smell - no further than the Bradford Pear.

In college, we affectionately called Bradford Pears "cum trees." When they bloom in the spring, they emit the distinctive smell of semen. As if we didn't face enough of that odor in the dorms, it was always unpleasant to get a sudden whiff of that outside en route to class or the dining hall.

Since our arborist had a peculiar sense of humor (you learn these sort of things at a small college), I always figured that he planted the cum trees for kicks and that no one else would choose to plant these jizzy stink bombs.

My section of Los Angeles, however, is all about filling the air with ejaculate, apparently. The sidewalks of the main street are lined with Bradford Pears. From a visual perspective, I understand: when the trees bloom, they are beautiful to look at. But no flower is pretty enough to supersede the fact that the community now smells like a spent condom.

AAARRRANNGGE

RED ALERT! RED ALERT! The Homeland Security Advisory System is under attack!... by our own government? Looks like the Obama administration is getting rid of the color-coded terrorist warning system. Its termination is especially sad for me because, back at its inception, I was one of its biggest, most vocal proponents.

My advocacy started on a lark. My friend had bought some fabric to sew her own dress to wear to her West African Dance class and then wanted to find a use for the leftover scrap so that it wouldn't go to waste. After that last sentence, I suppose it goes without saying that I attended a hippy-dippy liberal arts college. To help her out, I agreed to find a use for the orange fabric; since at the time our government had us under an orange warning, I hung up the swatch to advise my peers accordingly.

Apparently, we've always been on heightened alert. Not once in the past ten years has the terror alert color dipped below yellow, meaning that not once has it been all right for you to feel safe. I did my best to contribute to the paranoia by sometimes taking the fabric off the wall and wrapping it around my head. From there, I'd run around the campus screaming "ORANGE!" Usually, I said it like I were a pirate, so it'd come out "ARRRRANNGE!" If anyone were to ask what I was up to, I'd inform them to be on the look out for terrorists - you know, characters even more suspicious than myself.

I could be really fucking weird back then. ("Back then?" calls the chorus. Shut up.) But at least I was contributing to a lot of people's safety... even if I had to literally freak them out to do so. I would totally make a great government employee.

Activism

"GIVE PEACE A CHANE"

- The large graffiti message Alice painted on a wall following a 2003 anti-war rally. She was pretty dejected when I pointed out that she left out a letter because, more than a mistake, it looked like a supportive reference to Dick Cheney, the biggest warmonger of them all.

Address Me Accordingly

I love when I get mail addressing me by both of my middle initials.

The only thing funnier than being known as Kevin "VD" Ma[redacted] is that Pitzer thinks I may be interested in giving a gift of $100 a month.

Danger! High Voltage

Electric Six - Danger! High Voltage (2003)

Though I've heard this song at many a party in my college days, I have never seen the music video until this week. Ohmguh, it just might be my favorite thing, perfectly capturing the 80s in sound and aesthetic. All at once, it is both the sexiest and unsexiest thing I have ever seen, from his cheesy 'stache to her oversized glasses and mouth. And when we reach the uncomfortably long makeout scene, part of me wants to vomit, while the other part of me is forced to acknowledge that if I had electric genitals, they'd be glowing right now.

Also, let's give credit where credit is due: Electric Six pulled off "I'm on a horse moose" years before Old Spice.

This song just catapulted from forgotten tune to lifelong jam.

Halloween in the Halls

In college, the single project I worked the hardest on wasn't even a school assignment, but a giant installation art piece.

Each year, kids who didn't have a safe place to trick-or-treat were invited to collect candy throughout the dorms, and residence halls were encouraged to compete to see who could decorate the best.

Since our hall was packed with artsy types, we decided to go for it and turn our hall into a giant monster. With no budget and little time, I thought this was an impossible feat. Fortunately, I've never seen a team synch up so well together, and we managed to collect nearly every material by dumpster diving.

The kids loved the experience of walking through a monster's body.
We even created had that thing that dangles from the throat.


The heart.


The ribs.


And the guts.


In a vast oversight, I failed to take a picture of the monster's butt that the kids had to spread the cheeks to escape from. If that doesn't sound juvenile enough, there were also a bubble machine and fart noises playing.

For our efforts, we actually won the contest and earned a $100 Root Beer Float Party. We never cashed in on this prize, however, preferring to attribute the money toward the fines we amassed by getting paint and trash everywhere. Regardlessly, it was easily one of the best college and Halloween memories I've ever had.