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(02/14/07 1:33am)
It was Feb. 14. I was 16 years old. I sat in a cafeteria decorated with pink and red crepe paper streamers. As high school students awkwardly danced to the Sugar Hill Gang's "Rapper's Delight" I picked up shiny sequins shaped like Cupids and stuck them into the flame of a candle's romantic mood lighting until their bodies shriveled and produced a pungent black smoke that made my lungs hurt.\nI was celebrating a holiday devoted to ambiguous social values, Whitman's Sampler chocolates and fat babies with wings. And I'm not talking about Flag Day here. \nMost people seem annoyed on Feb. 14 -- annoyed that being single is being rubbed in their faces or annoyed that they feel obligated to celebrate a manufactured holiday with magnetic kissing bears. How did we end up with these customs of giving flowers and gluing heart-shaped doilies? The following is a historical analysis of our Valentine's Day roots based purely on blind speculation.\nThe beginning of Valentine's Day might be traced back to ancient Roman times when the markets were stocked with V-Day merchandise many months in advance of the holiday to ward off evil spirits.\nWhile we're on the subject of ancient Rome, let's revisit fat babies. In Roman mythology the winged god Cupid (known to the Greeks as Carl) liked to spread love around like I Can't Believe It's Not Butter on a toasted English muffin. He is often portrayed as an armed baby, ready to shoot you with his love arrows.\nThe idea that Cupid is actually the missing evolutionary link between babies and birds remains unexplored. An entire race of Cupids could have potentially served as secret weapons in times of war. Releasing an entire airborne fleet of arrow-shooting babies at the exact strategic moment could make or break your battle. At the very least they could create a free online dating service.\nLove first became associated with Valentine's Day through the medical community. The slew of chocolates, roses and the power of love on Feb. 14 was used as an experimental treatment for smallpox. Many people died.\nHow did Valentine's Day become such a huge card-giving holiday?\nIn the 20th century, greeting card companies were losing their footing. The greeting card industry is the bedrock of the American economy. The unemployment lines were filled with greeting card writers. Little Timmy couldn't eat dinner that night because Daddy's poems just weren't quite clever enough. People started buying Valentine's Day cards -- not for love -- but as an act of patriotism to keep our country afloat and to feed little Timmy.\nOf course, Al Capone taught us that the best way to celebrate Valentine's Day is with gang warfare. The Valentine's Day Massacre of 1929 went down in Chicago when Bugs Moran refused to be Capone's valentine. Seven members of Moran's gang were killed. The original valentine that Capone sent to Moran had the following poem written in glitter glue:\n"This bootleg whiskey sure is good. Please don't sell it in my 'hood. This territory is mine. All mine. Will you be my valentine"
(02/08/07 5:00am)
As I eagerly looked online at the list of nominees for the 49th annual Grammy Awards this Sunday, I was shocked to see that my name wasn't on the list. I'm so tired of being snubbed by the Recording Academy. Sure, I'm not a recording artist, per se. I've never released an album. I've never even performed karaoke. But if the Black Eyed Peas can get a Grammy nomination for "My Humps," why can't I?\nI never expected to actually win a Grammy. I'm not that naive. But it could at least throw me a nomination as a gesture of its respect for my work. I didn't ask to be nominated for song of the year. But the academy could've at least nominated me for best new age album or maybe best polka album.\nIf you're like me, you weren't nominated for a Grammy, either. I suggest we boycott the ceremony. Here's a list of six things you can do instead of watching the Grammys:\n1. Give back \nto the \ncommunity\nSure, the Grammys have shiny, gilded gramophone statuettes, but there's another kind of grammy that you may find drinking Metamucil or watching "Matlock." And she doesn't always get the attention she deserves. Volunteer at a retirement home and get to know some real grammies.\n2. Try a new recipe \nExperimenting in the kitchen can be liberating. Never underestimate the versatility of crackers, specifically graham-y crackers. They come in honey and cinnamon. Magic happens when you add toasted marshmallows and chocolate. \n3. Explore your spiritual side\n"If we had more hell in the pulpit, we would have less hell in the pew." These are the words of Christian evangelist Billy Graham-y. While you might not agree with his views or his hairstyle, it doesn't hurt to think about and debate the issues he brings up.\n4. Improve your communication skills\nSo you call yourself a master of the English language, eh? Oh … you don't? Well, I don't neither. This Sunday I plan to study grammar-y. I'd like to introduce you to my new best friends Subject-Verb Agreement, Comma Splice, Misplaced Modifier and Ted the Run-on Sentence.\n5. Explore the \nmetric system\nUnits of measurement are always a controversial subject. The United States seems to be sticking with miles, inches and bushels while most of the world thinks the metric system is superior. You can't knock it 'til you try it. Convert your weight to gram-y's.\n6. Check out \nspace-related \ntechnology\nWhen was the last time you looked into what NASA is doing? It has some pretty crazy stuff, like the Global Reference Atmospheric model, otherwise known as a GRAM-y. I'm not entirely sure what this model does, but you should check it out.\nIf these suggestions don't suit your fancy and you still need an activity to do this Sunday during the Grammys, you can take suggestions from the Black Eyes Peas and meet a girl down at the disco, start some drama, spend money on Dolce & Gabbana or find something to do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk.
(02/08/07 4:50am)
As I eagerly looked online at the list of nominees for the 49th annual Grammy Awards this Sunday, I was shocked to see that my name wasn't on the list. I'm so tired of being snubbed by the Recording Academy. Sure, I'm not a recording artist, per se. I've never released an album. I've never even performed karaoke. But if the Black Eyed Peas can get a Grammy nomination for "My Humps," why can't I?\nI never expected to actually win a Grammy. I'm not that naive. But it could at least throw me a nomination as a gesture of its respect for my work. I didn't ask to be nominated for song of the year. But the academy could've at least nominated me for best new age album or maybe best polka album.\nIf you're like me, you weren't nominated for a Grammy, either. I suggest we boycott the ceremony. Here's a list of six things you can do instead of watching the Grammys:\n1. Give back \nto the \ncommunity\nSure, the Grammys have shiny, gilded gramophone statuettes, but there's another kind of grammy that you may find drinking Metamucil or watching "Matlock." And she doesn't always get the attention she deserves. Volunteer at a retirement home and get to know some real grammies.\n2. Try a new recipe \nExperimenting in the kitchen can be liberating. Never underestimate the versatility of crackers, specifically graham-y crackers. They come in honey and cinnamon. Magic happens when you add toasted marshmallows and chocolate. \n3. Explore your spiritual side\n"If we had more hell in the pulpit, we would have less hell in the pew." These are the words of Christian evangelist Billy Graham-y. While you might not agree with his views or his hairstyle, it doesn't hurt to think about and debate the issues he brings up.\n4. Improve your communication skills\nSo you call yourself a master of the English language, eh? Oh … you don't? Well, I don't neither. This Sunday I plan to study grammar-y. I'd like to introduce you to my new best friends Subject-Verb Agreement, Comma Splice, Misplaced Modifier and Ted the Run-on Sentence.\n5. Explore the \nmetric system\nUnits of measurement are always a controversial subject. The United States seems to be sticking with miles, inches and bushels while most of the world thinks the metric system is superior. You can't knock it 'til you try it. Convert your weight to gram-y's.\n6. Check out \nspace-related \ntechnology\nWhen was the last time you looked into what NASA is doing? It has some pretty crazy stuff, like the Global Reference Atmospheric model, otherwise known as a GRAM-y. I'm not entirely sure what this model does, but you should check it out.\nIf these suggestions don't suit your fancy and you still need an activity to do this Sunday during the Grammys, you can take suggestions from the Black Eyes Peas and meet a girl down at the disco, start some drama, spend money on Dolce & Gabbana or find something to do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk.
