Van Goal

I Just Realized I'm Wearing an Argyle Sweater Right Now

Here is a two part blog post. I should warn all of you that I'm in one of the most vile moods of my life right now. It's probably a combination of sleep deprivation and overall frustration with the human race. Enjoy!

Part one:

I took Katie to the mall for her Christmas present this week. I'd promised her a trip to Build-a-Bear and we had been waiting for everyone to go back to school before we ventured out into the sprawl. As we reached the fluffy threshold of the Build-a-Bear Workshop I took a deep breath in, pensively wondering if I may turn into a cuddly creation if I inhaled within the place. You can only hold your breath for so long. Fully inhaling the stuffing, button noses, and doll clothing, Katie and I wandered around. She decided on a labradoodle-esque dog to build. She named him James, and we bought James clothes because every dog needs a t-shirt and "gangsta jeans" as Katie said.

After stuffing, bathing, and dressing Katie's new friend we received his birth certificate. Yes, a birth certificate. As we left, I offered to help carry some of Katie's new possessions. But she refused help, carrying James, and his birth certificate and gangsta jeans. Entering as we were exiting was a father and son tandem. The son was probably five or six and he was explaining to his father what he wanted from Build-a-Bear. "I want bear dressed like an elf." The boy explained. "What about a bear wearing army clothes? That would be really cool!" The boy's father proposed. "No." said the boy, "I like elves." Poor dad.

Part two, entitled, "I don't like people":

The next day, I took Patrick, Stephen, and Nicholas to another - more affluent mall in our area to buy soccer cleats. I hate this mall. To the best of my knowledge, the mall cannot yet sell pretentiousness in a bottle, but they do pump it through the air vents. Before I go off on an inflammatory tirade, let me make this qualification. I don't mind rich people. I like rich people. Some might even consider me to be rich. If you drive a Mercedes, you're okay with me. If you wear argyle sweaters I'll probably ask you where to buy some. What you drive and what you wear is your business and it's all GOOD.

Now, if you wear argyle and steal the spot I was waiting for in the parking lot with your Mercedes and then honk at me - ME - we're going to have several problems. So before I even entered the mall, I was already in a disagreeable disposition. My next mistake was to come in through the Lord and Taylor perfume entrance. There, the appearance of my brood and I were judged by a horde of fifty (fiddy) year-old makeup consultants wearing an absolute mecca of cosmetic products. Nicholas placed his hands on one of the glass displays as we walked by and one of these women felt the need to tell me to not touch the glass. This was the needling chide I needed or perhaps didn't need. "You smell bad." I said and kept on my way.

Luckily, we made it through the mall without any further altercations, and don't think I wasn't looking for one. The following morning, I was in Whole Foods, buying kombucha of course. This is a happy time for me. Kombucha, a little sushi, deliciousness in my belly. Only today, the argyle sweater made it's way to the Whole Food's sushi counter. This argyle sweater was a cantankerous sixty year-old, hellbent on accosting this poor sushi chef.  The sweater had a question about soy sauce which the chef tried to explain. However, language barriers and malfunctioning hearing aids collided to create frustration. What followed the frustration was pure bigotry from the sweater.
Mr. Argyle asked the sushi chef, "Where ya from?"
India.
"Oh, that explains A LOT!" The sweater prnounced. "Are you an illegal? Do you have a green card? Jesus!"
"Excuse me." I said, fully inserting myself into a situation that did not require me. Pointing at Mr. Argyle, "You sir, are a *jerk* and frankly, you're embarrassing yourself."
The assault of all things pretentious on my soul had reached dangerous levels. Weary exasperation had set in and effectively guaranteed I was about to have a cataclysmic meltdown.
Mr. Argyle squinted at me. "What's your name?" He asked.
"My name? Muhammad. You want my green card?" I replied.
"You have some lip on you boy." Mr. Argyle decided, pushing his cart away.
"Nice talking to you." I replied sardonically, wishing my confrontation had been more fulfilling. Or at least that I'd gotten to throw a punch or two.

