Mom

 “Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee  

Calls back the lovely April of her prime.”

 

–Shakespeare

 

She sits here in front of me, eating a steaming hot loco moco and gazing out of the window.

“Burning.” she says,”Burning heat.”

My mother is the only person in my life that I trust completely. I feel safe with her. She will always be honest with me, which is the quality that I admire the most. I can ask her anything–be it completely shocking or mundane; and she’ll put thought into the answer.

“What’s a ? How does this work ? Why do guys do this ? Is this wrong ?”

“Well…” and she tells me. She tells me exactly what she’s thinking and everything that she knows.

My mom is the best gate crasher ever. She’s gone into the super bowl multiple times without tickets. She’s busted into private parties. She says that if she were to be a criminal she would be a long con artist. You get huge money. She’s an actress and she bends rules.

She once told me that she expects great things out of me.

“You have it all, honey. You have the height, the beauty, the brains. You don’t ever have to have a ticekt. I expect you to get on an airplane without a boarding pass one day. It’s been done before.”

We laughed hard at that.

“If you had to be a criminal, what would you be?” she asked

“I’d be one of those criminals that appears completely normal, but that lives above the law. I’d rob from the weakness of society.”

“But what would you steal? How would you pay rent and food?”

“I would rob from environmentally unsafe companys.”

“You’re so cute!”

Even now as I type this we’re talking about things that moms and daughters usually don’t talk about so openly and freely. I’m not going to enumerate what that subject is exactly, but it’s usually a large elephant in the rooms of moms and daughters. No subject is taboo for my mom and I, and this makes me feel comfortable. As David Sedaris says, “Parents forbidding something is the quickest way to make an addict.”

My mom says that she will never be angry with me as long as I’m honest with her. She’ll never hold something against me or stop loving me.

I’ve made mistakes in the past, but I’ve owned up to them, and she forgives me. Yes, I’m in the teen angst stage of my life, but no, my mom is not my worst enemy. She’s my biggest ally. I’m not her mirror so much as I’m her partner in crime.

Making this a habit

This is the second time this week (or was it this week? I’m confusing my days as they blur into sleepless blobs highlighted by hyperventilating happiness and the dull doldrums). I’m writing this after a SMALL coffee and a night at nextdoor watching movies. Er, I mean films. So I thought I’d be ok because it was a small coffee, and I really needed it. I woke up too late today, and my lovely living mates had already drunk all of it.

And right now I’m being followed by a insect. A large one. As I was about to lie down to not sleep in my bed, it crawled out of my pillow. I whacked it repeatedly with Hamlet, the brave, brave soul. (If you had trouble killing Uncle Claudios, babe, this insect is ten times worse.) When I thought I had at least subdued it enough to keep it in that corner of the room, I retreated to my desk again and to this sympathetic key board. But just now as I looked to my left, it was ON MY PRINTER.

“Stop following me you deranged insect!” I shouted to it as it hobbled feebly around the white printer paper.

“I am injured,” it seemed to say.

“Damn right you are!”

“Do you not take pity on me?”

“I will end you.”

Grabbing my to do list and attempting to end it, I hit the insect. Or I seemed to. Apparently it’s one of those super insects that move in the super speed dimension. Like those blonde dreaded guys in the Matrix Reloaded. As I thought this, it ran into the deep depths of my HP. EF THAT!

I can’t sleep now. No, that’s it. I’m done. I’m never sleeping again. Just call me Edward.

[Yay. I made my vampire reference for the day. Much like Kariume's crack jokes.]

My friend just IMed me, and I thought that our discourse (that’s my favorite word this week) is applicable to this post:

him: you there?

me: yes

him: 2am. go to bed crazy woman

me: yeah. no.

him: k

me: a insect is in my room. it’s following me.

him: eat it! kill it

me: I tried

him: which?

me: the latter. it’s a super insect

him: O RLY?

me: brb, killing

him: use kryptonite

Seriously, I can see the affects of humanity’s obsession with bug spray and immunizations right here. Genetic mutation has caused these organisms to employ Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. The fittest have survived the bug spray overdose of 2007 in the Lindsea Hood and have now mutated to become SUPER INSECTS. Dun dun dun. This is ridiculous. I’m calling the EPA. I’m calling the FDA.

