Zachary’s Ugandan Adventure Part 2
Damn. It must have been a least a lifetime or two since I last wrote! And I miss each and everyone of you about a hundred times more than when I last wrote! Except for the America/friend/family sickness that set in pretty heavily about a week and a half ago, I’ve had a pretty damn awesome time! My host family just gets cooler and cooler, work is ironing out and I’ve started my project, and I’ve gotten to do a fair amount of traveling. Maybe to keep this email to a bearable length, I will try to just tell you an anecdote or two about each.
Family!: I’m starting to become more of a family member and less of an honored guest with my family, and it’s incredibly relieving. I eat dinner with my family out in the kitchen. (The house is actually a set of four buildings that surround a dirt courtyard). My little sisters Anesha and Shela run and hug my legs when I get home from work, and my 1 and a half year old little brother isn’t afraid of me any more! My mom has taken to calling me ” my handsome son” in Luganda and my host dad has warmed up to me a lot.
My favorite times though are when Al hajj (my host dad) goes to Kampala for work. He’s muslim so the rest of the family has to abide by his rules, but oh man! When the cat’s away the mice play. The first time he left for work last week, my cousins Ddo and Ddo (Richard and Ronald) grabbed me and we ran out to the closest grill to buy a huge steaming plate full of pork. Sneaking handfulls of pork on the way back home, we stopped off and bought a bunch of Nile Specials (the beer of choice here) and traipsed giddily home. That night we had a powwow on the floor of my room. Ddo, ddo, my host mom and I gorged ourselves on decadent amounts of pork and kicked back beer after beer, all the while laughing with the guilty glee of children who know they’re getting away with something. The whole time, Ddo (Richard) was telling me about Africans and their peculiarities, a habit he falls into whenever he’s had a bit of alcohol. It always begins with “Africans, they are funny guys. I tell you!”.
Well, I guess Africans (or at least Ugandans) really are funny guys. I can’t help but laugh sometimes! Boda (motorcycle taxi) drivers usually turn off their engines when they’re going down hill, and they often don’t turn on their lights at night. Liquor here comes in bags. 95% of everyone’s diet is starch (matooke, yams, another type of yams, sweet potatoes, posho, cassava etc…). They call these items “food”. Beef isn’t food. At a restaurant you can order food (a plate full of starch) and beef or beens or goat etc for 1500 USh (75 cents). In typical conversations, about half of people’s sentences are punctuated with a rhetorical question right in the middle. E.g. “I am going where? Kampala”. I haven’t figured out if I’m supposed to answer yet. People with absolutely no money are dressed much nicer than I ever dress, everyone loves the poorly dubbed Mexican soap opera Second Chance, and old men have Faith Hill ringtones in Kampala. I could go on!
Work is about equally funny. My boss, Buwembo, is entirely useless. He is typically about three of four hours late for every appointment we make, and has yet to give me an assignment. No matters, I’ve been working closely with my project supervisor Norah to develop my project and I don’t really need Buwembo for that. Last week I turned in my project workplan and budget and got my seed grant! 400,000 USh baby! I’m working on a integrated sustainable agriculture project with one community group near Ssaza. Our fist training was last week, but no one showed up because there was a burial in the village. Dicouraging, but not all that surprising. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m also going to work with a partner of our organization, Mulindwa Matia, to help build a vocational school for graduates of a primary school for deaf students in the area. I’m probably going to do fundraising for that project, but I’ll send along more details soon!
Traveling! Last weekend I had the best weekend I’ve had in Uganda to date! I took off work on Friday and decided to travel to Sipi Falls in the northeast corner of the state. I had met some folks in Kampala the weekend before and they told me they were headed there. I couldn’t find anyone to go with me, but I didn’t really mind because I’ve decided that I really don’t like the group that is here in Masaka with me. I supposes I like them individually, just not as a group. They make me feel so much lonelier than when I’m by myself. Anyways! I already complained to Bilal about that!
My epic journey began on Friday at 8:30 or so in the morning. I was delayed a little because as I was leaving, I found my one and a half year old brother Doctor locked outside of the gate and climbing onto a boda. Despite the slight delay, I managed to find a nearly full bus headed towards Kampala and we were off. Just as we started I got a drunk dial from Will, David, and Gleb and I turned many Ugandan’s heads as I tried to yell to be heard. It was the least eventful leg of the journey. The bus had no shocks so I had to keep my teeth clenched to keep from biting my tongue on the pothole ridden road, luggage kept falling on our heads, and the bus broke down once. Three hours later, we arrived in Kampala and I scoured the Taxi park for a bus bound for Mbale (2 hours south of Sipi). I only found a Mutatu (minibus) and here the journey got hairy.
