The Greek Life

"I'm the son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a DKE! I'm the son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a DKE! Like every college fellow, I like my whiskey free, for I'm the rambling rake of a college man and the son of a DKE!" 


Out of all the titles I'm quite proud to possess, perhaps none is so honorable as  brother of DKE. Delta Kappa Epsilon was founded in 1844, and has since spread across the nation. Our noble history includes multiple presidents, celebrities, even one that has ventured to the moon. Our ideals are based around upstanding character, charitable acts, and a certain zeal for enjoying life. I pledged my first semester as a Freshman and feel quite lucky to have spent all 4 years within this organization. As happy as I am to call myself a brother, I often find myself defending this position. Perhaps I should explain to those of you who did not attend my college. Our school isn't exactly welcoming of Greek Life. Technically, one can get expelled it he or she takes part in any sort of secret society, color group, or greek letter organization. While the discussion comes up every few years in the form of SGA meetings, public forums, and endless rants on social networks, it is always, inevitably shot down. You think presidential election season is bad? You ought to see how heated these debates get. My chapter is officially chartered through the city, and while I'm quite content to keep things as they are, there are those who adamantly detest greek life organizations. I can understand many of the arguments they make, although some reach a point of absurdity and offense. I'm proud to call myself a Deke, and I've taken part in my fair share of political debates over the subject. I've put much of the pettiness of all it behind me, but it would bring me a great deal of catharsis to set the record straight.



There is No Hazing
"When I was a Freshman, a freshman, soft and green, I dreamt of Delta Kappa, of college life the queen!"

Us after the brothers were pissed after the new "The Bachelor"

When one thinks of pledging to join a fraternity, I'm sure all sorts of terrible mental images immediately come to mind. We've all heard our fair share of horror stories: the elephant march, a thrilling round of wet biscuit, or simply handing a group of pledges a handle of Kentucky Gentlemen and a time limit to chug. I'm not going to lie, I suspect this type of thing can be quite common in other fraternities. Hell, my state received humiliating national press for the damn butt-chugging incident at a school only 20 minutes from mine. I refuse to speak on the behalf of other organizations, or even other chapters, but I can tell you about mine with great experience. Refer to DKE as a "frat" to any member of my chapter, and they'll be quick to respond "It's a fraternity, not a frat." I pledged for months, and was witness to 7 other classes, and there is no hazing. It's sure as hell not easy, but the idea of mental and physical torture, often homo-erotic or liver-eroding in nature, is a myth in our case. Why the hell should any of you believe me? Because I couldn't mentally handle doing any of that nonsense. I'm literally too prideful, too sexually attracted to women, and too emotionally weak to handle that.


Inclusive ≠ Exclusive

"When I was a Sophomore, so festive gay and free, I wore with pin the diamond pin of our jolly fraternity!"

"You can't sit with us, loser!" was practically our motto

The biggest argument at our school was the notion that groups like mine are completely exclusive. One girl spoke at a forum and mourned that she was forced to transfer schools because greek life was exclusive to the point where she wasn't allowed to sit at certain tables in her school dining hall. While I'm sympathetic to her case and others like it, I want to make a couple of counterpoints. For one, there are already exclusive groups on campus that fit the exact depiction she described; they're our school sports teams. I remember going to a party mostly comprised of the soccer team my junior year. Admittedly, I crashed the party, but the way I was treated was incredibly bizarre. The instant my small group entered, everyone stopped speaking immediately and starred us down. Most of these people were strangers, yet some were aquaintances. Every single one of them got up to leave, but not before we were forced to go. After being invited back in by one of the fellows that lived in the dorm, my friends were still met with angry glares, awkward silences, and bitter mutters about leaving. Does that sound warm and welcoming to you? My fraternity is one comprised of athletes, video game nerds, SGA presidents, and oddballs that don't really fit anywhere else. We have certain standards to pledge, but I fail to see how that's relevant. Getting a job, joining a sports team, even getting into my very college required a certain standard. It's all part of maintaining a high quality for your organization. We may not have an "everyone can join" policy, but we sure as hell don't forbid people to join our table at lunch.

We Care About Our Community
"A sentimental junior, I sported a mustache; among the innocent maidens, I cut an awful dash!"