And the worse part is, in my late night hysteria, I think that everything that touches my epidermis is an inspect. I am flinching and jumping like a heroine user going cold turkey (which, incidentally, I saw recently in Barnes and Noble). This is not ono kine grindz.

So this post was going to be about semi-intelligent musings. But no, the genetically mutated freak of nature that is hiding in my printer has ruined it.

[Edit: Ok, so then it ran out of my printer and somehow got under my bed. Yes, I thought, at least it's moved away from the immidiate vicinity. BUT NO. The genetic mutation obviously made it a million time stupider and gave it a death wish. It ran out from under the bed and onto my FOOT.

"What the ef what the ef what the ef??? What are you doing?!"

No response.

I ended up murdering it for good and then rolling over it with my chair a couple of times. I'm not certain this means it's safe to go to sleep. I'm thinking it might have a mate somewhere. If it does, IT IS GOING DOWN LIKE ITS WIFEY. That is all.]

Combatting stress

Sometimes it helps to make lists of things that you have to do in the coming weeks, so I decided that I’d give that a try and make a tidy to do list.

Books that I have to read and projects that relate to them:

Hamlet- write a thesis paper on Hamlet (the title of my paper: Are those boobs real or fake? Seeming versus being in our modern culture)

Handmaiden’s Tale- write a book report-esque paper exploring any theme I choose.

Unvanquised- just read it

Franny and Zooey- just read it

Great Gatsby- write literature circle papers every week, paying special attention to the different scenes, the characters, and lexicography.

Faulkner’s short story collection, and various books on Faulkner- write a paper and have a presentation ready for the class the week of class.

Projects:

I. French projects-

• Listen to the audio version of Around the World in Eighty Days and record myself reading a chapter of it, paying special attention to pronunciation and inflection.
• Film myself making a French meal, and explain on camera each step (in French)
• Write an in depth paper on a character in Indochine, the classic French film.
• Prepare a response to 10 questions on a previously given list, and be ready to answer any two of these questions (orally), plus a question not on the list

II. American Literature projects-

• Get a 20 minute presentation ready to teach the class about Faulkner.

Tests:

AP U.S. History- A four hour long college board AP test, which includes a multiple choice objective exam, two free response essays, and one document based question.

Math- On Monday, a smaller test ranging 4 chapters, and then the next week, a quarter test.

French- A French quiz on Tuesday.

American Literature- Reading quizzes every week on the Great Gatsby.

And then objective final exams, the week of 27-30th:

Math

French

To combat my stress, I asked my tweeps about what would help. Here are some of the replies:

“Tea.”

“Booze?”

“Kavakava is good for stress, meditation, exercise…many things help stress.”

“Combating Stress: Engaging in Flow, Physical Activity, Proper Diet, Meditation, Medication, various vices I wouldn’t recommend.”

“Exercise, prayer, meditation–all ways to combat stress.”

“I use essential oils. Lavender is infamous for that among other things.”

“Oiling and lotioning, lotioning and oiling… smiling. I can’t take this no more!
-Sandlot (1993)”

“Sleep. Keeping busy. FRIENDS. Dance. Helping others. Cleaning house. Removing the root cause (I’m serious, and it can usually be done, if not easy). Hugs. *offers you a warm and friendly hug*”

“Valerian, skullcap, hops.”

“Aerobic exercise 20-30 mins, 2-4 times per week…it really does help.”

And my own personal antidote: Blast Iron and Wine and then watch this theatrical masterpiece on youtube (fast forward to 3:24 for the best song).