 

Look, we all have our moments when we are idiots. There is a sneaking suspicion in the bowels of my being that this might be one of my idiot moments. But I cannot, for all my worth, understand how some people readily assume a persona based on what the wear or drive or how much money they make. You can smoke, pierce your nose, and root for the Yankees and I won't say a word. I might not like it, but it is your prerogative, so rock on. Just leave me in peace on my island of minivans and jeans from Target. And let my man the sushi chef make his damn spicy tuna roll without worrying about his green card.

So, this would seem to be the inflammatory tirade I'd hoped to avoid. Oh well,  leave me a negative comment - I DARE YOU. If you cannot already tell, it has been a really long 36 hours for me, so I thank you for reading this onslaught of wrath. I needed to purge some rage.

The Dice was Loaded from the Start

I went to jail yesterday.

It was one of those experiences I will be hard pressed to recall but will never forget. I've worked as a mentor for a character education program that was created by the federal government for the past two years. When I committed to them for another year they rewarded me with a larger role in the program which in turn meant more work, money, and experience. Prison was the experience part. My job is to connect with the high school and junior high kids who are participating in the program and offer them support and friendship that one has with a peer. In the past, I've dealt with kids in the public school system. This time, I was dealing with kids in the juvenile detention system.

As I walked into the bleached white room designated for our meeting, I was judged by forty pairs of eyes. My gaze lowered and I scratched my head. It was overwhelming, loud, chaotic and completely silent. My boss introduced me: "This is Mike Foss. He's going to share his story with you." I wondered in that moment if everyone could see my heart beating in my throat. My eyes glazed over for a second as I pictured what a heart in a throat might look like.

I have a premeditated speech I always give during these presentations. I try to be the cool guy, laidback and confident. I couldn't recall that speech yesterday, so I just started talking. "Hey...I'm Mike. I can tell by looking at some of the faces in the crowd that none of you really care what I have to say. That's fine, I
can't make you interested. But you're stuck here for a few hours, so you might as well listen to what we have to say, because your parole officer won't let you fall asleep." I shrugged my shoulders and sat down. It wasn't really the "rah-rah" speech my boss, a forty-something high school English teacher, had hoped for. The next hour was spent showing a power point on character education and promoting abstinence for sex, drugs, and alcohol, presented by my boss with limited help from me. I sat silently, observing young minds as blank as the walls containing them stare in boredom. The presentation concluded. "Mike, anything you would like to add?" My boss, who is also a Mike, asked. The blank stares continued.

"Mike is old and boring." I began. Mike gave me a look that told me I was one foot off the edge into oblivion. "Your parole officer is old and boring." I continued, obviously seeing just how many people I could give motive to. "This whole presentation is boring." and then, I saw a few eyes flicker, ever so slightly. "Your whole life," I continued, "people have been telling you what to do, what not to do, what to choose. And now you're here. Why? Because at some point in time, you made a mistake. And what sucks is that your mistake probably could have been prevented, had your parents, friends, teachers, or someone like me helped you more." I took a deep breath and continued, "The good news is that you're about two or three good choices away from changing your lives. So let us help you make them."

I finished and waited for the applause. Nothing. One kid smirked and rolled his eyes. Mike nodded his head and smiled. I sat down dejectedly. Our presentation concluded. The parole officer told his charges that they could either stay here and talk to me and Mike or be dismissed. Almost at once, everyone left the room. I looked up at the ceiling and and took a deep breath. I thought that certainly between Mike and me that we would have affected something. But we were met with apathy. Apathy is worse than disgust. These kids just didn't give a damn where their lives went. How could they live with themselves? Or better yet, how could the adults responsible for their future let them live this way? Fifteen years-old and hopeless. I ran my fingers through my hair.