My chapter on the way to a Habitat build

I think there's another nasty stereotype that fraternities solely exist to throw parties and get hammered. There is some partial truth in that statement in the sense that we do party. We throw parties, and we throw the best parties. Yes, I'm bragging here. You know the kind of parties you see in movies where hundreds of people are dancing, cheering, and having the time of their lives? We threw those. I fear I'm getting off point here, so let's go back. I have two things to say to this stance: A. Again, sports teams often throw crazy parties and get belligerent together, and B. We aren't solely about these parties. My chapter is one that cares a great deal about philanthropy, and we often spend time doing services for the community. Many brothers are members of scholarships that require 20 to 40 hours of community service monthly. We have adopted a local road that we regularly maintain to fight against litter. We've sang and danced at nursing homes, aided in Habitat for Humanity home builds, and raised money for foreign aid. You have to meet the qualities of a gentlemen, scholar, and jollygood fellow to pledge, and I think people like to generously harp on the latter.


Brothers for Life

"A grave and reverend Senior, I soothed my fevered brain by dreaming of commencement day, pipes, ladies and champagne!"

Now I'm marked for life

Someone at a student forum once got up and asked "I don't get it. What is the point of being in a fraternity?" I went up to publicly respond by telling of my story. During the first meeting of my pledge class, my pledge educator told us that we were about to embark on a journey that would make us brothers for life. I called bullshit. Sure, we'd be pals, but it would only be about as deep as the one shared with that buddy you make in freshman orientation: awkward conversation every now and then, and not much else. I have never been so wrong in my life. By the very end, I remember admitting to the brothers that it didn't matter to me if I was admitted into the fraternity: I had already formed a bond with my brothers that would last a lifetime. Every time I see a brother come into town for a visit, I immediately embrace them in a bear hug. I love these brothers like family. We may not always get along, but I know for certain that I could call upon any of my brothers in my hour of need and they would be there in an instant. This actually matters to us in a very deep way. As condescending as it sounds, one can't really take in the sheer significance of these bonds until he has gone through the pledging process. 

The student responded to my tale, sneering that he'd made friends and sure as hell didn't need a fraternity to do so. Again, like so many others, he just didn't get it. I've had days and nights I'll cherish in memory all my life. I've been challenged on issues and ideals by those that forced me to do better than I ever had. I've learned a great deal of what it takes to be a man in this day and age. Most importantly, I've learned that, on my best day or my worst, I'll never be alone. This has been a huge part of my life. It still is. And it always will be. Until the end of my days, and forever after.


"And when, in happy years to come, I sport my children three, I'll mark them each with a stencil plate, one D, one K, one E!"

Four Reasons Why Winter Sucks

I'm not going to sugarcoat it and I'm not going to beat around the bush, I hate Winter. I adore spring, really enjoy summer, and get a kick out of fall, but once October ends, I feel the annual misery start creeping back. Unfortunately for me, we're at the beginning of what I consider to be the worst two months of the year. I've already suffered what feels like an eternity of winter, and we still have a healthy dosage heading our way. This polar vortex seemed almost mocking, an ominous promise that I am destined to writhe in a frigid agony for the next 60-80 days. To those of you who enjoy this weather, let me say this: I am your comic book arch villain. I am the antithesis to everything you stand for when it comes to climate preference. I dream of palm trees and warm breezes, yet I am seemingly stranded in a tundra. While I can't escape, I can search for images of the tropics, reminisce over summer afternoons spent drinking on a porch, and write this blog expressing my utter hatred for all things winter.

1. "You can only take off so much clothing in the summer, but you can always put on more in the winter."
This is often the bumper sticker slogan of an argument I hear from the pro-winter white walkers. At first glance, it makes perfect sense. I'll concede for a moment, there are times where it's so unbearably hot in the summer that you almost feel your skin starts to melt off. Still, that doesn't make the opposing argument any better. Imagine waking up in the middle of January and seeing the temperature is a crisp 15 degrees. You have to suit up like a superhero, a full entire that can include (but is not limited to) the following: A shirt, thermal, jacket, coat, pajama pants/long-johns/tights, pants, gloves, hat, and/or a scarf. Once you get out in the stinging breeze, you quickly make the 20 foot journey to the car. Inside your vehicle, you're greeted by a pleasant heat. All is going well until you realize you're sweating. Oops. Time to shed a layer. Then you arrive to your destination, put the coat back on, and repeat the same process once you arrive to your heated location. Do you follow the pattern? While you can always add more layers, that doesn't make it convenient or even comfortable. I'd rather be able to go about my day in shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals than have to don/shed my winter armor every 20 minutes.