(02/06/07 11:57pm)
I experienced a phenomenon recently when I was visiting home. I was up in my room doing whatever it is I do (probably playing with matches or reading Judy Blume). Suddenly I heard my mother's voice calling from downstairs. She uttered those words that no one ever expects to hear.\n"Come look! I'm vacuuming the cat."\nMy mother was indeed using the ultimate sucking power of the hose attachment to groom the cat. Shockingly, the cat didn't mind. I may never understand what possessed my mom to find out whether or not the cat liked being vacuumed, but it was an inventive solution to the ubiquitous cat-hair problem.\nI think it's important to note that Mom was using an ordinary vacuum cleaner -- well, an ordinary vacuum cleaner circa 1963. But nonetheless, it was a machine designed to collect debris from household floors rather than the beloved family pet.\nI note the use of an ordinary vacuum cleaner because, after careful research, I found a product specifically designed for sucking hair off your dog and or cat. Ladies and gentlemen, I present -- the PetVac. For only $29.95 (plus shipping and handling) you can show your furry pet just how much you care by vacuuming it.\nThe PetVac Web site displays a before-and-after picture to demonstrate the product's effectiveness. \nBefore: A woman, roughly 60 years old, kneels on the floor like a frazzled walrus covered with splotches of black fur as she feebly attempts to groom her rottweiler with an ordinary brush (big mistake). Her mouth is open as she squints with a wild, pained expression. One can only assume she is making a noise much like that of Chewbacca the wookiee as she screams out in frustration.\nAfter: The woman easily sucks loose hairs from the coat of her rottweiler using the PetVac. There's no stray fur ball in sight. No fuss. No muss. The woman likely added at least six months to her life, improved the strained relationship between her and her dog and gained lots of extra time to fight stormtroopers.\nIt just seems odd to vacuum a living creature, unless of course you have an evil ladybug infestation. But a household appliance specifically engineered to clean man's best friend in a way that was once reserved only for the floor says a lot. In a word: progress. The PetVac is just the kind of quick fix that America was built upon. We like to cut out the middle man and get instant results. \nPeople want 30-second Indian food from the microwave. They want their porn to download faster. They want Microsoft Word to auto-format documents in ways they never imagined or even asked for.\nWe've come a long way. I hate to imagine what it was like to be a pioneer using an ordinary vacuum to clean the buffalo hair out of the covered wagon.\nI'm eager to see what the future holds for us in the way of innovative vacuum technology. Perhaps by the time I reach child-rearing readiness they'll develop a BabyVac.
(02/01/07 5:00am)
Ever since Nintendo came out with the Wii, marijuana connoisseurs everywhere are a little more confused than usual. Maybe this is just because I'm on a college campus, but I've heard many complaints that "Wii" sounds almost exactly like "weed." Thus, there are many misunderstandings to be had. Where's the best place to score some Wii? Should they legalize Wii? Blaze the Wii out there.\nPsychoactive drugs aside, my first Wii experience was captivating. It was Wii Sports at a friend's house. I made a digital character that looked just like me and I named it Ramrod. I was brand new to the concept of Wii, and the idea of people accidentally flinging their remotes into their televisions in the heat of the moment was both hilarious and exhilarating. God bless wrist straps. \nWhen I was in high school, I played varsity golf and competed twice in the state finals (Are you impressed? Will you go out with me?), but I managed to sextuple bogie playing Wii golf. I gave up after the first hole.\nI managed to redeem myself by pitching a no-hitter in Wii baseball. The best part was when the game zoomed in on my character's carefully chosen condescending smirk every time I struck out my opponent.\nBut I have a confession to make. It wasn't my mad skillz that made me excel at Wii baseball. My friend was just really, really, exceedingly, horribly bad at it. And, well, I don't know how to say this without bringing eternal shame to myself and my family, but…I suck at video games. I just randomly hit buttons and hope for the best.\nI wasn't allowed to have video games when I was a kid. I missed out on a huge part of American culture. I have trouble relating to my video-gaming friends. When my friends were growing up, they played "Donkey Kong." Now, in college, they play Drunkey Kong. Mario was their best childhood buddy, and I didn't really know him that well. Awkward. \nI've been roped into playing "Halo" many times, and I usually die within the first 30 seconds. My killing skills are severely lacking. I wish I could be as blood-thirsty as my peers.\nDuring my childhood I didn't really feel like I was missing out on anything without video games. I was more interested in creativity and imagination. Lame, I know. \nI was, however, allowed to play educational computer games. As a small child I learned basic math from Alf. I learned precision target shooting with a hunting simulation game. Imagine a 7-year-old girl sitting at a dinosaur of a computer shooting clay pigeons. Sadly, those marksmanship skills haven't translated well to high-powered assault rifles.\nBut no one is immune to the concept of gaming. I'm usually the first person to whip out my cell phone and start playing "Tetris" in life's boring situations. I was vaguely interested in "Grand Theft Auto" when my friends taught me the cheat codes for going on a rampage with a golf cart and a chainsaw.\nIf I was handed a video game controller as soon as I emerged from the womb, just like the other members of my generation, I might be better at Wii putting.
(02/01/07 3:51am)
Ever since Nintendo came out with the Wii, marijuana connoisseurs everywhere are a little more confused than usual. Maybe this is just because I'm on a college campus, but I've heard many complaints that "Wii" sounds almost exactly like "weed." Thus, there are many misunderstandings to be had. Where's the best place to score some Wii? Should they legalize Wii? Blaze the Wii out there.\nPsychoactive drugs aside, my first Wii experience was captivating. It was Wii Sports at a friend's house. I made a digital character that looked just like me and I named it Ramrod. I was brand new to the concept of Wii, and the idea of people accidentally flinging their remotes into their televisions in the heat of the moment was both hilarious and exhilarating. God bless wrist straps. \nWhen I was in high school, I played varsity golf and competed twice in the state finals (Are you impressed? Will you go out with me?), but I managed to sextuple bogie playing Wii golf. I gave up after the first hole.\nI managed to redeem myself by pitching a no-hitter in Wii baseball. The best part was when the game zoomed in on my character's carefully chosen condescending smirk every time I struck out my opponent.\nBut I have a confession to make. It wasn't my mad skillz that made me excel at Wii baseball. My friend was just really, really, exceedingly, horribly bad at it. And, well, I don't know how to say this without bringing eternal shame to myself and my family, but…I suck at video games. I just randomly hit buttons and hope for the best.\nI wasn't allowed to have video games when I was a kid. I missed out on a huge part of American culture. I have trouble relating to my video-gaming friends. When my friends were growing up, they played "Donkey Kong." Now, in college, they play Drunkey Kong. Mario was their best childhood buddy, and I didn't really know him that well. Awkward. \nI've been roped into playing "Halo" many times, and I usually die within the first 30 seconds. My killing skills are severely lacking. I wish I could be as blood-thirsty as my peers.\nDuring my childhood I didn't really feel like I was missing out on anything without video games. I was more interested in creativity and imagination. Lame, I know. \nI was, however, allowed to play educational computer games. As a small child I learned basic math from Alf. I learned precision target shooting with a hunting simulation game. Imagine a 7-year-old girl sitting at a dinosaur of a computer shooting clay pigeons. Sadly, those marksmanship skills haven't translated well to high-powered assault rifles.\nBut no one is immune to the concept of gaming. I'm usually the first person to whip out my cell phone and start playing "Tetris" in life's boring situations. I was vaguely interested in "Grand Theft Auto" when my friends taught me the cheat codes for going on a rampage with a golf cart and a chainsaw.\nIf I was handed a video game controller as soon as I emerged from the womb, just like the other members of my generation, I might be better at Wii putting.