"Hi."
I looked up at a girl about sixteen.
"Hi."
"I'm Erin." and she held out her hand.
"Nice to meet you," I said mutely.
"Thanks for coming," she said almost apologetically.
"Yeah, no problem, I didn't really say anything," I conceded.
"A year ago my high school football team won the district championship," she began. "That night I drank one beer and drove me and my friend home. I crossed the median and hit a car coming from the other way. I killed a mother of four." She paused to gauge my expression.
Have you ever seen the old footage of Joe Frazier being knocked out by Muhammad Ali? I'm Joe Frazier.
"It was a mistake." She smiled back the tears. "And that mistake decided my life, I thought. I hope you're right; that I'm three choices away from changing my life. Because life really isn't a great life right now." Our eyes met and we held our stare for the longest second of my life. Then she left.

I got in my car and drove away. The entire trip home, Erin sat next to me.

Hmm

I'm having trouble falling asleep tonight. I guess it's just one of those quirks. Every two or three weeks there is that one sleepless night. So I'm sitting here in a rocking chair, feet propped up on the amplifier of a bass guitar, neck craning to see the TV, my laptop is in my lap of course, but my display died so I have a monitor set up on a little table. I feel like one the Hamm brothers (their gymnasts) right now.

I'm watching a movie called Someone Like You which is the epitome of a chick flick. But that's alright, I don't mind chick flicks, because when it comes down to it, I'm a fruity guy. This one is easy to predict though. Ashley Judd is a relationship columnist who is pessimistic and cold. Hugh Jackman is a chauvinistic pig who is also Ashley Judd's roommate. Greg Kinnear is in this movie too...and I'm not sure why - he just makes everything awkward (is he? Isn't he? I used to feel the same way every time I saw Nathan Lane in a movie.) Anyway, obviously Ashley Judd and Hugh Jackman fall in love after a locking horns, huffing and puffing, and much emotion (oh, the drama).

I've set my iTunes library on shuffle, and I just heard the Killers for the first time in about a year I think. I bought their first album right before I went to Spain and I listened to it the entire trip. So now, whenever I think of Spain or the Killers I end up thinking of the other as well. Music is like that though. I am a more visual person than auditory, but I feel like people connect life to music no matter how they are wired. Let me just point at that this post will not have a deep thought, or proper structure. It's a classic brain dump.

I haven't suggested music in awhile I think. So let me list off a few songs you all should definitely hear at some juncture in your life.
Me and Mrs. Jones - Michael Buble
Lonelily - Damien Rice
White Daisy Passing - Rocky Votolato
St. Petersburg - Supergrass
Ripe - Ben Lee
Move On - Jet
Miracle - Foo Fighters
I Saw - Matt Nathanson
The Way I Am - Ingrid Michaelson
Publish My Love - Rogue Wave

I'm on Facebook. Bleh. Facebook is such a waste of life. It's brilliant on the part of whomever created Facebook, but Lord Almighty it is designed to obliterate precious hours. Especially now that they have added all of these extra little doo-dads and whatzits. One such doo-dad is Pac-Man. I am playing Pac-Man, with my mouse, while I type a blog post, and of course listen to music. I hope someone is standing and applauding my ability to utilize all computer functions at the same time.

We've hit the falling action part of the plot in Someone Like You Ashley Judd is walking out of a party crying and sniffling. I'd feel sad for her except that she's going to be swept off her feet in romance after the next commercial so if anything I'm apathetic. An aside, Hugh Jackman just made the signature run outside-look forlorn-and then walk back into the party move. What is with that move? You know where she went moron. Oh well, if I'm ever cast in such a position be sure that I will know where to run and I will not look forlorn into the camera.

I bought my godson a gun for Christmas. I am the second coolest godfather. Stephen's godfather, Bill, is the coolest godfather...he bought Stephen an even bigger gun. Now, both were guns were of the Nerf design in our defense. Don't worry though, I told my godson to only aim at  small animals and not people, unless they have it coming. Oh good, Hugh Jackman redeemed himself and now they love each other. What a happy ending. I think I'm going to see if I can use Stephen's Nerf gun.