Stop-motion life versus live art: linear thinking and my post modern story

An idea got planted in my head the other day, about stories, and how they create a person’s identity. There’s this theory that because our cells regenerate every seven years, and we’re left with a completely new body, the only thing that ties us together is our stories or our memories. It’s all we have that makes us human, the theory seems to say.

When I explicitly think about my own stories, I think of afternoons with my friends. Particularly the phrase, “good story!” and it’s connotations. It basically means, wow, please don’t tell another story because that one was really boring. And it’s true–a lot of times my stories are hard to follow when I relate them to my friends. They’re nonlinear. They make so much sense in my head but seem to become like iron and rust when exposed to the outside atmosphere.

If I could tell a story to a group of people, which one would I tell?

That’s probably one of the hardest questions for me to answer, because I feel like my whole life (my history, present, and future) is wrapped into one thing. Non-linear. Time and I are acquaintances that forget each other’s faces as soon as we look the other way. I am just one continuous story.

I really don’t know what to tell people to amuse them and to leave them pleasantly introspective. A complete story (beginning, middle, ending, usually a bit witty) will often do that to people. I feel like the only story I could tell would be more of a fleeting glimpse into my life; a moment. It would be without plot and without direction. It would just be; a photograph of a moving object, just barely discernible and rough and speckled with dust.

If those are the types of stories that I am made of, what does that say about me? I have no plot, no ending, no beginning. Almost like a Beckett play but longer, much longer. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead!” you tell me. In return I say, “I am just another pirate on the ship to your execution! Let him forge the documents and be done with it already!”

This none linear concept of which I’m jabbering about comes from a book that I just started reading, called “Dark Prophets of Hope: Dostoevsky, Sartre, Camus, Faulkner.” I started with the Faulkner section, because I am in love with his words. It talks about the American linear consciousness: “the logical, rational, sequential, progress-oriented, and technological mode.” It’s a concept/theme that comes up in many of Faulkner’s stories. Jean Kellogg (the author of Dark Prophets of Hope) goes on to say that Faulkner certainly in his own mind didn’t impose linear succession upon human experience as if time were space and could be laid out along a measuring tape, but experienced time both as permeated by the past and as holding in embryo what is to be. To give an example, there is the mentally stunted childlike man, Benjy Compson. He’s seen as “grotesque,” an idiot. Like most grotesque figures in literature, it’s an exaggerated reflection of ourselves. For Benjy, past was completely undifferentiated from present. Any sensory signal could set off emotions like love rejected, longing unfulfilled, happiness inexplicably removed.

Benjy’s brother, Quentin (under the obligations of a linear time perception), is given a watch in his childhood. His father says, “Quentin, I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you might remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it.”

I try to conquer time, and I fail constantly. This morning I came late to my first class, because I slept in. It was rainy and voggy outside my window, and it felt like 5:00 am when it was actually 7:30. I stumbled out of bed, tugged some jeans and a t-shirt on, and ran out the door. I am always late. Sometimes I can bend with time, and I almost feel it drip slower through the hour glass. But it snaps back at me in retribution when I least expect it. It’s my perception of linear time that ties me down to the inconsequential nonsense that I can’t seem to escape no matter what I do. I said earlier that I perceive time nonlinearly–that’s true. But society doesn’t. My school doesn’t. The bus schedule doesn’t. The world as I know it is built upon linear perception.

It reminds me of Proust. You eat a cookie, you remember your past.

I am my past, even in my present. How can that be expressed in a story?

Edit: So I wrote this at 1:00 am this morning after drinking one too many cups of coffee post noon, and I just realized the stupidity of my last question. How can that be expressed in a story?? Well, um, correct me if I’m right, 1:00 am-writing-self, but isn’t that exactly what Faulkner did? *Sigh* Maybe I have yet to achieve the perfect story, not because it’s impossible, but because I am not a Nobel Prize Winning writer (yet).

Photo by Matthew McVickar

These are just a few of my favorite things:

Warning: This is by far the trashiest post that has ever graced the photons of Love and Logic.