(01/31/07 4:11am)
Everyone needs a BFF. That means "best friend forever." I'm not trying to be condescending. There are some people who don't know what it stands for. I always used to think it meant "big fruit flavor," and that doesn't even make sense.\nA BFF is not just an ordinary best friend. Don't get me wrong: An ordinary best friend is great for slumber parties, pillow fights, telling secrets and planning elaborate heists. But a BFF would take a bullet for you. A BFF would lie to a grand jury for you. A BFF would sit through any Mary-Kate and Ashley movie with you, no questions asked.\nYou know what's even better than having a BFF? Being my BFF. I know there is a pool of highly qualified candidates out there. That's why I'm starting a rigorous selection process. I am now officially accepting applications for the position of BFF. I'm looking for that ideal friend who everyone wants -- someone with lots of money and low self-esteem.\nCould this lucky person be you?\nThe ideal BFF will be good-looking. I'm also seeking someone who is cool, organized, a self-starter, motivated and skilled in the martial arts. Knowledge of Microsoft Excel is a plus.\nThe job description is as simple and golden as true friendship. My BFF would be in charge of: being my friend, protecting me from ninjas, answering my phone, preparing delicious snacks for the two of us to enjoy, organizing weekly Mary-Kate and Ashley marathons, impersonating a crossing guard when the time is right, corresponding with foreign embassies, telling me I'm special, completing various office administration tasks and softly singing me to sleep every night with Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes."\nIf you are chosen as my BFF, you must wear the designated friendship charm bracelet at all times. But don't wear it in the shower because that could disable its embedded GPS tracking device.\nTo apply for the position, send me your resume with references, medical history, a portfolio of past friendship experience and answers to the following essay questions:\nWhat does friendship mean to you? If you had to choose between doing my laundry, doing my homework or cleaning my kitchen, which would you choose and why? What are three methods for erasing your personal identity? Why is it important to keep your BFF pager on at all times? Why would being my BFF be the greatest experience of your life?\nBenefits include a 401(k) plan, stock options and all the lollipops you can eat. Submit applications via e-mail. \nYou will be notified within two weeks if you make it to the final BFF elimination round. Upon notification, you will receive detailed instructions for the last BFF challenge where you will compete against the other finalists for the ultimate prize -- my friendship. Bring shark repellent.
(01/24/07 12:38am)
We could all learn a lesson from Justin Timberlake.\nHe showed a lot of initiative when he brought sexy back. He recognized a sexy-shaped void in our world and filled it. \nMaybe it's time for each of us to bring something back. But first we have to consider the consequences. You can't just bring stuff back willy-nilly. For example, bringing people back from the dead always seems like a good idea until zombies are trying to eat your flesh. \nOriginally JT was going to sing, "I'm bringing zombies back/So run away because they will attack," but that was too dangerous. Sexy was actually a less un-dead alternative that ultimately trumped flesh-eating monsters for song-lyric material.\nPop stars aren't the only people with the power to resurrect stuff. I have a list of things I want to bring back. First on my list was sexy, but clearly that's already back. \nThe next obvious choice on the list is dinosaurs. But once again we must consider the consequences of bringing something back. Yes, I've seen "Jurassic Park." Using prehistoric DNA to clone dinosaurs might be a bad idea. The fact that the dinosaurs would eventually run amuck and start killing people is only a surface problem. \nThe film never addressed the real social problem of dinosaur discrimination. I don't think our society is in a very dinosaur-tolerant place. T-Rexes and stegosauruses, with their giant tales and people-crushing capacity, would likely be treated as third-class citizens. Spielberg merely perpetuated this attitude by banishing the beasts to that island ghetto.\nSo dinos are out. \nIf I can't bring back my own fleet of pterodactyls, I'd like to bring back my favorite form of medieval weaponry. No, not the pike or the mace. I would bring back the crossbow. I'm not talking about any ordinary crossbow. I'd like to see flaming arrows make a comeback.\nThe noble archer stands outside the castle wall, near the mote. Orange flames leap in front of him as he angles his arms upward and aims just beyond the battlements with the hope of starting a fire. \nWhy don't we see that anymore?\nI know crossbows aren't completely obsolete. They can be used in archery, hunting and whale research. Those uses include ordinary, nonflaming arrows. I want fire and lots of it. The drama of firing a crossbow can only truly be accentuated by the pageantry of fire. Bringing flaming crossbows back means expanding their use beyond the hobbies of a humble archer and into the public realms of schools, parks and Starbucks.\nThere's a long list of reasons why everyone should have a flaming crossbow: fun, recreation, stress relief, fire, warring kingdoms, self-defense, whale research, fire, the Black Knight, ex-boyfriends and fire. \nSome naysayers (who are no friends to the flaming crossbow) might frown upon the potential fire hazard and the general danger of unskilled marksmen with lethal weapons wandering around your local Wal-Mart.\nHey, everything comes with some amount of danger, even sexy. It's worth the risk. Besides, you can't have sexy without flaming crossbows.
(01/17/07 4:15am)
On any given day I require at least three pounds of Bon Bons, a steady flow of diamond jewelry and a minimum of 24 phone calls. If these needs aren't met I tend to commit random acts of arson. \nBecause ever since the last time I checked, I am a woman. \nAnd "woman" is just a synonym for "high-maintenance." I usually only hear the term "high-maintenance" used in reference to women in heterosexual relationships.\nYou see, a woman requires maintenance like a car or a 17th-century antique musket. Without the proper care and upkeep, your girlfriend will rust and fall apart. If you end up with a high-maintenance chick and you don't have an extended warranty, you're screwed. Trust me, replacement parts will cost you a fortune.\nYour parents always told you that when you get a girlfriend, she's going to be your responsibility. You have to remember to feed her, walk her and give her fresh water every day. No one is going to do it for you if you forget.\nTrying to maintain someone who is "high-maintenance" is simply too much work. Dudes want the opposite: a dream mate who is "low-maintenance." \nIt seems that heterosexual males are looking for a girlfriend they can store in a cool, dry place. She doesn't need attention or even daylight. Just check on her every six to eight weeks to see how much she's grown. \nOr maybe I'm thinking of a mold culture. Mold is the perfect girlfriend.\nBut I don't know anyone like mold -- male or female. Everyone I know requires basic nutrients, interaction with other human beings and cable TV. They're just so needy. \nBut I have heard tales of the fabled low-maintenance people. Gather round, children, while I tell you the story of a dazzling Utopia. All the low-maintenance people live together in a colony on a tropical island. Turquoise waves burst on the shores and the warm breezes smell like cinnamon. But the low-maintenance people really don't care. They'd be just as happy if the waves were sludge-colored and the breeze smelled like raw sewage.\nThe colonists started eating condensed astronaut food until they realized food was altogether superfluous. They even found a way to stop breathing oxygen. \nOnce a ship full of beauticians made a voyage to Low-Maintenance Island on a mission trip to give the colonists manicures and pedicures. The beauticians were attacked and ritualistically sacrificed by the low-maintenance people to their god. There were no survivors. \nVerizon tried to erect a cellular tower on the island, but it was quickly brought down by coconut sling shots. The low-maintenance people don't believe in telephones. All forms of communication are banned. Even the spoken word is forbidden and punishable by death. \nThese people don't need anything. They're durable, weather-proof and come with a lifetime guarantee. They're absolutely perfect. \nI intend to start a business shipping in mail-order brides from Low-Maintenance Island. I'll give you my card.