No One Wants A Secular Santa

Oh, one must love the hustle and the bustle of the mall five days before Christmas. The flu-ridden air, the panicked fathers and boyfriends, and the irritated line waiting for Santa. Oh, the mall. As I walk in, assaulted by the smell of Dior perfume and peach apricot scrub of the JC Penney women's department I ask myself, "Why am I here?" The literal "why" is simple: I've procrastinated in all of my Christmas shopping endeavors and now SURPRISE! I need to get people gifts. After all, your love and affection is measured in dollar signs. The more philosophical "why" is more a question of why do I wait until the last moment to shop...again.

Because it's just that much more fun to see all of the other like-minded procrastinators, predominantly in the 18-75 Male demographic freaking out. And they are freaking out. It's the wide eyed deer-in-the-headlights look of someone who knows good men have died bringing home a gym membership or a vacuum for Christmas. So they go through the stores, shaking vehemently, reminiscent of a bomb diffuser. But it isn't a choice between the red wire or the blue wire (incidentally, always go blue), rather blue sweater or red sweater. This choice is simple (neither). Don't get a gift card either. Nothing says, "I have no idea what you enjoy or want because every time you open your mouth reruns of the Looney-Tunes come on in my head" quite like a gift card does.

In truth, there is no perfect gift. You do the best you can and pray that she loves your challenged little head enough to overlook the fact that you bought her another sweater or just gave up and made her a macaroni picture. It's Russian Roulette for the 21st century. But then I had an epiphany, nineteen days early. It comes without ribbons. It comes without tags. It comes without packages, boxes or bags. And then I puzzled and puzzled 'till my puzzler was sore. Then I thought of something I hadn't before. 'What if Christmas,' I thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?

Then I realized I was just standing near FYE and The Grinch Box Set was being advertised. Christmas we all know, can't fit in a box...yet. There is hope that in the next few years we will, in fact, be able to fit an entire holiday season into a box and ship it UPS. Personally, I cannot wait for the UPS guy with the dry-erase board to draw that in his commercials (Here's baby Jesus. You need to get him into the hearts and minds of all those heathens who haven't been to church a day in their lives. So you give him hooves and a shiny nose and ship him UPS...better make that a flying shiny nosed reindeer.). Honestly, I don't take offense to the scheming corporate holiday. But, as soon as someone starts messing with the secular Christmas symbols, I'm pissed.

That's exactly what ABC Family did last. On cable television no less! Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer tried to get cosmetic surgery on his nose in a Christmas special. I ask you, America: is nothing sacred? Leave the nose alone. Oh, if you could have seen my rage. It was great and terrible. And then, the Abominable Snowman and Yukon Cornelius appeared, wearing a bunny suit and a pink tutu respectively. To quote the astute comedian, Dave Chappelle, "WHAT!?" Have we as a society really reached a point where we are exploiting exploitation? You know it's bad when the secular, politically correct symbols of Christmas are considered offensive.

I truly have no idea where to go with this post since my mind is now paralyzed by an image of the Abominable Snowman in a pink bunny suit. I mean, after a pink bunny suit, everything is downhill. Just ask the writer's of A Christmas Story.

Just Like How Mom Used to Make it!

I felt that in the wake of the Mitchell Report, it would be nice to offer everyone a alternative to HGH.

Drink Kombucha.

This announcement really does not merit an entire post, but it does warrant a paragraph or two. I started drinking kombucha tea in October accidentally when I grabbed it from the shelves of Whole Foods Market instead of my usual Vitamin Water. I like to pride myself in eating nutritiously (as I sit eating four Oreos and a glass of milk), or at least knowing what I should eat. I'm telling you, this tea is of God. I've had 16 oz. of kombucha every week since the beginning of October and I've never been so healthy. Why?

Probably because there are 2 billion Lactobacillus and S. Boulardii bacterium, within one serving of kombucha. Not to mention every vitamin B you can imagine, theanine, and polyphenols. What does this all mean?!?! Essentially, someone takes a yeast culture and places it in black tea. They let the tea ferment for 30 days and then serve it to you. The effects leave you feeling energetic and healthy. It clears acne, strengthens hair and nails, supports the immune system, metabolism, and can even perform basic arithmetic. Okay, so I'm essentially drinking mold. It smells horrific. If left alone, it could colonize and take over the world. These are natural concerns. My advice is to just not think about it and down it all in one fell swoop! Cheers!