Plus, I have to fight this bastard every single day

2. Everything is dead. DEAD!!!!
I honestly think I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (shortened to a very fitting "S.A.D."). I'm tired 6 hours a day, can't seem to sate my appetite, and feel a general hopelessness to life. Part of this is due to a lack of sun exposure, but I can't help but think it has something to do with my morbid surroundings. In winter, the grass quickly turns a gray-ish yellow, dotted with patches of mud and frost. The tree branches are gnarled, desperate hands reaching to a summer god that has abandoned them. The sky is often a bland gray, a fitting backdrop to this grim stage. As my desperation for the sight of something green worsens, I start to feel almost claustrophobic. I usually prefer to spend my days outside, basking in the glory of nature like the blue people of Avatar. Instead, I'm confined to a dark house, a lone beacon of light in the endless abyss. Sure, snow is pretty when it's freshly fallen, but that's an incredibly rare sight in east Tennessee. Call me crazy, but I'd prefer humidity and mosquitos to the desolation of winter.

3. Holidays are great, but they only go so far. 
We've just ended the holiday season, and I won't pretend I didn't enjoy it. Holidays may seem like an exciting reprieve from this miserable season, but that thought is a folly. Who doesn't love discussing political points made in "The Grinch," opening gifts in the warm glow of Christmas tree lights, or drinking themselves into a nostalgic stupor during the New Year's Eve? Those are all fun, festive ways to celebrate life, but here's the thing: They just sort of stop. That's right, we have Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve.....but then what? The holidays cease and we're left with a solid 2.5 months of dreary weather with no lights or hustle and bustle to keep us distracted. We become shut-ins, forced to stay out of the cold. In another life, we might all be hibernating, but evolution and American Capitalism cheated us out of that luxury. Yes, the national holiday that is my birthday is a late-march beacon of hope, but can we honestly keep our sanity until then? I'm not so sure.

Winter frostbite is the leading cause of beard amputation. 

4. Winter Ain't Cheap. 
I live in an older house, and while I love it's charm, I'm not so enamored by it's lack of insulation. The first heating bill will arrive in a few weeks, and that will only add to the list of things I can't afford to pay. We could pretend that isn't an issue, but there are other problems to deal with. As we speak, a plumber is under my house, loudly talking about how he loves this country as he fixes a busted pipe. Luckily, that payment is my landlord's problem, but that's not the case for all your home owners out there. This mini-"Day After Tomorrow" has proven a blessing for these pipe wizards, but a curse to all of us who neglected to leave our sinks trickling at bedtime. Let's also consider the cost of gas. You get up to start your day and what do you find as you walk out the door? A windshield coated in ice. Better let it warm up for ten minutes so you can drive without feeling like Mr. Magoo. Not only is this pretty damn inconvenient (you'd better hope you aren't running late for work), all these morning warm-ups eventually add up throughout the season. While I'm no math major, I'd estimate it results in an extra hundred grand in gas money. Okay, not really, but winter angst forces me to use hyperbole.

If any of you actually enjoy winter, I'll respect your right to that opinion. I still consider us mortal enemies, but I'll let it slide. You've heard enough of my ranting for one day, so I'll leave it with this. My mother told me of a Christmas she once spent at the beach and how rotten it made her feel. She sat on the beach and cried all day long. When I was younger, I thought to myself ",That sounds horrible! Christmas is meant to be cold!" With each passing year, that thought left my mind more and more. This year, as I struggled to stand outside and make it through a single cigarette, I thought fondly of sunshine and hot sand. Give me a tropical Christmas. Give me a hot New Year. Give me anything but this damn winter.

The Scent of the Heartland

I'd like to apologize in advance for the maturity level of this post. Still, I write this to make a point that I've always stood by: farts are funny.

I'm what some may call a man of many titles: I've been crowned a king of a campus, coerced into being the co-host of a Vegas stripshow, and was voted the Class Harry Potter" by my 5th grade class. Despite those, there's a little known title that I'm quite proud to claim. I was once a television star. While I'd like to tell you I once acted as a survivor of plane crash on a mysterious island or a foul-mouthed, weed-smoking dog man, I have to be honest. My stardom was brief, and I was more of a slight feature of something far greater. See, here in East Tennessee, our local news showcases a daily program that explores the local culture. Usually fairly brief, it features all our southern foods, practices, and oddities. My screen time was roughly a modest 5 seconds, but that's alright. This story is what takes place behind the scenes when the cameras weren't rolling. This is the story of a local figure's shame ousted by the thoughtless actions of a naive 12 year old. This is the story of my experience with The Heartland Series.