The first Mutatu got run off the road by a semi truck, and got stopped in a several hour traffic jam. Then they stopped and put me on another mutatu which was fine except the seat I was on wasn’t bolted down. Then they put me on another mutatu which had a bunch of chickens. (Africans are funny guys!) I lucked out and got the front seat, where I realized that nothing on the dashboard worked! No speedometer, no odometer, no gas guage, no radio. Only the low oil light worked! Then they drove me into a village, dragged me out, gave me the rest of the money and told me to find my own way! I hitchhiked for a while and ended up on a giant bus that stopped every 5 minutes so that people could get out to pee on the side of the road! What an adventure! When I arrived in Mbale it was 8:30 and pitch dark. I looked for a cool sounding hostel that was mentioned in my guidebook to no avail. Turned out it had burnt down the year before. I ended up staying in a skeezy hotel in Mbale and leaving for Sipi the next morning.
The next day was pure bliss! I found my friends just as they were about to head out for a five hour guided tour of the three giant falls that cut through the mountains in the area. It was one of the most incredibly breathtaking hikes I’ve done! The valleys and mountains were the most brilliant shimmering shade of green! They rolled down into african savannah that seemed to go on for an eternity. We hiked through caves where people lived 1500 years ago, climbed to waterfalls that they used as showers and on! On to the topmost waterfall! Two hundred and 40 feet of unimaginable beauty and power. I couldn’t help it! I crept up to the awesome base of the falls, already drenched by the spray shattering off the rocks and started stripping. Hahaha! Skinny dipping under a 240 waterfall in Africa! Take that Allie! One of my friends had climbed to a nearby cliff and took a picture! 100 feet down, my white posterior was still visibly glowing!
But that wasn’t even the best part! At the last and biggest waterfall they offer absailing (repelling). Four of my friends and I psyched eachother into doing it. I was so scarred I couldn’t even scream. 330 or so feet of utterly terrified ecstacy! Oh sweet jesus! It was among the most beautiful things I’ve seen. I’m pretty sure I could see all of Uganda from there. And the wind was blowing the water spray from the nearby waterfall towards me so I ended up repelling straight into a rainbow.
That night one of the hotel workers took us to a local club where we all got super crunk listening to hours and hours of reggaeton. The milky way cut a shimmering cloak across the sky and reggaeton drifted through my dreams all night. I met so many cool folks and now have invitations to crash at folks’ places all over Europe.
The way back was excting. I called my dad to wish him happy father’s day. He asked me if I was safe. At that point I was in a mutatu hurtling at 110 kph on the wrong side of the pothole ridden pitch black road, passing boda drivers who had no lights on, and weaving to avoid the semi truck that was cresting the hill. Of course I answered yes!
Anyways, as expected, I talked too much. So much to say though. I can’t wait when we can swap stories in person. Send me emails back! I’d love to know how everyone is!
Smooches and cranberry-apple pie,
Zachary
Zachary’s Ugandan Adventure Part 1
Hey all you crazy cats! You world travelers! You stay at home bamfs! You lovers and friends, and family members. Whichever applies to you, I miss you! I miss you loads and loads. I hope all is excellent. I’m writing you all this ass long email/ note because getting internet is a big dumb bitch here, so I’m trying to lump it all into one big go!
Oli otya mukwano gwange!…Which means, good day to you my friends. As hopefully all of you know, I am spending the summer in Uganda working on a development project with the Foundation for Sustainable Development (FSD). The FSD has paired me and 10 other interns with local NGO’s and CBO’s in Masaka district, where we will be living and working for the next 2 months. In addition to working with our host organization, we will also be conducting our own needs assessment and development projects as part of the FSD program.
Anyways, formalities aside, let me tell you what I’ve been up to! Tonight will be the seventh night that I have spent in Uganda, and the fifth night in Masaka District. I arrived in Entebbe on the night of Friday the 29th and spent the night in a local hotel on the shores of Lake Victoria. By the next day, most of the interns had arrived and we spent the night in Kampala (the nation’s capital) where we all bought cell phones and tried new and exciting foods like matooke. Kampala is a busting city where the traffic is truly harrowing and the smells are equally intense (both good and bad).