How 'bout them Patriots!?

My books are about killing God

~Philip Pullman, Author of The Golden Compass

Now, those of you that know me will attest that I am slightly opinionated. Some might even say that I'm belligerent to the point of violence. But I've had to learn to take myself down a notch. Surprisingly, most people don't respond well to blows to the head during a debate. So I've grown tolerant which is not to be confused with growing complacent. I still think most people are idiots, and I still like to tell them so. But I've gotten better with picking my moments and not being so blunt.

During my art final there was a group discussion about the war in Iraq. This poor girl was trying to defend her very conservative piece of art and was just getting shredded by the rest of class. They were attacking her personally and not politically. Now, normally, this would be the point of the discussion where I would stand up, point fingers and swear at their ignorance. Rather, I listened silently, and when the dust settled I spoke calmly and intelligently. After five minutes of uninterrupted thought, the class realized I was disagreeing with them and someone responded with the most lukewarm, cowardly, cop-out in history: "Support the troops, end the war." At this point I called the offender a moron and the professor wisely changed the course of discussion.

My mouth is often my downfall. And often, I get incensed to a point where my points are no longer valid, just sarcastic. In this college environment so many people have opinions, but they don't know why. These people should be herded together and sent to Montana and never let out. It's scary. People have convictions and beliefs based purely on popularity and not principle. What is more terrifying is that these are the people who elect our leaders.

Phillip Pullman is an extremely intelligent, extremely coy individual. He wrote his trilogy, His Dark Materials, as children's novels. Written in a way to influence young minds, he uses propaganda thinly veiled with allegory to indoctrinate atheist principles in his books. The Golden Compass follows the adventure of a girl on a quest to avoid the forces of a senile God. Ultimately, to defeat these forces, who obliterate and destroy life and nature, the girl is forced to kill the leader of this army, the God.

They are well written books. Let me retract that sentence. They are masterfully written books. Pullman is smart, engaging, and entertaining. Peter Hitchens characterizes Pullman as, "The writer atheist would have been praying for, if atheists prayed." I read The Golden Compass. I read it because when I first heard the allegations that Pullman promoted anti-Christianity in his writing. I didn't believe them. So I borrowed the book and did a spot of research. There really is no way around it, the kids kill God. God is bad. Phillip Pullman is brilliant. Scary.

So now what? Obviously, I recommend skipping the movie, which pains me because Nicole Kidman is mildly attractive. I'm conflicted about skipping the book though. I think like The Da Vinci Code people might benefit from reading The Golden Compass. There is benefit from seeing and experiencing what the other side of the argument believes. If you are capable of supplying or finding answers to their questions and assertions, it will only make it easier to stand against their position.

There is also this underlying concern that this movie will inspire people to read the book which will then inspire debauchery and agnosticism. I'll reassert my first statements. People are stupid. They are also lazy. Will some people read the book after watching the movie? Yes. Will some people doubt the existence of God? Probably. But for the most part, people will watch the movie and the allegory and undertones will be lost in the stunning beauty of the CGI....and Nicole Kidman. And after paying upwards of $15 to watch the movie, who will honestly feel the need to cough up another $20 for a book? Reading is icky. Atheism is stupid. Don't kill God. The Dolphins are still the worst team in the NFL.

I'm an Excellent Driver

There are a few questions I expect my father will never ask me. "Can you discipline my kids?" and "Let's see which one of us is faster?" are two examples. No, I will never discipline his kids, and no, I'm much faster - and stronger...moving along. "Do you want to let Christian drive you home?" was my third example until last night when, in the dark and fog of Dulles Airport, my dad made that exact proposition. I don't honestly think I gave him a reply, rather a series of blinks and eye twitches which he apparently took as my consent. My dad walked off towards the direction of the rental cars and I slid into the passenger side of the family car. I looked over at the awkward, scruffy kid controlling the wheel. "So, let's do it." I gulped.