(01/12/07 9:05pm)
As I peered over the rim of my paper Dixie cup, steam swirled playfully into my face as if I had charmed it from the cup. My drink was chocolate. Hot chocolate.\nThe only thing between me and the door was a large, stuffed camel. Behind me was a model boat. I was sitting at my first stop on the great hot chocolate crawl: Café et Crepe on Fourth Street. They make their hot chocolate with milk, Ghirardelli chocolate sauce and sometimes a shot of vanilla if it gets too dark. \nI usually think of hot chocolate as a beverage for children or adults with an unnatural aversion to drinking coffee. But it happens to be the signature drink of winter.\nWhen I was a kid, hot chocolate was a post-sledding ritual. After sliding down the same hill over and over again, my brother and I put our blue plastic sleds in the trunk of my dad's hatchback. At home, our hot chocolate came from the microwave. Sometimes the milk got that filmy skin floating on top from being overheated, but the hot ceramic mugs thawed our fingers.\nThe more accurate term for the beverage might be hot cocoa, but saying "cocoa" makes me feel like I'm either being pretentious or addressing a monkey. \nMy goal was to look for hot chocolate around Bloomington in places "off the beaten path." (In case you were wondering, the beaten path is Starbucks.)\nMy journey began on a Saturday morning with an empty stomach. I walked instead of driving between all my destinations in an attempt to work up the proper chill needed to truly appreciate hot chocolate. It was 47 degrees. I'll admit it could've been colder to maximize the hot chocolate effect. In between tasting, I cleansed my palate with a stick of Juicy Fruit.\nBefore Café et Crepe, I had tried to sample the drink at the IU Art Museum Café and Giftshop, but it was closed for winter break. My next stop was Café Ami, a cozy little house on Fourth Street, but it was temporarily closed. My next chocolate attempt was a new place I saw in the phone book called Crystal Parrot on Walnut Street, but it's so new it's not even open yet.\nI don't know what I did to anger the Hot Chocolate Gods, but their wrath was vengeful.\nFinally I arrived at Café et Crepe, where an earnest young man in a bright blue shirt made my desired beverage. He offered to add a flavor shot. He motioned behind the counter to a row of colorful bottles filled with syrups, but the first one read "Praline," a flavor that doesn't appeal to anyone under the age of 60, so I decided to stick with plain cocoa. It tasted like a Civil War re-enactment on a hot summer's day with rifles made of chocolate. Mild and tongue-tingling.\nI wandered to the Scholars Inn Bakehouse on College Avenue, where the atmosphere was lively and Panera-esque. A little girl in a lime green fleece started to cry to her mother because she was too hot. But her mother had just ordered her a hot chocolate.\nThe Bakehouse hot chocolate is made with chocolate syrup and steamed milk. I was surprised when the woman at the counter asked me if I wanted whipped cream. I eagerly said yes. From then on, every time I was offered whipped cream, I accepted. Calories be damned. Floating on top of the chocolate, the cream looked like a rose made out of soap. It tasted like skidding through a candy store on a Razor scooter made of chocolate. Sweet and rich.\nI strolled down to 10th Street to see if they had hot chocolate at Revolution Bike and Bean. I was excited to patronize a business that marries bicycles and hot beverages. The place is 75 percent bike shop and 25 percent espresso bar. The prices for bike repairs are listed on a chalk board right next to the menu for drink prices. It's not a place where you can sit down and drink, but the smell of rubber is invigorating. Bike and Bean's hot chocolate happened to be the cheapest and the tastiest yet, made from powdered Ghirardelli chocolate mix. It tasted like roadtripping from Boston to Philadelphia in a Honda Accord made of chocolate. Robust and exciting.\nThree hot chocolates in a row, though delicious, brought on nausea. I postponed the crawl for the following morning.\nSunday morning was 41 degrees and rainy. I began at The Copper Cup on College Avenue. This particular coffee shop gave me my very first opportunity to sit in a giant purple chair made of Ultrasuede. I almost wished I had something I needed to study. \nAs I sat in my purple chair, drinking my hot chocolate made from milk and chocolate syrup, I suddenly sipped something solid. It was unexpected, but delicious. I immediately removed the lid to see what was floating around in my cup. Chocolate shavings on top. Nice touch. It tasted like drifting down the Mississippi on a raft made of chocolate. Fun and stimulating.\nThe next stop on the hot chocolate crawl was Soma Coffee House just off Kirkwood Avenue. They, too, use powdered Ghirardelli chocolate mix, but the whipped cream has cinnamon in it. I grabbed my drink and crept into the back room where you could hear the rain hitting the windows. I felt at ease sitting with a green lamp to my left, a game of Yahtzee! to my right and my cinnamon whipped cream in hand. It tasted like watching your favorite movie on a couch made of chocolate. Cozy and scrumptious.\nThe last hot chocolate I tried gave me the opportunity to meditate by gazing out on a misty mountain landscape on the front of the box of Swiss Miss in my kitchen. Those little marshmallows never lose their novelty. But if tiny people were drowning in my hot chocolate, I doubt the buoyancy of those miniature marshmallows could save them. \nMy kitchen doesn't have an espresso machine to steam the milk. In fact, I didn't even have milk. The hot chocolate tasted like buying a gumball at 3 a.m. from a truck stop made of chocolate. Gritty, but satisfying.