On Sunday we visited the tombs where the Ugandan kings are buried and then took a roller coaster ride on a mutaatu, a small often overcrowded bus, to Masaka town. On the way, we stopped at the equator to eat lunch and I discovered that water does indeed spin in different directions in either hemisphere. It doesn’t spin at all on the equator! I bet that’s how they figure out where the equator is. Then on to Masaka Town where we have spent the past five plus days receiving training from FSD in the ins and outs of development, getting a crash course in Luganda from a really nice woman named Patricia, and diving head first into Uganda culture. There have been times where I think I’m close to drowning in the tumult of it all, but then something little happens – a friendly smile, a several hour afternoon break, or a fascinating conversation – and I realize that I’m having (as clichéd as it may be) the time of my life. True, I’m in way over my head, but I’m drinking in everything so quickly I couldn’t possibly drown! I’ve learned so much already, I cannot even imagine what it will be like in two months.
Masaka is a dusty, spicy, and little but vibrant town. The downtown area is centered around one several kilometer road that splits halfway through. The traffic is mostly boda bodas (motorcycle taxis), small Toyota like cars, insane mutaatus, and trucks loaded to the brim with matooke (a starchy banana that is a staple here) or some other product. Many of the buildings are three or four stories tall. Some are tidy and whitewashed, while others are completely dilapidated. Garbage is burning in heaps all over town which accounts for the town’s spice, and the horn honks begin to take on a language of their own. There’s a great big market where I tried to haggle in Luganda, a mosque that projects prayers five times a day, and an evangelical tent whose leaders have been screaming about the glory of Christ and the dangers of sin for two days straight. And there’s a night club called Ambience that seems to be the talk of the whole town! Very exciting!
Today was a very big day for me. We had our last Luganda lesson at the FSD office and then returned to the hotel to get ready to pack out and go stay with our host families! I got all packed, ate lunch, and bid the hotel staff and my new comrades a loving farewell and struck out for Kimanya Eh, the little community right next to Masaka town where I will be living. When my host mother saw me, she began speaking in Luganda so fast that my head started to spin. I think she delights in it, because she speaks English quite well. Anyways, my room is beautiful and the house has running water and electricity. I’m so spoiled! She even calls me Katarega which is their surname. I’m also now Kaato which means the younger male twin.
We immediately went to visit her mother where I learned that Ugandans definition of family is significantly more flexible than my own. I call my host mother Maami (Mommy), but I was also introduced to several other Maami’s and a slew of brothers and sisters! One of my brothers, Ddo (doe), who isn’t a direct brother then took around Kimanya and grilled me about the way things are in America, while I quizzed him about Uganda and Luganda. He took me to hear an afterschool group of drummers and dancers playing traditional Baganda music. (Baganda is the main tribe/ kingdom / ethnic group in the south and west. I was blown away!
Then I took tea, rescued my friend who lives close to me but was lost, and sat down to watch Second Chance with my host Maaami. Second Chance is a Mexican soap opera dubbed into English. I have honestly never seen a more ridiculous show! Everyone around here thinks I look like Antonio. I’m not convinced, but I guess I don’t mind! Then my Mom called me in for dinner, and I sat down to eat and realized I was eating alone. It’s a form of respect to serve a guest in the dining room or even his own room and let him eat alone. I knew this so I wasn’t surprised, but it was still awfully depressing. After dinner, I gave everyone the gifts that I had brought and they were greatly appreciated. Then my maami sent me to bed and here I am now.
Overall, I couldn’t be happier with the way things are going and more excited about how they will go. There are challenges for sure. I need to figure out the best way to use the latrine. I tried washing my clothes in a basin and kind of failed. I haven’t even attempted washing myself with a basin. The language is a bitch. 10 different noun classes! I’m called Muzungu (foreigner) by every one I see on the street. I’m given Muzungu prices. Everything gets dirty instantly. The list goes on…. But to be honest, I’m barely phased. I guess I’m still in the honey moon phase and I’m sure some things will test me. I know that the matooke will get old pretty quickly. We shall see.
Anyways, if you’ve made it to this point, congratulations! I’ve been long and rambly, but I suppose it’s my style. I love and miss you all in ways you can’t imagine and I can’t describe! Send me an email back. I’d love to know how each and everyone is doing. Shoot me a facebook. Call me if at all possible. Though I can’t remember the country code, my number is 0783719844.
