Freshman

There are a few events that occur in life that, as they happen, you may become acutely self-aware to idea that “this will probably never happen again”. Obviously, as we grow and times and situations change, certain backdrops to life become book-ended chapters that can be looked back upon, but rarely relived. For example, after the age of 18, the concept of “high school” and the life that goes along with it, becomes a page in a closed chapter. And while I can sit with my friends and recall the good times we had at play rehearsals, or remember exactly what it felt like to sit in class and learn geometry, I can never ACTUALLY go back and relive it. Similarly, college is another rare opportunity in life, perhaps more significant than high school that it becomes the backdrop for truly entering adulthood, coming into one’s own as a person and learning everything there is to know about sex, drugs, drinking and Easy Mac- those last golden years before the intense pressure of the real world takes hold and “Boozeday Tuesday” is a relevant part of the lexicon.

Yesterday, at about 2:00 in the afternoon, I trudged from Walsh Library to Alumni Court North in the cold fall rain. I made a brief stop in the deli under Queens Court to grab a drink, made my way across the court into the functional looking freshman dorm, climbed the stairs to the second floor, entered the room, threw my bags down and heated up some Easy Mac in the contraband microwave under the bed. Lounging on the floor, enjoying my soggy mac and cheese concoction, I flipped on some meaningless reality show on MTV and pondered the fact that I had no full time job to speak of. No real responsibility. All I really had to worry about was eating my Easy Mac, and nothing more. It was a good afternoon to be in this little shoebox dorm room, with not a care in the world, and someone quite obviously smoking pot in the bathroom across the hall.

If you had told me seven years ago, when I actually LIVED that life, in that same building, one floor above that seven years later, at age 25 I’d inexplicably be doing it again on this cold, raw afternoon, I never would have believed it. Impossible. How? Well, first, I guess it should be noted that my brother is now a freshman at Fordham, living in the same dorm I lived in seven years ago. I made the trip up to the campus to hitch a ride home with my dad, who was picking Tom up so we could all go home to have dinner for dad’s birthday. Ironically, it was also the last day of my life a full-time, city-commuting worker.

I got a new job, I swear. But it doesn’t start until January, so I’m left in this sort of freelance purgatory from now until then, living off my freelance money, DJ money and whatever other checks I can scrounge up from some of my other money-making ventures. It makes me feel guilty on one hand, while the rest of the world wakes up early to go to work, I stay home and go to the gym. On the other hand, I know that I’m focused in my long term goals, and if I have to spend some time at home in the interim, then so be it.

Either way, when looking forward, it’s always nice to be able to look back and relive those rare moments once in a while.

If You Want A Great Meal Without A Big Deal

Every once in a while a food product comes along that is just so enticing, so damn sexy, that it becomes my mission to eat it, regardless of the nutritional pitfalls it may present. It's interesting to note that, in many ways, things aren't much different from the days of being so taken with the idea of Pac-Man cereal that it became my top priority in the world to eat it. And while the days of puffed corn Pac-Men and his marshmallow tormentors have long since disappeared, I do still enjoy a hearty breakfast once in a while, which leads me to my current food fascination..

Now breakfast, in general, is not a meal I take lightly. I always go out of my way to eat a healthy breakfast, usually oatmeal, fruit, egg whites...things of that nature. But once in a while, especially after a night of heavy drinking, nothing hits the spot like a good, greasy "bacon egg and cheese on a roll". Capitalizing on that guilty pleasure, the good folks at Nestle Foods have concocted an unhealthy breakfast spinoff of one of my more prudent nutritional staples (the almighty Lean Pocket Ultra Meatballs & Mozzarella)....

Behold HOT POCKETS BRAND BACON EGG AND CHEESE BISCUITS!



Described on the Hot Pockets website as: "Fluffy eggs and savory bacon inside a tasty tender biscuit crust. The perfect hearty sandwich when you're on-the-go!"