(01/12/07 5:00am)
As I peered over the rim of my paper Dixie cup, steam swirled playfully into my face as if I had charmed it from the cup. My drink was chocolate. Hot chocolate.\nThe only thing between me and the door was a large, stuffed camel. Behind me was a model boat. I was sitting at my first stop on the great hot chocolate crawl: Café et Crepe on Fourth Street. They make their hot chocolate with milk, Ghirardelli chocolate sauce and sometimes a shot of vanilla if it gets too dark. \nI usually think of hot chocolate as a beverage for children or adults with an unnatural aversion to drinking coffee. But it happens to be the signature drink of winter.\nWhen I was a kid, hot chocolate was a post-sledding ritual. After sliding down the same hill over and over again, my brother and I put our blue plastic sleds in the trunk of my dad's hatchback. At home, our hot chocolate came from the microwave. Sometimes the milk got that filmy skin floating on top from being overheated, but the hot ceramic mugs thawed our fingers.\nThe more accurate term for the beverage might be hot cocoa, but saying "cocoa" makes me feel like I'm either being pretentious or addressing a monkey. \nMy goal was to look for hot chocolate around Bloomington in places "off the beaten path." (In case you were wondering, the beaten path is Starbucks.)\nMy journey began on a Saturday morning with an empty stomach. I walked instead of driving between all my destinations in an attempt to work up the proper chill needed to truly appreciate hot chocolate. It was 47 degrees. I'll admit it could've been colder to maximize the hot chocolate effect. In between tasting, I cleansed my palate with a stick of Juicy Fruit.\nBefore Café et Crepe, I had tried to sample the drink at the IU Art Museum Café and Giftshop, but it was closed for winter break. My next stop was Café Ami, a cozy little house on Fourth Street, but it was temporarily closed. My next chocolate attempt was a new place I saw in the phone book called Crystal Parrot on Walnut Street, but it's so new it's not even open yet.\nI don't know what I did to anger the Hot Chocolate Gods, but their wrath was vengeful.\nFinally I arrived at Café et Crepe, where an earnest young man in a bright blue shirt made my desired beverage. He offered to add a flavor shot. He motioned behind the counter to a row of colorful bottles filled with syrups, but the first one read "Praline," a flavor that doesn't appeal to anyone under the age of 60, so I decided to stick with plain cocoa. It tasted like a Civil War re-enactment on a hot summer's day with rifles made of chocolate. Mild and tongue-tingling.\nI wandered to the Scholars Inn Bakehouse on College Avenue, where the atmosphere was lively and Panera-esque. A little girl in a lime green fleece started to cry to her mother because she was too hot. But her mother had just ordered her a hot chocolate.\nThe Bakehouse hot chocolate is made with chocolate syrup and steamed milk. I was surprised when the woman at the counter asked me if I wanted whipped cream. I eagerly said yes. From then on, every time I was offered whipped cream, I accepted. Calories be damned. Floating on top of the chocolate, the cream looked like a rose made out of soap. It tasted like skidding through a candy store on a Razor scooter made of chocolate. Sweet and rich.\nI strolled down to 10th Street to see if they had hot chocolate at Revolution Bike and Bean. I was excited to patronize a business that marries bicycles and hot beverages. The place is 75 percent bike shop and 25 percent espresso bar. The prices for bike repairs are listed on a chalk board right next to the menu for drink prices. It's not a place where you can sit down and drink, but the smell of rubber is invigorating. Bike and Bean's hot chocolate happened to be the cheapest and the tastiest yet, made from powdered Ghirardelli chocolate mix. It tasted like roadtripping from Boston to Philadelphia in a Honda Accord made of chocolate. Robust and exciting.\nThree hot chocolates in a row, though delicious, brought on nausea. I postponed the crawl for the following morning.\nSunday morning was 41 degrees and rainy. I began at The Copper Cup on College Avenue. This particular coffee shop gave me my very first opportunity to sit in a giant purple chair made of Ultrasuede. I almost wished I had something I needed to study. \nAs I sat in my purple chair, drinking my hot chocolate made from milk and chocolate syrup, I suddenly sipped something solid. It was unexpected, but delicious. I immediately removed the lid to see what was floating around in my cup. Chocolate shavings on top. Nice touch. It tasted like drifting down the Mississippi on a raft made of chocolate. Fun and stimulating.\nThe next stop on the hot chocolate crawl was Soma Coffee House just off Kirkwood Avenue. They, too, use powdered Ghirardelli chocolate mix, but the whipped cream has cinnamon in it. I grabbed my drink and crept into the back room where you could hear the rain hitting the windows. I felt at ease sitting with a green lamp to my left, a game of Yahtzee! to my right and my cinnamon whipped cream in hand. It tasted like watching your favorite movie on a couch made of chocolate. Cozy and scrumptious.\nThe last hot chocolate I tried gave me the opportunity to meditate by gazing out on a misty mountain landscape on the front of the box of Swiss Miss in my kitchen. Those little marshmallows never lose their novelty. But if tiny people were drowning in my hot chocolate, I doubt the buoyancy of those miniature marshmallows could save them. \nMy kitchen doesn't have an espresso machine to steam the milk. In fact, I didn't even have milk. The hot chocolate tasted like buying a gumball at 3 a.m. from a truck stop made of chocolate. Gritty, but satisfying.
(01/08/07 1:08am)
She's outrageous when she's at a party. She's outrageous when she moves her body. She's outrageous in her sexy jeans. She's outrageous when she's on the scene.\nAnd yet Britney Spears was voted worst celebrity role model of the year in an online AP-AOL News poll, beating out Paris Hilton and Mel Gibson for second and third worst celebrity role models, respectively.\nPerhaps an even lower blow, Spears was also voted worst celebrity dog owner of 2006 by the readers of two dog magazines, the New York Dog and the Hollywood Dog. This title was supposedly encouraged by Spears' three Chihuahuas that are suddenly out of the spotlight after her marriage and the births of her two children.\nI'm not going to sit down, relax, stretch my legs and eat mini corn dogs while people out there are unjustly tarnishing the name of a beloved, revolutionary icon. And neither should you.\nSpears is a long-standing victim of negative press, but these official "worst" titles far surpass good-natured trash talking. Many are attacking Britney Spears for her partying antics and potential "unfit mother" status. But it is my duty as a patriotic American to defend her. \nFirst, let's get one thing clear: The term "celebrity role model" is an oxymoron.\nSecond, Chihuahuas are very small. No one can keep track of them. When was the last time you heard anything from the Taco Bell Chihuahua? 1998? They're elusive creatures. There's no need to scoff at a global pop superstar just because her border-hopping pets are stuffed somewhere between a chalupa and an order of Nachos Bellgrande. It's just their nature.\nBritney-bashers should be ashamed. Instead of criticizing Britney, we should be thanking her for her contributions to American pop culture.\nDivorce, babies, missing Chihuahuas, missing undergarments -- who cares? Britney set the standard for the quintessential sexually frustrated school girl in a miniskirt. And that's a gift we can never repay her for.\nWhen you see someone in knee-high socks, pigtails and a provocatively knotted button-down shirt, even if it's a dude in drag, your first thought will always be, "Oh, baby, baby, how was I supposed to know?"\nCan you imagine 1999 without "Baby One More Time"? I don't even want to try. Britney was at the helm of the pop revival at the turn of the millennium.\nEveryone is indebted to Ms. Spears. None of us were sure when it was appropriate to wear a shiny, red jumpsuit. Britney showed us how with "Oops! I Did It Again."\nWe were plagued with questions like "Can anyone besides Superman wear underwear on the outside of his pants?" We knew the answer was yes when we saw Britney's "I'm a Slave 4 U" video.\nWhen we, as a nation, were too afraid to dance with an albino python draped over our shoulders, Britney did it for us.\nI may be the first to say it, but I hope I'm not the last. Thank you, Britney Spears.