P.S. New Updates! I love my new host family! We hoed a banana farm yesterday, I learned how to peel matooke, we went to church, I learned how to wash my own clothes, and I’ve been eating non-stop! More updates to come.
Getting Real
Hello to the fine folks out there in TV land. Here’s what we’re up to as of June 3, 2009:
We just uploaded a raw version of our song Daily Vitamin to Myspace. Its pretty different from what we’ve put out in the past, but we’re pretty bad with being consistent in any manner. If you like it, please share it with your friends.
We’ll try and get some of the other new songs out there once we get around to them. We’re really focusing on getting our recordings to sound more genuine. Bass and Drums were recorded on tape at Chase Park studio in Athens with the help of Drew Vandenburg, guitars, vocals, banjo, and mixing was done by yours truly with our own equipment.
Besides mixing and putting out some of these new songs, this summer is a vacation for us Arches that Crumble. Alex is passing most of the summer holding up the fort in Athens GA and later is voyaging to Milan. He’s steadily contributing some really great articles for an Athens paper called Rough Draft. I encourage you to check them out below.
Zachary is currently saving the world over in Ghana. Combined with Ian’s summer work with organic farms in Germany I’d say that the solutions to disease and starvation are about 6 months away. Catch your osteogenic sarcoma today while you still can.
I currently am peering out the window of my apartment in New York, baffled that the hobo across the street could successfully pass off as mannican in Macy’s window. I applaud his effort to find shelter, but I just have a feeling that sleeping with his back arched like that for the pose will give him some soreness tomorrow. I’m spending the summer up here working at a company called Frog Design, finishing the mixing of these CA songs, and swimming neck deep in a bunch of Aman Amun projects including pre-production for a new record. Clearly I’m not very good at this whole vacationing thing.
Keep an eye out for the posting of more songs. Brush your teeth every day.
<3 Brian (Crumbling Arches)
Worst Valentines Day since 1929
As Valentine’s Day approaches, I am accosted by torturous memories of last
year’s Hallmark holiday. In all honesty, I’m more inclined to reminisce on my
18th birthday bash, which I spent in a nursing home’s recreation room, playing
scrabble with a woman who legitimately thought she was Rosie the Riveter. But,
for your entertainment, and at my own expense, I give you this account of the
worst Valentine’s Day since 1929.
Valentine’s Day is all about being endowed with obligatory displays of affection.
Last Valentine’s Day I was endowed with little other than self-esteem handicaps
and intolerable images that will haunt my memory until I’m as brainsick as
Rosie, my scrabble contender.
The only Valentine’s Day card I received last year was from a flamboyantly gay
cashier at Golden Pantry. His name is Gregory, and he has been smitten with me
ever since I started frequenting his gas station depot. The card he gave me was
hastily crafted out of an old receipt and it read: Stroke Me.
I obliged him and gingerly stroked his shoulder. Starry-eyed, he gave me a pack
of cigarettes and a box of ribbed condoms free of charge. These were tangible
tidings of a tolerable, if not pleasant, Valentine’s Day; tidings that were crushed
as soon as I went to my girlfriend’s place to try out my new condoms.
I walked in her apartment to find my best friend balls-deep in her loins. They
were humping the fuck out of each other on the couch to a TMC screening of
When Harry Met Sally, but, alas, the adulterous sex-companions were too
involved in sweaty pelvis-plugging to appreciate Billy Crystal’s quirky lines or to
detect my presence.
My girlfriend’s moans of pleasure were exponentially louder than I had ever
heard them. Disgraced, I left the apartment and ventured to my grandmother’s
house. She always knows how to comfort me in times of emotional turmoil.
Fortune cursed me once again when I arrived at Nanna’s place. I crossed the
threshold of what was once a welcoming sanctuary of therapeutic leisure. Upon
entering, I witnessed the most unholy of things. Nanna and Grampy were
engaged in Valentine’s Day whoopee on my grandfather’s recliner. I’ve never
seen that recliner rock so violently; the image of my grandfather’s knickered
feet convulsively shaking as Nanna rode him will forever haunt my dreams.
At this point, I acknowledged the only reasonable course of action: to get
sloppy drunk in a freshman bar and take home a floozy. My slutty girlfriend,
my counterfeit best friend, and my sexually-functioning grandparents were all
having ritualistic Valentine’s Day sex; why shouldn’t I?