1. Ira Glass

2. Slightly vapid, but with some quality substance, teen TV shows (i.e. the O.C., Gilmore Girls)

3. Nine Inch Nails

4. Radiohead

5. Sustainability

These things have made me very happy recently.
First off, if you don’t know that I want to marry Ira Glass and have his babies, then you have either been living under a hole, or your universe isn’t centered around me (how dare you!). He is perfection in a voice. I won’t wax on about his simpering vocals echoing from my radio every Saturday morning like clockwork. But they do simper. Very well.

They were simpering along last weekend, doing a very good job of it, too. The show started off great–Ira Glass talking about radio vs television, J.J. Abrams talking about the Golden Age of television, David Rakoff: a story about a man who lived without television, Sarah Vowell talking about Thanksgiving situational comedies with all situation and no comedy, Ira Glass talking about…WHAT??? THE O.C.?????????????? THE CHRISMUKKAH EPSIDODE? WITH A REFERENCE TO GILMORE GIRLS????????

Stop.

Have I died and gone to heaven?

No, really. I think I must be walking down obsession lane.

Let me transcribe:

“One Saturday night I was watching the O.C. with my wife [who is not nearly as mentally witty and physically attractive as Lindsea]. I don’t know if you watched the O.C. before it got taken off, but it’s kind of a funny, interesting show. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go to season one and watch the Chrismukkah episode. And, uh, it was a teen soap opra on Fox network, and the main couple was Seth and Summer, not Marissa and Ryan. They could have killed off Marissa back in season one as far as I was concerned. And uh, so there’s this scene on this particular Saturday night where Seth’s in his room, talking to his girlfriend Summer on the phone, and a girl is in his room, Taylor, who is basically the same character as Paris on Gilmore Girls, but that’s a different story. So there’s this girl in his room, and Summer hear’s her voice in her boyfriends room. And this moment happens: [plays the audio recording of the O.C. episode]

Summer: That sounded like a girl.

Seth: Did it? Yeah. Well. Sure. Because I’m listening to the radio and This American Life is on, so…there’s a girl talking.

[Back to Ira Glass] And then Summer makes this reply which I have to say totally…

Summer: Is that that show by hipster know it alls that talk about how fascinating ordinary people are? Ugh, God.”
It goes on, but you’ll just have to listen to it yourself. I think at one point Ira Glass admits to belting along to the theme song to the O.C.. “Callliffooorrrniaaaa….”

Anyways, that made my weekend.

So that’s number 1 and 2 covered. Now on to number 3.

I love Nine Inch Nails. I went to their show when they came to Hawaii, and I’ve gone through the obligatory “I’m in love with Trent Reznor!!” phase. It was not my shining moment, of course, but it happened. As most of you know, I’m also a fan of web 2.0 and the whole I’m-John Vanderslice-and-I-support-music-blogs-and-free-mp3-downloads. Yes, I do.

If you don’t already know: Nine Inch Nail has made their album downloadable. Full quality. I love love love them.

And then Radiohead, same basic concept. But add sustainability.

I float on tag clouds and blog fog

Inspired by Clay

A little cloud poetry:

today wish world peace

want sounds music party

wish today heard

art body love happy

listening: life teachers, thanks

think. thinking. thought.

going, doing, writing

ideas “hows” hope

@cburell, life loved, education learning

@dmcordell favorite tutu

@ohcloudydreamer love the conversation

@bassman_sean band rocks, new music

@kevinwalter (heart)

@soojinlee learner.

@taylorteacher you’re real horrorshow

@jennyluca pgc learning

@jphilipson first real person!

watching makes learning

people discussion makes thinking

nice night nice life

Frankl, my dear, I do give a damn.

Part 1: You have taunted me with your philosophical ways.