(12/06/06 4:55am)
They were big, black and furry like a pair of yak legs. I immediately got out my camera phone to document the spectacle. It wasn't a Big Foot sighting, but it was pretty darn close. I was staring at a young woman who entered the library wearing colossal, hairy boots that were downright Paleolithic.\nI've seen a lot of strange footwear, but women have developed a reputation for shoe obsession.\nAlthough determining whether women actually own more shoes than men would require a shoes census, it's fair to say that women are at least perceived to be more excited about shoes than men.\nBut I despise most stereotypes placed on women, so I did some counting. I only have 38 pairs of shoes. That's not a lot, right?\nWhile looking into my closet, a male friend once said, "I've never had a greater urge to dive into a pile of shoes."\nThe bland, heterosexual explanation for the female shoe craze would say that women want to have numerous stylish shoes to heighten their sex appeal to men. But a man's eyes probably never make it to a woman's feet unless she's wearing those cool shoes with red blinky lights.\nSo why do women like shoes so much? I'm only going to speak for myself. (The reasons why other women have gobs of shoes could be completely different.)\nFirst of all, I have very few friends. I've learned that you can't buy friends. But you can buy shoes. My shoe collection has become a close social network.\nWho am I kidding? They're like family. I dress each pair up for tea time promptly at noon each day. The stilettos only take one lump of sugar and the sneakers are allergic to biscuits.\nSome nights, all 38 pairs and I watch marathons of "Sex and the City," but the boots usually fall asleep early.\nSecond, they say your actions can be controlled by body parts other than your brain. Men are supposedly controlled by their genitalia; I am controlled by my feet. I do whatever my feet instruct me to do, which includes buying them fancy new outer casings rather frequently so they can eventually take over the world and enslave the human race. (Please help me.)\nLastly, my main reason for buying lots of shoes is inspiration. My true calling is to become a folk singer-songwriter. I sing exclusively about shoes. Baby, I've got the blues. I have too many shoes. \nI know there are women who own fewer than seven pairs of shoes by choice. I've also seen enough episodes of "MTV Cribs" to know that men have the capacity to get crazy with footwear, too: "No, this isn't the master bedroom. This is my walk-in closet full of Nikes. I never wear them more than once."\nThe reason why women are expected to love shoes might be an even greater mystery than why someone would wear yak boots to the library.
(11/29/06 4:00pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Stephanie Lampe unlaces her satin shoes, revealing toes covered in bubbles of calluses and blisters. If a blister breaks open, she puts her foot in salt water. It hurts, but she wants to keep a layer of dead skin to form a new callus. The shoes she sets aside are pink and elegant but lined with tiny tears and coated with gray dust. They typically cost $50-$70 and rarely last longer than two weeks – sometimes not even two days. But as a dancer in IU’s ballet department, Lampe is required to dance for hours each day, taking a toll on feet and shoes alike. To appear virtually weightless on stage, her shoes, made mostly of fabric and glue, must be virtually weightless on her feet.In spite of the pain and the price, ballet is her life.If you ask someone carrying a French horn case in the basement of the Musical Arts Center where the ballet department is, they probably couldn’t tell you. In a corner on the third floor, ballet majors dance from 11:30 a.m. to 5:45 p.m. in three studios – classes in the morning and rehearsals in the afternoon.“Sometimes you get a break, sometimes you don’t,” Lampe says.Lampe grew up just east of Indonesia in Papua New Guinea, where her father worked as a campus pastor. She says she started ballet because in Papua New Guinea, all the little girls danced. Her sister started taking classes at the age of 6. As a 4-year-old, Lampe was too young to take the class, so she watched from the school’s lobby and mimicked the moves from afar.Today ballet takes up most of her time and she admits she doesn’t have a very active social life. She calls her relationship with her fiancé, John, “a negotiation” because she disappears for hours at a time to dance. She goes to bed every night at 10 p.m. and wakes up every morning at 6 a.m. to do her homework. She likes to bake at least once a week to relieve stress. She makes whole wheat bread, coffee cake, cookies, pies, or biscuits, depending on what she has in her kitchen.As a senior, she’s working on her DVD resume to send out to professional dance companies – common among ballet majors. But she came to IU so she could have a backup plan, a double major in math – disciplined thinking to go with the disciplined movements of her body. She likes math because it gives her the opportunity to sit and be absolutely still. About 90 percent of graduates from IU’s ballet program find places in professional ballet companies. Don’t tell anyone, but freshman Anton LaMon doesn’t want to be in a professional ballet company. He sees himself in musical theater on Broadway, but hopes his formal ballet training will give him an advantage.“A guy who can dance is gold,” he says.LaMon is one of 10 men in this year’s ballet program of 40 students. He began jazz and tap dance when he was 3 years old, and he was on the dance team in middle school. Being a male dancer at that age was tough because, as he says, “people talk.” He quit dancing because he didn’t want anyone to think he was gay. After three years without dance, he knew something was missing.“I just had to dance,” he says.LaMon attended Bloomington High School South and received formal ballet training in the pre-college program at IU taught by ballet majors, convincing him to come to IU for ballet. Once he started college, he admitted to himself, and everyone else, that he was gay.“I came out,” he says. “I don’t have anything to hide.”Because there are only 10 men in the department, most of the male roles in IU Ballet Theater productions get cycled around, so taking time off or getting injured aren’t options. LaMon wishes he could trade majors with another student for just one day. “I don’t really know what happens during the day on campus.”He does a lot of jumping and suffers from shin splits. In spite of the pain, he likes having rules that govern the movement of the body. For LaMon, ballet is clean and flawless. He likes being part of a story on stage. “The moment I perform, I know I made the right choice.”Lauren Fadeley hates telling people that she’s a ballet major. She’s afraid most people don’t see it as a “real” major. But Fadeley, a senior, was a “real” dancer in the New York City Ballet when she was 16. She achieved her life dream before graduating high school. Fadeley moved to New York City by herself at age 15 to attend boarding school at the School of American Ballet. The ballet selects students from the school every year to join its company. Fadeley didn’t have to audition – she was chosen.Being a professional dancer gave her everything she wanted, but she felt lost in the huge company of nearly 100 dancers. And her schedule was draining. She would go to school in the morning then dance until 10 p.m. Dancing was her job.Monday was her only day off and she spent it in class trying to finish her high school degree. The company wasn’t sympathetic when she needed time off to take the SATs. A lot of professional dancers never graduate from high school.And then there was the pressure to be really thin. Ballet dancers spend all day in a room with mirrors wearing leotards and tights. The body line is important. Whenever Fadeley had a break from dancing, she was at the gym. She saw a lot of dancers with eating disorders. Some would smoke to keep their weight down.“Management would tell people ‘You need to lose weight or you won’t be on stage,’” she says. “They told me to lose weight when I was injured.”But at 17, Fadley broke her foot dancing and it suddenly sank in — ballet wasn’t permanent. She was unprepared for life beyond the stage. The average retirement age of a ballet dancer is between 35 and 40 years old.“You hit 35 and that’s it,” Fadeley says.So after two years of performing professionally, she came to IU. When IU Ballet Theater dancers perform “The Nutcracker,” there are four shows. The NYCB performs 60. The university setting allows Fadley to continue dancing while getting an education. She wants to help dancers as a physical therapist after she graduates. Dancers constantly PUSH their bodies physical limit as every muscle must be used in exactly the right way. If a dancer is performing on a stress fracture, she can’t limp out of character. Some dancers never tell anyone about their injuries and hold the pain inside. Doricha Sales was one of those dancers.“That’s when you know you have the dancer mentality,” she says.Sales was a dancer in the Boston Ballet in the mid-’80s. She came to IU’s ballet program in 1990, where she says she matured as an artist. She later danced with the Florida Dance Theater. Her ankle hurt, but she never went to the doctor, and one day during rehearsal the tendon in her ankle snapped.“I felt it pop and tear,” Sales says. “Then I had to go to the doctor.”She had to get surgery and wouldn’t be able to dance for two years. At the age of 24, her professional career had ended.“Your instrument is your body,” she says. “You have to take care of it.”She returned to IU to get her master’s in ballet pedagogy and educational psychology. Now Sales, 34, is an academic adviser in the ballet department at IU, where she helps the next generation of dancers function in an environment she says is just like a ballet company. Outside her office, ballet majors sit in the hall between rehearsals inspecting their blisters and unlacing worn out pointe shoes.“You have to be proud of every single one of these dancers,” she says.