Downtown, at the freshman bar, a mildly attractive girl mentioned that I looked
like Robert Pattinson, the heartthrob from the vampire thriller, Twilight. Taking
this as a compliment, I engaged in flirtatious dialogue. She cut me off and told
me that I was an emo faggot for knowing who Robert Pattinson was. Right as
she dashed my hopes of making her my random hook-up, the Asian flower lady
(that frequents bars with shoddy sales pitches) apparated out of thin air. The
flower lady asked me if I wanted to buy a rose for my “pretty little Valentine”,
pointing to the chick who had crushed what was left of my dignity. The flower
lady eagerly awaited my answer with her entrepreneurial smile, and I left.
I decided to go home and check my Facebook for any virtual Valentine-gift
icons. There were none. The only wall post I’d received that day was from my
roommate, reminding me that the cable bill was past due (My roommate only
leaves his room when his mini fridge is empty, so our only means of
communication is Facebook).
I decided to call a sex hotline to break the lonesome silence, and, of course,
fortune spit in my eye yet again; I got the one hotline attendant with a severe
speech impediment. She sounded like she had cerebral palsy, and she had this
lisp that reminded me of the snake from the Robin Hood cartoon. I hung up.
In a desperate attempt to find emotional solace, I went to the Golden Pantry to
see if Gregory was working. He was the only person that had shown me any
compassion all day, so I made him a construction paper card with glitter and
sequins. It read: Flame on, Diva Man. I even signed it with my real name, and I
scribbled my phone number on the back. He was right tickled.
BAMBARA is a band.
When I talk about Bambara at wine-and-cheese parties, a lot of people think I’m referring to a language spoken by roughly 80 percent of Mali’s population. It is becoming increasingly apparent to me that wine-and-cheese parties are infested with assholes majoring in Linguistics, and, I must tell you, I’m not keen on talking about the vernacular makeup of people in poverty-stricken countries when I’m spreading Gouda on my Triscuit. So, if you hear me bring up Bambara at a wine-and-cheese party, keep your pedagogic bullshit to yourself, and remind yourself that, within the context of my limited world view, Bambara is not a language; it’s a local band that makes good sex music.
Music plays a prominent role in my sex life. It not only muffles the unsettling sounds of intermittent queefs, it also dramatizes naked interactions and helps alleviate pre-sex apprehension and post-sex awkwardness. Determining the right soundtrack for bang-bang is extremely subjective, however. Sometimes, you may feel little or no connection with the person you’re humping; in such cases, avoid putting Iron and Wine in the CD player and engaging in prolonged eye-contact. Other times, you might want to have a more meaningful sexual encounter that doesn’t leave your partner feeling like a moist masturbation platform; In these cases, steer clear of Bloodhound Gang.
Impressively, Bambara serves as a good soundtrack for the sexual encounters marked by dissociative feelings that shift or warp with every thrust. Whether the members of Bambara consciously fashion their tunes to cater to sex, I don’t know- I didn’t ask. I did tell them, however, that listening to their debut album while boinking my ex-girlfriend enhanced the overall experience. Intrigued by this, drummer Blaze Bateh asked me what song was playing at the point of climax. I told him: Shake. ”That’s the second song on the album,” he responded; the band then laughed at my inadequate stamina.
The textured guitar tones achieved throughout Bambara’s self-titled album conjure up images of a primordial soup ecosystem inhabited by amoeba-like organisms- our most distant evolutionary ancesters. Applying this biological mental landscape to any sexual encounter will undoubtedly make the act of caressing your partner come off as a curious hands-on examination of the human form rather than an overly-involved execution of foreplay. The rhythm section picks up energy shortly after you’ve been lulled into the seduction-trance, inciting your pelvis to begin moving of its own accord. Eventually distortion, dissonance, and powerful chant-like vocals will cheer you to orgasmic victory. (published in Rough Draft)
College Kills Souls?
I can be whatever I want to be, right? My elementary-school guidance counselor told me so. I can’t help but wonder, however, what she would have said had she known what it was I actually wanted to be: the leader of a nomadic tribe of starving surrealists. She probably would have told me I was very imaginative, and that I should go to a liberal arts college.