Boy they weren't kidding. As a Lean Pockets Ultra enthusiast, I felt somewhat dirty crossing on to the wrong side of the tracks and purchasing the "unhealthy" type of Hot Pocket sandwich, complete with 13g of fat in one little artificial biscuit. But I couldn't resist. I at least had to TRY them. And I'm happy to report, as I sit here enjoying it on the last day of my pointless 3 week consultation job, that it was well worth it. With a banana and Kellog's Smart Start breakfast bar meaningless thrown to the side of the desk, today is the day for the biscuit pocket to shine.

A little smaller in size than a CD, the biscuit is as light and fluffy as promised (although if I were home I would totally be putting butter spray on it) and the inside is a breakfast orgy of bright yellow egg-list-substance, blazingly bright stringy cheese and brown bits of bacon-ish meat. It took about 10 bites to eat and truth be told, I could most likely easily inhale two of these if I wanted.

Tomorrow, I'll be back to fruit and healthy heart oatmeal, but my little fling with the breakfast orgy biscuit will not be forgotten, and will most likely happen again in my next moment of weakness in the frozen foods aisle. Good job Hot Pockets. You've done it again.

Sickness

I have a cold. It sucks. My nose is dripping, I'm sneezing and coughing, and worst of all- I'm sickly pale. God damn you germs and viruses.

Inappropriate Behavior.

I have a problem. I need to get this out. What the FUCK is up with sea-hag looking middle-aged women on Myspace with glittery, sparkling, photo strewn profiles with so much shit in them it freezes up your hard drive.

Let me get this straight. You are 38 years old (or so your profile says, although I suspect in reality you probably grew up watching first-run episodes of The Andy Griffith Show). You are NOT 19. NOT 19. You look like the troll under the bridge. Literally. You have 3 hellspawn children, pictures aptly thrown all around your profile with captions like "me n my daughter- isn't she hot?" or "my little men". You have badly lit, cheap webcam pictures of yourself in a horrific attempt to look "sexy" (usually with a photo caption underneath that reads "aren't I sexy?")

Absolutely horrifying. I get these friend requests constantly. And much like slowing down to watch a car crash on the Turnpike, I'll always click "view profile" and look at all of the nauseating sexy-face pictures, all of the stock-photo images of the half-naked guys, the glittering roses, the create-your-own logo "#1 BITCH!". It's astounding how disturbed I am by this.

Sometimes the things people do with themselves never fail to amaze me.

Ask Dr. Baden...If You Haven't Figured It Out Yourself

Some of you, who may be privileged enough to indulge in such luxuries as premium cable channels, might know of a little HBO series called "Autopsy". "Autopsy", complete with overly dramatic reinactments, somber voiceovers and images of toe-tagged dead people, is everything you could possibly ask for when theres nothing else on TV and you have a good hour or so to kill before bedtime. All of the stories are tied together by Dr. Michael Baden, whose credentials I am too lazy to start looking up- but he's the Medical Examiner dude who solves all the cases.



So, in this "very special" installment of the Autopsy series, viewers are allowed to write in ask things like "why did my babies die?", which leads me to the very point of this entry- Why did your babies die? BECAUSE YOUR FAT ASS SUFFOCATED THEM IN THE BED!

No I'm serious.

Terrie Petrie, this rather rotund lady from Canada with really bad 80's looking hair, writes to Dr. Baden to figure out how her babies died. One, a little girl died and two years later, a set of twins died. All of them died after sleeping the bed with her. Now, it probably doesn't take a rocket sceintist to put two and two together here. Actually, it took me about 2 minutes to figure this one out. This bangs-sporting fat chick rolled on top of her babies and suffocated them to death. Three times.

You successfully managed to suffocate three of your children, and you needed Dr. Baden to help you figure that one out? Lady, I could've told you that in three minutes. Perhaps an episode of "Extreme Makeover" would suit you more.

But for future reference- it's called a fucking crib. And I'm sorry, I swear to God I am not trying to make light of anybody losing a child, but in the interview segment, Terrie tries to explain how sleeping in the bed with babies is supposed to create a bond or something (as if breastfeeding isn't enough). Dr. Baden counters it by saying "in the 1800's, these sort of deaths were so common that cribs were created, and its why people use them today".

Absolutely priceless. Again, it's called a crib.