(11/29/06 4:07am)
I've been watching you for a while now. Studying your behavior. Anticipating your next move. By now, I can read you like the Encyclopedia Britannica entry on the pale-headed brush finch. But I have to be certain of your intentions. Let's end this charade. I'll just be blunt. Are you gonna eat that?\nLife is full of disappointment. Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock are getting divorced, and they don't make Dora the Explorer snow boots in my size. But perhaps even more disappointing is seeing perfectly good food go to waste.\nI haven't eaten since breakfast and you're letting a smidgen of bagel sandwich, a modicum of pancake or half of your Pad Thai just sit there. All the signs would suggest you're not going to eat that.\nFirst of all, you've stopped eating. You haven't taken a bite in more than 23 minutes. Why must you play this game with me? You're clearly done, but you keep making little movements to imply territorial control over your leftovers.\nHowever, you started doing other things right in front of your food-in-waiting. You balanced your checkbook, called your grandmother and corralled an entire herd of elk into the mountain region while the remains of your fettuccine alfredo waited impatiently on your plate as if you intended to send the last noodles to be with their brothers down in the depths of your digestive system. But we both know you won't. The fate of a family is on your shoulders, but you just went to go watch "Reno 911."\nYou gain new responsibility when you assume the title of Eater of Food. You can't just neglect that barbeque chicken sandwich because the magic of eating the first half is gone. You can't ignore that dollop of tuna salad while it remains uncertain of its fate. Think of what you're doing to the tuna's self-esteem.\nRemember, you signed up for this when you took the first bite. If you can't finish the job, the only ethical thing to do is pass the eating torch onto someone else who won't cop out mid-snackfest.\nDon't pretend like you're going to eat it later. That salad of yours has been staying a mighty long time at the Frigidaire Hilton, and I certainly don't expect it to be checking out of the crisper by noon.\nPretending the meal isn't over is only hurting yourself and those around you. I know I've been hard on you. We both said things we didn't mean. I'm sorry. There's only a little bit of shame in admitting you couldn't live up to the food challenge. But you can make it right by letting go of your crazy fantasies of finishing that fruit smoothie.\nDon't be coy with me. And don't toy with me. Take a moment to consult with your heart, soul and/or spiritual healer. We both know you're not going to eat that. So hand it over.
(11/15/06 3:49am)
It should be the easiest decision you'll ever have to make: Would you rather have the ability to fly or \na million dollars?\nLogically, you'll probably never have to make this decision. But it's like buying elephant stampede insurance. You never think it will happen to you -- no one ever does. But you need to be prepared. \nThe moment might come while you're sitting on your couch eating caramel corn, watching the latest episode of "Dancing with the Stars," when the Bizarre Choice Fairy busts through your wall, points a magic wand at you and demands to know: "Flying or a million bucks?" \nSo I've decided to help you make that decision. You'll thank me later.\nFirst of all, don't listen to Steve Miller Band's greatest hits when you're trying to make this decision. You'll only receive mixed messages telling you to both "Take the Money and Run" and "Fly Like an Eagle." You don't need that kind of pressure from Steve right now.\nWhile gathering information on what could be the biggest decision of my life, I stumbled upon an online forum where people discussed their answers to this question. Overwhelmingly, people chose flying over money.\nI found this deeply disturbing. What happened to our values system? Since when did flying effortlessly through the air by your own capacity, gaining a breathtaking aerial view of the world, overtake the desire for cold, hard cash?\nJust for a moment, let's pretend you chose the flying option. Congratulations, you're a freak. You have the ability to fly without the cumbersome aid of plane, helicopter, parasail or blimp. However, odds are you're the only person alive with this special power. The carnie folk want a piece of you.\nInitially, you resist the world of freak shows and cotton candy, but you can't run forever. Zelda, the bearded lady, is a good friend, but the hours are long and the pay is terrible. And one day, a black SUV with tinted windows drives up. A burly man asks, "Does this smell like chloroform to you?" and you wake up in a cage.\nYears of watching "The X-Files" have taught me that anyone with paranormal capabilities will inevitably be captured by the government for experimentation. So you lose contact with your friends and family. You lose your identity and become test subject No. 8576JXJK5, though some of the scientists have nicknamed you "Feathers."\nAnd then you die. \nObviously, you made the wrong choice. Take the cash!\nA million dollars is great for at least a million reasons. Money can buy you friends, happiness, love and "Saved by the Bell" on DVD.\nSome people think money has a bad reputation. The Notorious B.I.G. says mo' money, mo' problems. Others say a million dollars isn't a lot of money these days and it's easy to part with your moolah. But who cares if you blow it all at the dog track? Anything is better than drinking out of one of those suspended water bottles in a cage next to radioactive chinchillas.
(11/09/06 8:55pm)
Everyone remembers what they were doing the moment they heard that Kevin Federline was recording his own album. I was purchasing a new platinum chain shaped like a dollar sign... or maybe I was in the fast lane getting my smash on. I could've been skatin' off in my 'rari. I actually don't remember. \n(Warning: If you have a problem with abbreviating Kevin Federline to K-Fed, shield your eyes.) \nK-Fed, lovingly known as Mr. Britney Spears, actually has an album. Playing with Fire dropped last week, and the world exhaled. There was just one problem (yes, only one). His debut single "PopoZao" was cut from the album! \nThe song seeped into pop culture via a classic video of Federline rocking out to his own song that you can find anywhere on the Internet. Now he's claiming this track was a joke. I wasn't laughing. Besides being the jam of the year, "PopoZao" changed my life. \nBut before I delve into the importance and cultural significance of the anthem of our generation that is "PopoZao," I will point out the few redeeming qualities of Playing with Fire sans a Brazilian booty shaker. Confused fans everywhere finally know the truth about Federline. He's not your brother. He's not your uncle. He's your daddy. \nAt least that's what he tells us in the song "Y'all Ain't Ready." \nAnd some of the lyrics just speak to you in a way no other art form can speak. They tug at your heart and your mind and, most importantly, your soul. Like these lyrics from the song "Privilege:" \n"I got Gucci on, she got Prada/ She calls me daddy, but she's not my daughter/ And I'm not her father, I'm just a mack/ I got tired of drugs, so I switched to rap, like that." \nK-Fed doesn't pretend he can't hear you mocking him. He has a track titled "America's Most Hated." K-Fed has feelings, too. He's a regular human being with access to millions of dollars who chain-smokes at Denny's just like you and me. The naysayers only "hate" on him because they're jealous of his success. In "Lose Control" he says, "Don't hate 'cuz I'm a superstar ... and I married a superstar." \nYes, he did marry a superstar. Even though B. Spears already had a 1999 hit single "Crazy," she is featured on K-Fed's own "Crazy," a tune that could also be titled, "I Guess This is Why a Rich Pop Star Would Marry a White Trash Backup Dancer." In the song Britney's raspy vocals croon, "And they say I'm crazy for loving you." \nIf you'll excuse me, I need to pause for just a moment and write an open letter to Britney Spears.