“He who has a why to live for can bear with almost any how.” – Nietzsche

When I first finished Man’s Search for Meaning, by Frankl, I felt as though I had discovered something that I’d known all along but couldn’t express clearly (or at all). This is where I would find happiness, I thought. In meaning I will be fulfilled. It didn’t seem that it would be hard, because I’ve always been able to take my own personal meaning away from experiences and ideas. But is this the type of meaning that Frankl describes? Would I survive torture for these simple meanings and connections that I make with the world around me? After thinking about this for a while, I decided that he must have meant a bigger meaning, something much greater than these little observations I make about my world. So what is my why that Nietzsche talks about?

An infallible why, I’ve realized, is hard to find. Even the larger ideas of God or faith in a person or institution can crumble sometimes, and there is nothing left to hold on to. The ideas or faith may come back eventually, but it doesn’t change the fact that there are moments when they’re gone, and the suffering Frankl talks about seems meaningless. Because suffering for a meaning isn’t really suffering, it’s martyrdom. It’s done proudly and with reason. But suffering when that meaning is lost (albeit temporarily) is the worst kind of suffering. In the absence of why, the how becomes both infinitely bleak and impossible to overcome. (Though for me, luckily, it has always resolved itself eventually.)

When meaning is lost, is a sense of responsibility lost also? If it’s felt that there is no meaning or no purpose in a life, is there any reason to go on living it? Frankl says no, and it’s clear that those men in the concentration camps who have lost the meaning have no interest in life (that one part about the prisoner laying in bed all day, not eating, not drinking, defecating in his pants was gruesome). In the non-concentration camp lives, if meaning is temporarily lost, and responsibility is temporarily lost along with that meaning, doesn’t society impose certain consequences? For example, if a student temporarily lost her sense of the why that got her through the how of SATs and college applications, and went off to find her meaning again, wouldn’t she be punished by not getting into college and having all of those opportunities that come along with that? When does personal meaning take priority over society’s requirements for success? Or does personal meaning take shape when we assume our, and by direct extension, society’s, responsibilities? Do we really have a choice in whether we assume certain responsibilities, or do we have no choice but to empower ourselves and make meaning out of what we have?

Part 2: Your mysterious nature has obsessed me. And after a weekend of “meaning”, “existential vacuum”, “collective” and “individual” spinning in my mind over and over (causing me to brood like a misanthropic loner), I finally compressed some of my mad inner monologue.

The idea of not having any meaning in my life makes me think of the man lying in the concentration camp, smoking all of his cigarettes and throwing himself into the electric fence. It’s one that makes me think of a sleepwalker, numb to all pain and passion. It reminds me of overdoses, uncried tears, depression, tied nooses, a handgun, walking in the middle of a busy street, and emptiness. In the search for meaning in my life, there are times when these thoughts will happen, regardless of how together I may have it at one moment. A mind searching for meaning can easily become an existential vacuum, filled with meaningless suffering.

In the times of the vacuum, many unanswerable questions cross my mind. Questions like, Can I be an unhypocritical individual and still live amongst the collective? Do I have control over my life, or is it completely controlled by forces that I don’t have control over (such as society)? Will I ever have a solid meaning in my life that I can hold onto and trust? Are there any definite rights or wrongs? Does success come from within or without? Do I owe anybody anything by just existing? These questions feel like vultures circling in the sky of my mind, waiting for the kill.

I said in my last paper, “An infallible ‘why’, I’ve realized, is hard to find. Even the larger ideas of God or faith in a person or institution can crumble sometimes, and there is nothing left to hold on to.” I believe this is true. All of these things can be rendered meaningless in an instant. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I’ve come up with two possible solutions.

Solution 1: It’s true that religion or a person or an institution can all come crashing down, but I can still choose to put my faith in that thing and commit myself to it. Faith itself (not the religion, person, etc) is where the meaning comes from. Using these things as tools, I may be able to find my meaning. People find their meaning through these things all the time, and then find happiness; that’s why they try and convert other people. But I think it should be remembered that the path to meaning is different for everybody, and needs to be respected

Solution 2: The search for meaning in life can become the meaning itself. That is to say that the exact answer will never be found completely, but the search, with all of its critical thinking/feeling, journeys, failed paths, momentary disappointments and triumphs, love, suffering, happiness, etc, becomes more powerful and meaningful because I am constantly searching for that higher meaning. Solution 2 is like the meta search for meaning. It’s more lucid, because I’m always critically thinking about the events and feelings in my life, and questioning them. It’s turning life into one big trip around the critical thinking wheel.