An eighth of these will take you to other planets maaaannnnn

It was the allure of a Knoxville Blueberry patch that bore this tale into creation. This is a place I've known my entire life, a small area of land up the hill from the home of my grandparents. With over 15 rows of blueberry bushes, some nearly ten feet high, it really feels like a place of genuine magic. Growing up, I often imagined it to be the home of a small colony of hillbilly gnomes or perhaps some great horned beast. Really, the true magic are the marble-sized treasures growing from each plant. I've met a damn good amount of people that claim they don't like blueberries, but a handful of these beauties always change their minds. They're juicy, sweet, and miraculous in every way. The addictive nature these berries possess is only rivaled by their ability to cause horrible diarrhea if eaten in excess (and that will certainly happen if you have enough on hand). These berries, once known as "Noe Boy Blueberries" until my parents took over the berry picking game, are hits at local farmer's markets, key ingredients in delicious southern desserts, and will transport you to Narnia if you eat enough of them. After contacting WBIR in hopes of having the berry patch featured, we were elated to find that we were candidates and would be featured on the show. This was a dream come true! Or....well, not a dream but....it's like that feeling where you accidentally wake up 2 hours early and get to go back to sleep for a while--just mighty keen.


I feel as though I'd be doing a bit of a disservice to this story if I didn't go ahead and give some background on Bill Landry, beloved Host of the Heartland Series. Many east Tennesseean readers will immediately know him as the charming papaw of the small screen. There's something gruff yet comforting in his narration, almost like a southern Gandalf the Grey. Meeting Mr. Landry was somewhat surreal. It is similar to that one time in my angsty high school days that I saw Hollywood Undead live and compared it to seeing a team of superheroes in the flesh. Although that may have been because they were wearing those ridiculous masks. No, this was a much more down to earth, meat and potatoes experience. Imagine Christmas eve rolls around and Santa Clause himself knocks on your front door, sits himself at your kitchen table and requests a glass of your finest bourbon. Landry had been there and done that with most things southern; the surprises of the Blueberry patch would do little to catch this veteran off guard. Still....if there's one thing this day taught me, it's that even the legends can crash and burn.

Being the obnoxious, attention-hungry 12 year old I was, I spent most of the day acting out in horribly silly ways. From sticking my face in the camera as I noisily chewed a mouthful of berries to throwing them at the film crew during takes, my annoying nature knew no bounds. Perhaps that's why I only got about 5 seconds of screen time in the final cut. Either way, Landry and the rest of the team took my antics in stride, even playfully agging me on. Eventually Bill decided he wanted to pick a few berries of his own, just to get in the experience. It seemed this Johnny Depp of the heartland adapted to every role he received. Deciding I'd join him, we picked mostly in silence. Berry picking is similar to meditation in the sense that you sort of lose yourself in the wholesome nothingness of it all. Suddenly, piercing our silence like a knife in the dark, something echoed through our berry row. Looking up, Landry looked at me with wide eyes, sheepishly asking ",What was that??" Despite his inquiry, Bill knew good and well what the noise was. Whoever quipped it, ripped it, Landry. Bill Landry has just farted in front of me.

Host of the Fartland Series! Sorry....I'm 5 years old. 

What that a big deal? No. I knew I could take this secret to the grave. Well, aside from telling friends, my brother, everyone reading this blog post....and my mom. Innocently enough, I approach my mother to tell her about this little anecdote, one that got her giggling. Here, this god among men, expressed a bit of hilarious humanity. It wouldn't end there though. As the look of horror spread across my mother's face, I knew in my heart that something had gone terribly wrong. "I'm still wearing my microphone," she whispered. They'd wired her up during her interview and she still had the damn thing on. "Yep, and I just heard every word of that story!," barked the cameraman as he emerged from the patch. It was over. The truth had been revealed. Hearing this latest gossip, WBIR fired Landry and altered our story for one more noxious in nature. "The Poo-berry Patch" would be the beginning of the dark ages for the Heartland Series. My one mistake had destroyed everything. Or so I might have imagined as a 12 year old. In reality we laughed it off and had a decent afternoon.

Yeezus Freak

I just read an article about how Kanye West is now facing felony charges after putting a paparazzi in a headlock. He also got flack for declaring that the 2nd verse of "New Slaves", a song from his new album, was the greatest verse in all of hip-hop history. Many would likely shake their heads and scoff. "Typical Kanye," they'd think, "What an arrogant asshole." It's hard to blame that mentality sometimes. This is the same guy who awkwardly stammered that George W. Bush didn't care about black people during a Hurricane Katrina fundraiser event. The same guy who declared that, if the bible were written today, he would be the Jesus character. The same guy that drunkenly snatched the microphone from Taylor Swift and asserted the award she'd just won should have gone to Beyonce (Okay, I don't care what you think, that was actually hilarious). Still, despite all of that, I love Kanye West.