The first step of getting out of a parking spot is putting the car into reverse. Christian confidently shifted into reverse and then shot straight out of the spot. "Brake" I gasped, absorbing the G-force plastering my face to the headrest. He used the brake, and shifted into drive. Christian is a master of dual-speed. He can go fast backwards and forwards! After blitzing out of Dulles Airport we cruised along Route 606. 606 is a one-lane road through something that used to be thick foliage, but is now development and half-finished strip malls. The terrain has changed but the life contained has not. 606 is a haven for deer.

We twisted and turned through the winding road, all the while I explained basic principles of driving at night. "Turn your brights on when there aren't any approaching cars." I began, "Now look as far as your lights go and scan from left to right looking for anything that might be in your way." I continued, "Okay, see the white line on the right? When an approaching car comes, focus on the white line so you don't drive into the other car's lights." An oncoming car began to approach, "Okay," I sad, "Brights off and now look at the white line." Brights off. White line seen. Car moving toward the white line. Car over the white line. *Several expletives and passing of nervous gas* "DUDE! Just look at the line!" I yelled, "The road is over here!"

"Hm." Christian replied. I remember that, "Hm." Tearing down the highway almost five years ago at 70 MPH I used that very same, "Hm." I took a deep breath and sat back. "It's alright," I said, "Just stay in general vicinity of the road." Another "Hm" and we continued on our way. He alternated using his brights masterfully, accelerated out of a stop perfectly and rose to 55 and then 60 MPH. At 62 MPH I went into slight cardiac arrest. Christian slowed down and I recovered.

Then it happened.

"Okay. This turn coming up always has a deer behind it, so just be ready." I cautioned. Christian took it at 40 MPH and as we straightened out he saw them. Two deer, maybe 15 feet ahead, standing in front of us. To his credit, he didn't flinch. He turned on his brights and drove straight. The deer wavered and then pranced away. I threw up in my mouth a little. We arrived home and Christian parked, but not before nearly crashing through the garage door. I stepped out and took a deep, thankful breath. "Nicely done." I told him. "Thanks, that's the first time I've ever driven above 30." Christian replied.

I threw up again.

Are You Barenaked for the Holidays?

Emerson asks, "How much of human life is lost waiting?"

The answer is 116 days, 6 hours, 57 minutes and a few seconds, not that I'm counting of course. This is the kind of knowledge that hides in nooks of my mind, kept company by crannies filled with random lyrics, song titles, movies, actors, character names, famous paintings, little known artists, and names of cool colors like alizarin red.

This is the knowledge you gain waiting 116 days. This is the knowledge you share with your obsessively clean roommate when you're watching the same episode of Survivorman again...for the third time that week. This is the knowledge you mutter under your breath as another game ends, another loss is counted, and another chance to play is squandered. This knowledge of mine, in its glorious entirety, is the knowledge I've gained during my fall semester. I also learned that a post-hoc data analysis can be used to evaluate self-report scales but that isn't half as fun as proclaiming that the sunset has streaks of alizarin red shooting through it and that Cary Brothers is one folk singer and not a two brothers who are folk singers as previously believed.

After 116 days, I'm back home. It's so good to be back home. So good in fact, that when I entered, I brought my bags downstairs and fell asleep on the couch for 11 hours. When I awoke, I was greeted with a swollen eye, nose, and chin courtesy of the creepy crawlies in the basement. As I strode to the bathroom I discovered more reasons to be thankful. This bathroom had a door that reached the bottom of the floor, possessed real toilet paper (as apposed to Mason, which uses sandpaper), and a shower void of all mildew and asbestos. No more public restrooms, check. I journeyed up the stairs and was greeted by the kitchen. Oh, hello kitchen. Do you know what is great about the kitchen? There's food there. Real food, as opposed to the stuff served in industrial containers warmed by glowing lamps which season the matter formerly known as nutrition with an essence cancer and death. No more. Real food is found in the kitchen.