If only I could go back in time to satisfy my affinity for unsettling people. That guidance counselor would tell me that I had the all the potential to run the nation one day, and I would respond: “Thanks for your vote of confidence, but I have no plans of becoming a successful member of mainstream society. Sure, I’m vain enough to acknowledge that if I wanted it bad enough, I could be the President of the United States (the trite model for elementary-school motivation), but, as it stands, I am going to withdrawal from this society and its inherent paradigm of productivity.”
She’d probably laugh, and tell me not to worry; eventually I’d grow up. I’d find a societal place for my eccentric ideas. Throughout my childhood, my parents tirelessly praised college as the prerequisite to success and the path to self-discovery. They were trying to sell me an idea: college is a necessary step in fulfilling your life’s dreams. While I don’t deny that this is the case for some people, I can’t concede that the benefits I’ve experienced from college outweigh my ideological losses.
I’ve just finished my third year at UGA, and, for the first time in my life, I don’t know what I want to be. College has planted demons of rationality in my brain, and now childhood dreams of being a world-travelling beatnik are being replaced by sound images of a future cursed by an all-encompassing career. A career that I believe will dilute my identity.
College is full of people who have already accepted an active role in society, people who are eagerly willing to play the game of contributing to the overall productivity of the general public. These people measure personal success with six-figure salaries and social influence. I readily admit that without people like these, there wouldn’t be people like me, well-fed daydreamers in a selfish pursuit for self-actualization. Yes, college introduced me to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
A part of me wants to cross the Sahara on foot and scribble thirst-induced hallucinations in a sketchbook; but that part of me is being suffocated by newly-instilled desires for financial security and comfort. College is conditioning me to be an active participant in society, by subjecting me, day in and day out, to its standards for success. I’m losing my dreams. I’m resigning to practicality. I’m whining…
You’re blind if you haven’t detected my acute Peter Pan complex. Please note, however, that my hesitance with regard to adopting social responsibilities does not discredit my key question: Is reality so damning that we have to convert far-fetched childhood dreams into levelheaded career goals? I have a hunch that college frames reality for us, and that some of us are unnecessarily abandoning our dreams by adopting the school of thought: “You can be whatever you want to be, as long as there is a major for it.”
(published in Rough Draft)
The Newest Testament (written on various stall walls)
Nourishing your piety in college can be challenging because drinking excessively has never been that compatible with standard religious doctrine. Many university students have this habit of transforming their college years into a half-decade of unbridled indulgence during which spirituality and moral values decay as fast as half-eaten apples. Though there are perks to the perpetual-party-lifestyle, being spiritually impoverished in conjunction with being drunk all the time can lead to emotional distress and, worse, erectile dysfunction.
There is a solution to this problem, and, fear not, it does not involve moderation or church attendance. There is a new scripture that will revitalize your spiritual vigor, and it’s scattered on bathroom stall walls around town. My father once told me that the best time to achieve spiritual clarity is in the midst of carrying out bodily functions. I must say he’s right. Releasing the weight of waste sojourning in your bowels and bladder allows you to feel physically and spiritually lighter, enabling you to engage in celestial reflection.
One night, I was pissing in a bar urinal, morosely reflecting on both my agnosticism and my mortality when I spotted something sharpied on the wall near the flush handle: All you need is love, and love ain’t nothing but sex misspelled. I recognized this line as a hybrid of Beatles lyrics and the title of a short story collection by Harlan Ellison. Nevertheless I adopted the cut-and-paste epigram as my own and became a man slut. Having emotionless sex is yet another bodily function that better enables me to engage in celestial reflection.
Ever since that night, I’ve been finding profound stall wall graffiti that is relevant to my life. The serendipity of being driven to public restrooms by sudden impulses to shit and consequently absorbing life lessons has spawned in me a sturdy faith in God. The stall wall is like a forum where local prophets can self-publish their revelations for wayfaring souls. Every time I make a deposit in a public restroom, I feel like Robert Langdon, the symbologist from Da Vinci Code, deciphering cryptic messages. I apply these messages to my life and reap the benefits.
Last week, I was in a Wendy’s restroom when I read stall wall instructions purportedly by Carlo the Hammer: when striking an opponent, chiefly use the knuckles at the base of your index and middle fingers to avoid a boxer’s fracture. This proved to be vital information as I left the stall and was violently accosted by my drug dealer. Yesterday, I was at a Mexican restaurant with my friend. Recalling a specific prophecy I had seen at Taco Bell, I advised my friend against ordering his default dish, carne deshebrada. He did not heed my warning; as a result he contracted E. coli. By embracing the wisdom within the stalls of fortune, I am protected from bodily harm and I am reminded that there is, indeed, a supernatural force watching over me.