As for the momentary periods of existential vacuum, those times go along with the territory of searching for meaning. Without empty space, nothing can be added or filled in. The existential vacuum could be the time when my mind is readying itself for another clue to the bigger meaning. It could be giving the Universe an opportunity to fill my mind. (In which case the vacuum itself becomes more meaningful, and therefore less of a vacuum.)

Or, the time of the vacuum and the filled space could both be illusions created by my own mind, and I might actually know what my meaning of life is if I free my mind and accept it.

Who know? (And if you do, tell me.)

Meme: High School Daze to Praise

Meme Rules:

- Select and briefly review one teen novel, classic or modern, which is a sure antidote to the daze of high school.

-Title your post Meme: High School Daze to Praise

-Include an image with your post.

-Tag four blogger colleagues.

I’ve read a lot of books in my life, some painfully bad, some life changing. Bad or good, they’ve all taught me something about who I am and what the meaning of my life is. The perfectly organized printed words have always spoken to me deeply, of life, of love, of hope. The one book that has taught me the most about myself and the world, however, would have to be Gossip Girl.

Gossip Girl has given me so many insights into who I am as a person, and it’s educated me about how society works and what I need to do to be popular, which is the most important thing a person can be. It’s taken me on a journey of discovery, and now I know that what you wear really does define who you are. How could you forget the main lesson? No publicity is bad publicity, and you are no one unless you are talked about.

Of course, there is always the relationship advice that I’ve gleaned from its wondrous pages. Now I know that it’s ok to sleep with your best friends boyfriend, as long as she doesn’t find out. And it’s also ok if your boyfriend cares more about his pot stash than you, as long is he is hot and rich.

Since all of my friends have read it, it provides the valuable opportunity to have in depth book discussions on the subtext of this book. We ask essential questions like, is it moral to wear a Marc Jacobs bag from last season, even if you really like it? and what are the consequences of buying underwear from La Perla, even if no one is going to see them?

Gossip Girl gets you through those high school daze, because, first of all, it teaches you about the important things in life (cliques, gossip, important things to buy, your real place in life if you weren’t born into the right families), and second of all, because it is a book for the masses. It shows us that the rules society places on us are very important to our happiness. It is not good to be alone in doing something. It is not good to not have lots of friends. This book has taught me that it’s ok to be like everyone else. In fact, it’s better than ok.

You know you love me.

Xoxo,

Gossip Girl

Tagged:

Mr. Schauble

Ms. Davis

Novel Dame

Hannah

Ah!!!

I wrote a post that made no sense but was really funny. It also outlined my two operations for this weekend that are to be completed. Then wordpress spazzed out and deleted it!!! Uncle Frick! This upsets me deeply.

I fear at this late hour, there is nothing for me to do but to return to my bed of pain. And I mean that facetiously. I am not in a literal bed of pain.
Quick outline of operations:

1. Operation Wacky: This calls upon the innate human need to leave the normalcy of sane insanity and bridge out into the depths of wackiness. Very existential.

2. Operation Get-Life-Back-In-Order: Switch my down duvet to my organic New Zealand wool blanket. Put clothes away. Map out study schedule for the rest of the year. Make hipster PDA. Make list of priorities. Don’t make a list of things that you need to do in Operation G-L-B-I-O and put “make list of priorities” at the end of said list. It’s obviously is a sign that your priorities are out of order.

So that is it my friends.