Two English muffins, several handfuls of craisins, water, a grilled cheese sandwich, corn chips, an apple, and a peppermint white chocolate mocha (which is found at Starbucks, not the kitchen) and I was ready to sleep again. But I never made it to bed again. Instead, a ambled over to my computer. There, I was greeted with two messages. One from Russia that wondered, "Are those earrings in your ears, Michael?" and another from Russia's sister which read, "Those better not be earrings in your ears." Well, they are.

But before you pass judgment, please look at my tattoo.

I don't have a tattoo - that's a joke.

Moving along. I started Christmas gifting, and searching for a job. I read because I wanted to and not because it was required. I changed the channel on the TV every 10 seconds for 30 minutes. And then I ambled over to the computer. As I listened to Barenaked for the Holidays, an album that is deceptively clean and fully clothed, I began writing. And now I'm finishing writing. See you tomorrow!

Seriously, Barenaked for the Holidays

Christmas in DC

We need to fly kites or something

For a brief moment in time, the Mason Men's Soccer team had a free weekend. So what did we do? Eight players crammed into the kitchen of a student apartment, huddled around a television. Two of the eight sat on a dilapidated couch sweating intently, thumbs flashing frantically over the joysticks of a Playstation 2 console. We were playing FIFA '08, or virtual soccer. For six hours we sat there, transfixed. It wasn't the layman's video game experience mind you. Our "virtual" games are spattered with real physical contact. It is not uncommon for you to be shoved, smacked, and or kicked to the floor while playing a game in the apartment, which has been dubbed, "The Lounge". It's serious business, playing in The Lounge. There are rules: Winner must stay on the controls until he is beaten. If you turn off the game while playing you are never allowed to play again. And to play, you must contribute chips, gatorade, candy, or a pizza to The Lounge's snack stash.

But after six hours, your thumbs blister and you get hungry. So off we ventured through halls of Tyson's Corner. I've never been a big mall guy and I've never understood the pleasure of spending endless hours spending endless money. But I played along, I bought a jacket off the clearance rack and a sweater. Then I watched as our big bad center back and others transformed into 16 year-old girls. The day's shopping can be paraphrased with this sentence, uttered by a 190LB Jersey boy: "Fossy, look at these jeans...they're nice right, but my ass is just too big."

It was time to get out of H&M. We wandered into the movie theater. As if we hadn't spent enough already (the day's top spender will remain unnamed, suffice to say he spent more than $449 and less than $451). After our awesome student discount, we each paid $10.50 to see American Gangster. Of course, of COURSE, you need popcorn and a soda when you're at the theater. I saw something in line that left me absolutely stunned. The theater was offering combo deals on popcorn and hot dogs at the concession. A popcorn or hot dog with a soda, $11. Now the price didn't surprise me - movie theater food is outrageous. What was amazing was the fact that a soda without food was $4.50 and popcorn and the hot dog without a drink were $5.00 each.

I needed to make this discovery known.

"Hi can I help you?" The popcorn guy asked.

"Yeah, see your soda/popcorn combo for $11?" I questioned.

"Umm, yea." He replied.

"Well, if I just order a soda and popcorn without the combo, I actually save a dollar fifty." I pointed out.

"Yeah."

"Sooo, why would anyone ever get a combo?" I wondered.

"Uh, I dunno." What a very astute popcorn guy.

After the movie we drove back to campus, but not before stopping at Ike's, the all-night diner. Ike's is a funny place. Especially at 2am. There is some change in students, I believe on the molecular level, when out in public at 2am. No matter what your BAC happens to be, you are required to stagger around the room, throw your arm around someone's shoulder and slur, "Whut Uppp?" After several whut ups and a few staggers, we made our way back to the apartment. Another two hours of FIFA with a break in between to watch these two webgems (That Ticking Noise, Cosmic Rays) and we were ready for bed....but not before another meal. Back to Ike's (stagger, whut upppp?).

Only 67 more days until Spring training.