See, the legitimacy I place on any religion is directly correlated with how its fundamental guidelines benefit me in my day to day life. The holy bible never seemed to work for me, not only because it does not condone my drinking habit or my sexcapades with strangers, but also because the bible never prevented me from having the living structure beat out of my face. If I continue turning the other cheek, my already-deviated septum will be irreparable. If I continue applying the golden rule to my social interactions, I will continue to treat strangers to unprompted scalp massages; this has earned me nothing but further face damage (I am particularly fond of surprise scalp massages from people I don’t know, but I have learned through trial and error that this is an eccentricity that is more or less exclusive to me).
As it stands, I am a firm believer that divinely inspired prophets deface public property to convey sacred advice. I’ve read countless revelations; like an eightball is 3.5 grams rather than 2.8 and that the Ark of the Covenant is in Detroit. I plan on capitalizing on that someday. The ark, I mean. I found out Diana Hussman, the president of the Central Valley Women’s Alliance lives under the floorboards of Road House. The stall walls have encouraged me to resist authority, suck dick, and call upon Jesus, because supposedly he owes $5 to someone who takes classes in Park Hall. I recommend any Athenian with a drinking problem and spiritual autism to find emotional sanctuary in stall wall scripture. (published in Rough Draft)
Fashion Your Own Athenian-Hipster Image
Are you tired of being called unsophisticated in a town full of elitist art-connoiseurs? The only solution is to assume an Athenian hipster identity. This article will serve as a comprehensive guide to establishing and maintaining your very own indie image!
Before you start tuning your fashion sense to “indie vogue”, you need to understand that the “look” alone will not discernibly improve your status in Athenian hipster communities. Without making extensive lifestyle changes, you won’t develop any degree of legitimacy.
Changing your music collection is vital, unless, of course, you already listen to low-fi tunes with gravelly cadences and melodically inert vocals. In Athens, your main objective is to discover music that you have to struggle to like. Whether you get the music or not is irrelevant. As long as people think you get it, you’re gravy.
If you are unsure whether or not the music you find is fashionable enough, ask yourself questions like: Does it have melody? Does it have tuned drums or clean vocals? Have my friends heard it before? If the answer to these questions is yes, the music you have selected probably won’t fly in crowds you want to be associated with. Athenian indie music should conjure up images of Jeff Goldblum convulsing on a landfill of discarded Miley Cyrus albums.
As far as indie apparel goes, it is recommended that you wear loose V-neck Tshirts, raggedy vests, tight jeans, canvas shoes, and knitted head-ware that doesn’t quite conceal your undomesticated hair; anything that makes you look like you are beyond superficial concepts like physical appearance and name brands.
Every self-aware hipster should know that adopting a counterculture is more stylistically demanding than abiding by mainstream fashion trends. But ultimately, when selecting your attire, you want to avoid looking like you spent hours upon hours at the thrift shop, hand-picking those clothes that best emphasize your indifference to social trends.
Confidence is key in the Athenian indie movement. Your objective is to be cooler than your peers by having superior tastes in music and fine arts. You must display confidence in your opinions. This confidence allows you to effectively defend your tastes when you are rebuked by rival hipsters who claim to be patrons of “real” art. If your tastes are publically criticized, simply compare the art you endorse to compositions by underground art-pioneers that don’t actually exist. When your competitors google the names you fabricated, they will have to concede that you are raw enough to discover and appreciate uncharted art that even Google can’t expose.
Once you’ve harnessed your indie image, it’s time to take it to the bars. Make sure to stay on the West side of downtown. Only order PBR, and lean on as many things as possible. Standing erect makes you look socially-engaged and suggests that you are concerned with other people’s perception of you. Also, remember to shrug a lot when you have conversations, as if you are jaded by the multitude of interesting thoughts you alone can think.
Follow these suggestions, and you will see positive results in the time it takes your critics to forget the normal and unimaginative attributes you formerly possessed. By then, you will be an accepted member of a trendy Athens subculture.