Oh yes, and in Operation #2, it included skyping with Tutu and Sean, and WRITING BLOG POSTS FOR Students 2.0 and PGC. Because, gosh, when was the last time you did that you lazy mistress of death? (And by “mistress of death” I mean myself. It’s a nickname that we have for me. And by “we” I mean myself as well, and not some group of people living in my head. Glad that clarifies things.)

This needs to come to an end now. I’m frightening the children.

Experimenting with writing styles…

This is an article I wrote for the school newspaper’s April Fools edition. It was published in the Sports section. I’m writing it from the point of view of someone who hates sports.

I was planning on spending a couple of hours writing a response to Satre’s Humanism of Existentialism, but I put it aside when an unnamed sports fan insisted that this may be the last chance to attend what he referred to as a “championship”. I was not eager; I confess I don’t know balls. I am no a sports fan.

I went with him to this game for two reasons only: 1) to shove the most convenient form of high glucose corn syrup I can find into any/all open orifices and 2) to seek out the clandestine contrast between brown and pale skin on the upper thigh. After seeing the teenage boy’s short shorts in Basketball Diaries, I was determined to seek out the illustrious Tan Line. I find the line between tan and ghostly white on the thigh area very fascinating. To me, it is the highest form of avant garde art.

Balls. What are balls any ways? Think about it. Balls sum up the Great Human Condition. They go one way across the field, only to be pushed back to the other side. There are no exits for the balls. They must remain in the game forever. It’s Tragic. I wept bitter tears over my ketchup-smeared hot dog. “The balls! The balls! The horror!” I muttered.

As I was sitting there in the stands weeping like a senior that has just received their first rejection letter, an enthused fan ignited the crowd with something called “The Wave”. For those of you unfamiliar with “The Wave”, it is a cult-minded movement of the body, where people raise there arms and gyrate their hips in synchronicity. It all happened so fast that I was left sitting alone in a forest of swaying, fleshy limbs and sensible shoes. “NO!” I cried. It quickly became clear to me that I was in the midst of fascist anarchy at its purest mob-mentality form. Hallucinations that I doubt the most pitiful LSD victim ever saw flooded my senses; swastikas swirled and “Hiel Hitler!” echoed in my ears.

Then it hit me: what I should really be afraid of are the losers. These people may all be on some Spectators High now, but later they will have come to the Championship as Princes only to leave as Toads. That, I have now learned, is when the Fear hits. The Fear can be seen in the deep black pits of the losing side’s eyes. Soon the black pits become satanically red. This is when the Fear grips the observer like a cold, spiny hand around the neck. The Fear’s slow thighs follow you, even the next day, even to the concession stand.

But let’s not worry about the Fear now. I have come to the grand Sports Ring to see SPORTS, not bawl hysterically over balls and break out in nervous sweat because of the Fear. No one can be expected to handle a situation like That.

Let’s get back to some semblance of sanity. Tan Lines. The Tan Line is a sacred thing. To outline the brief history, the first recorded Tan Line was in 369 B.C., during an interglacial period (also known as global warming). The Neanderthals drew elaborate pictures on the cave walls of hunched men with toga-like tan lines on their shoulders and calves. The Tan Line took a quick break during the first Olympics, where the players went nude. It was a happy one for the nudists and voyeurs but a very, very sad day for the Tan Line.

But what these boys—or should I say men?—wore went below my lowest expectations, literally. My ideal, The Great American Shorts, are supposed to come up to the athlete’s upper thigh, showing off the contrast of white to brown. These shorts shocked my system beyond recognition, coming down to the fool’s MID CALF! How am I supposed to observe the Tan Line? How dare you suck out all the joy and happiness from this reporter’s life. Yes, you. I know where you live. This covering of thigh brought out the raging feminist in me. This isn’t the 1800’s, for God’s sake. I really am not offended by seeing some ankle.

Sitting there in the stands, I contemplated my situation. This “game” had been going on for what seemed like days. Was I merely waiting on these ridiculous elevated benches for something that would never come to an end?

And then it came. The purely sublime end buzzer.

Oh yeah, the score was 75-43.