(11/09/06 5:00am)
Everyone remembers what they were doing the moment they heard that Kevin Federline was recording his own album. I was purchasing a new platinum chain shaped like a dollar sign... or maybe I was in the fast lane getting my smash on. I could've been skatin' off in my 'rari. I actually don't remember. \n(Warning: If you have a problem with abbreviating Kevin Federline to K-Fed, shield your eyes.) \nK-Fed, lovingly known as Mr. Britney Spears, actually has an album. Playing with Fire dropped last week, and the world exhaled. There was just one problem (yes, only one). His debut single "PopoZao" was cut from the album! \nThe song seeped into pop culture via a classic video of Federline rocking out to his own song that you can find anywhere on the Internet. Now he's claiming this track was a joke. I wasn't laughing. Besides being the jam of the year, "PopoZao" changed my life. \nBut before I delve into the importance and cultural significance of the anthem of our generation that is "PopoZao," I will point out the few redeeming qualities of Playing with Fire sans a Brazilian booty shaker. Confused fans everywhere finally know the truth about Federline. He's not your brother. He's not your uncle. He's your daddy. \nAt least that's what he tells us in the song "Y'all Ain't Ready." \nAnd some of the lyrics just speak to you in a way no other art form can speak. They tug at your heart and your mind and, most importantly, your soul. Like these lyrics from the song "Privilege:" \n"I got Gucci on, she got Prada/ She calls me daddy, but she's not my daughter/ And I'm not her father, I'm just a mack/ I got tired of drugs, so I switched to rap, like that." \nK-Fed doesn't pretend he can't hear you mocking him. He has a track titled "America's Most Hated." K-Fed has feelings, too. He's a regular human being with access to millions of dollars who chain-smokes at Denny's just like you and me. The naysayers only "hate" on him because they're jealous of his success. In "Lose Control" he says, "Don't hate 'cuz I'm a superstar ... and I married a superstar." \nYes, he did marry a superstar. Even though B. Spears already had a 1999 hit single "Crazy," she is featured on K-Fed's own "Crazy," a tune that could also be titled, "I Guess This is Why a Rich Pop Star Would Marry a White Trash Backup Dancer." In the song Britney's raspy vocals croon, "And they say I'm crazy for loving you." \nIf you'll excuse me, I need to pause for just a moment and write an open letter to Britney Spears.
(11/08/06 3:37am)
Will you be playing Candy Land or Chutes and Ladders?" I asked my roommate, the dutiful business major, as she left to study for an exam on game theory.\n"Candy Land," she said. Apparently Chutes and Ladders is for advanced game theory. \nBoth board games are a staple in the childhood of Americans, but Candy Land is clearly superior. The rift between those who favor Candy Land and those who favor Chutes and Ladders dates back centuries. The conflict between the two is the little known spark behind many of history's most dramatic events such as the U.S. Civil War, World War II and the explosion at Pompeii. When archeologists found the perfectly preserved form of Gloppy the Molasses Monster in the ashes, they knew the truth.\nI risk having a knife pulled on me in the parking lot by one of Chutes and Ladders' many violent cronies just for making my preference publicly known. But how can a game where your reward is receiving the opportunity to pretend to climb a ladder even compare to a game about sweet, sweet candy? Ladders are often dangerous and unstable. Candy is delicious.\nI'll concede that the two games are very similar. Neither game requires any skill whatsoever, thus making them both popular with children, morons and moronic children.\nIf you're unfamiliar with the games, each has a board with a grid. You spin a wheel or draw a card to progress along the board. There are various algorithms involved. I can't really explain it.\nCandy Land stands out when you consider the main demographic of both games: little children. What do little children like more than candy?\nPuppies? Friendship? Love?\nNo. The answer is nothing. And if you're not actually eating candy, the next closest thing is taking a magical journey to the Gumdrop Mountains or Peanut Brittle House, living vicariously through a plastic gingerbread man.\nChutes and Ladders might appeal to children because its game board is similar to a playground with its chutes and ladders. Between 1990 and 2000, 147 children 14 years old or younger died from playground-related injuries, according to the Center for Injury Prevention and Control. Falls from playground equipment account for a higher proportion of severe injuries than bicycle or car crashes, according to a study released in 2001 by the Cincinnati's Children's Hospital Medical Center.\nThe high sugar content of candy has obvious health risks, but when was the last time you fell off a lollipop and broke your arm?\nHowever, playing Candy Land isn't about choosing heart disease over paralysis. I'm 21 years old, and a game I played when I was 3 years old still impacts my daily life. People are always looking for methodologies for making choices. What would (insert deity or celebrity here) do?\nWhenever I weigh two options in life, I always choose the one that's most similar to eating candy. It's never steered me wrong. I don't even regret the high dentist bills because I know I've made King Kandy, Mr. Mint and Princess Lolly very proud.
(11/01/06 2:56am)
I live in an apartment complex where the aroma of marijuana gently wafts through the corridors as if it were the hottest new flavor of Glade PlugIns. Streams of beer cascade from the balconies on football game Saturdays. The repeated thump of bass is so persistent I often find myself instructing my roommate to rip up the floorboards as I scream, "It is the beating of his hideous heart!"\nThese are the tell-tale signs of an apartment complex inhabited mainly by rollicking, twenty-something college students. However, I have one neighbor who is middle-aged. You can hear the sounds of Star Wars through his door. A life-size Darth Vader cutout adorns his living room. Once, he was out on his porch spray painting a homemade Jango Fett helmet (not to be confused with Boba Fett).\nI was so pleased to see a living, breathing example of a classic American archetype: the middle-aged Star Wars nerd. I knew I had to befriend him, but he was always slinking around, never speaking to anyone. I didn't know how to reach out to him. My friends suggested I bake him cookies shaped like storm troopers or show up at his door wearing the Princess Leia metal bikini.\nI told my mom about my newest friendship quest, and her attitude was more alarmist than C-3PO. Why would anyone who wasn't a raucous whippersnapper want to live in a place where you hear "Snap yo fingers! Do ya step!" through the wall at 3 p.m. on a Monday afternoon? Suspicious indeed. My mom warned me he could be a serial killer.\nThat theory is ridiculous, but it made me realize something important: You never know who's plotting to kill you. Loving thy neighbor as thyself might not be as "kumbaya-tastic" as we all thought.\nAny one of my neighbors could intend to kill me. Every time someone brings over a Jell-O mold, I can't help but wonder how many days I have left to live. They always leave junk mail coupons on my mailbox as a warning. An extra 20 percent off slip covers at Bed, Bath and Beyond is a grim reminder that my days are numbered.\nThe empty beer cans lining the stairwells look up at me like cold, dead corpses as if to say, "This could be you." \nYou have to look for these signals. If you're sitting in class and a random stranger sits down right next to you and tries to make friendly conversation, reach for your pepper spray. If someone sits next to you on the bus, reach for your pepper spray. If someone looks at you funny, make sure they don't have lazy eye, and then reach for your pepper spray.\nThe next time you look through your peephole and see that guy from down the hall ringing the doorbell, asking to borrow a cup of sugar, don't open the door. Just tell him to grow his own sugar cane because today is not your day to die.