(published in Rough Draft)
Spring Break ‘09- Guantanamo Bay
Sure, Panama City is great for sexual conquests and drinking in the sun, but, do you really want to settle for every student’s default spring break venue? With Obama in office, it might be your last chance to hit up the Caribbean getaway that puts the ‘fuck yes’ back into ‘enemy combatant’.
Situated on the southeastern edge of Cuba, Guantanamo Bay is a sub-tropical paradise with what a select and masochistic few might call a resort. I know what you’re thinking: Isn’t spring break supposed to be fun? I would answer, in turn: What’s not fun about being manhandled by Joint Task Force operatives?
If you start a blog that condemns capitalism and provides the names of enriched-uranium suppliers, you’ll have yourself a free ride to Guantanamo Bay in no time! Pretty soon, you’ll be bunking with religious zealots in a detention facility surrounded by palm trees and cool trade winds.
Initially, you may be shy around your new inmates. Fear not- the guards will employ The Abu Ghraib Technique to get you acclimated. This technique has been praised as the most effective social exercise since the Name Game. You’ll play with inmates’ goody nannies in interrogation chambers while being questioned about your affiliation with various terrorist networks (Handling a humiliated detainee’s hardware is a great way to get to know that person).
Once you’ve settled into the camp’s social atmosphere, you’ll get to team up with Ali Al-Bahlul in the prison yard volleyball games. You and the former director of Al-Qaeda’s PR campaign will deliberate on a team name, and you’ll eventually have to settle for the “Jihad Giraffes” (He’s stuck on Islamic fundamentalism and you’re all about alliteration).
You’ll play against a September 11th conspirator (whose name I can’t begin to pronounce) and Salim Hamdan, a former chauffer for Osama bin Laden. Their team name will simply be: Boom! They will attribute all of their volleyball losses to sleep deprivation and malnutrition. You and Ali will respond by calling them impotent martyr-wannabes. Ali will scream his hackneyed epigram: “Their plane must have gone Boom! before take off”. You and Ali will then execute your little chest bump routine and, together, you’ll march inside for your afternoon waterboarding sessions as proud champions.
For spring break ‘09, put aside swim trunks, beer bongs, and Constitutional rights. Kick it with confined terrorists, and feel the psychoactive effects of sleep deprivation and torture! Bridge the gap between heterosexual behavior and coerced homo-physical activity! Guantanamo Bay welcomes you.
(published in Rough Draft)
Swamp Donkies
There are few things worse than waking from an alcohol-induced coma, on an unfamiliar bed, with a bad mistake nestled on the crook of your arm. Regaining conciousness next to the textbook example of ugly is a rude awakening, and consolation is hard to come by when the pungent smell of last night’s naked-cardio session reigns over your senses. The guidelines below will not only coach you through tried-and-true escape tactics, but will also alleviate your feelings of repugnance and humility.
First and foremost, regulate your breathing and be dead quiet so as not to rouse the beast; Ideally, you would mentally map out your escape route before taking action, but chances are you have no recollection of what the outside of her room looks like.
So, your upper body is anchored to the mattress, and freeing your shoulder from the weight of that sleeping swamp-donkey’s head is challenging. Your first objective involves a technique that has been dubbed by leading chubby-chase scholars: “the Ear-Steer“ . Only a select few have mastered it(namely Rod Stewart and Jane Goodall).
Pluck a few hair strands from your scalp and ever-so-gently tickle the inside of her exposed ear. This works surprisingly well! The swamp-donkey will recoil from the auricle irritation without waking up, freeing up enough personal space to drag your arm from under her neck.
Once you have freed yourself from her post-sex embrace, find a bathroom or a laundry basket. You’ll be needing a turban. Wrap a towel around the old braincase, and pull the neck of your shirt over the bridge of your nose. This will ensure that, as you leave the premises, your identity is concealed from any onlookers. You never want to be connected to the scene of unsightly sex.
Now that you have disguised yourself as a terrorist, it is time for the well-anticipated stage of ‘get-the-fuck-out-of-here’. As you leave, make sure to carry yourself in an unthreatening fashion, and wave affably at roomates, if any are present. You don’t want to alarm anyone as you show yourself to the door.
Last but not least, come to fully accept the fact that you were a participant in a filthy display of drunken sex. You can deny it to those who ask, but never deny it to yourself. Come to recognize that you a superficial asshole for judging past sexual partners by their physical appearance. Self-awareness is vital to psychological recovery.
(published in Rough Draft)