West was apparently offended the pap' didn't thank him for the assault

The goal of this post isn't to convince people to switch their positions and join me on the West side of the force. If you hate him, you hate him. Some of my friends are so venomous and hateful in their dislike that they literally anger me, but there's not much I can do to change their minds. In regard to that, I will only say that Kanye usually always apologizes for his behavior and seems like a nice guy to his fans. Again, my problem isn't with people that dislike Kanye for being rude or arrogant; it's the ones that claim that he has no talent. As he's my favorite rapper of all time, I'm inclined to disrespectfully agree with that assertion. Could I just cite his numerous awards, record-breaking profits, or critical appraisal and leave it be? Yes. Could I, instead, take us on a musical journey through 'Ye's last 3 albums for a climactic defense of his latest masterpiece, 'Yeezus'? Of course. And we all know where it's going to go from here.

808's and Heartbreaks: This album began West's descent into darkness, and for good reason. Kanye suffered both the ending of his 18 month engagement, and the death of his mother. Many expressed a certain annoyance with this album, as it was heavy on singing (with less rapping) and was thoroughly soaked in autotune. I don't think this one was bad at all (you know you loved "Heartless"), but it was a definite change from his golden sunshine freeway driving tunes of his college albums. We have to understand where West as an artist was coming from here; he felt cold, alone, and distant. He'd lost two of his great loves in life, and the pain is so sudden he's in shock. The autotune distances the listeners to a degree, and this represents West's own distance from his emotions, reality, and himself. To expect him to pump out another "The Good Life" after that time is just silly.


My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy: I don't care what anyone thinks about this one, it's a damn masterpiece. West continues his journey into darkness, but he's had some time to heal from his experience and come back to reality. Here he takes his darkness and turns it into something grand and epic, something of an opera. It's overblown, fantastical, and a roller coaster of a listen.  Kanye shows the world that, while he's had his time to mourn, he's back with a vengeance. 'Power' is bold, boisterous, and turns the arrogance up twenty notches. Despite that, he's not the same 'Ye we've all come to know and love/hate. The world is harsher than it once seemed, and he can't escape that darkness. West begins a deeper exploration of the themes of race, a topic he's made commentary on since the very beginning. Admittedly trying to numb his pain through sex, alcohol, and money, West is perhaps his most honest in his last song, "Lost in the World." This final, climactic track personifies both West's place in life and the vibe of the entire album: bizarrely beautiful, hauntingly glamorous, and just a little bit existential.


Yeezus: This is the most polarizing album I've heard in a while; you either love it or hate it. Many simply dismiss it as lazy, harsh, and an overall terrible listen. I'll admit, it took me a few listens to really start enjoying it, but I feel like this was by design. Yeezus is a bad acid trip. Kanye's had his mourning, he's put on this grand spectacle, but now the curtain's have closed. It's just Kanye, and he's decided to express himself in the most basic sense; essentially, it's his id. He never plays it safe, that trademark arrogance up to the stratosphere (he declares that he is a god), reaching nearly comedic levels. While some are appalled at this, I think he's simply demonstrating the amount of fucks he actually gives: none. With that, Yeezus is, at times, abrasive and erratic, almost daring the listener to keep going. This plays into the anti-commercial theme of the album, one made clear by it's own artwork (simply a piece of orange tape). Is this a gimmick, a sort of irony, or has West truly had a revelation that money and fame mean very little in the grand scheme of life? Difficult to say and open to interpretation. I feel as though he's grasping his own humanity, his bubble has been burst. Why? He lays on the racial themes quite heavily, comparing blacks to "New Slaves" to the corporate world. It's clear that this aspect of society really bothers him, and I find his perspective to be interesting. Yeezus is insane, but it's Kanye West at his rawest.

For Ye' so loved the world....okay, I won't go there. 

Maybe I've read too much into this, but I'm only trying to explain Kanye as I see him: a musical artist. It's easy to dismiss him as a mediocre, hyper-arrogant, attention-seeking douchebag, but I feel like that's fairly short-sighted. While I do enjoy the darkness he's been exploring, I feel like it's about time for a revival of the brighter side of life. Maybe 'Ye had a pretty rough quarter-life crisis, and I think that's understandable, but his life is looking up. With a marriage to a woman he seems to love and the arrival of his first child, I think we can look forward to a new, happier Kanye West in the years to come. Until then, regardless of his style and despite how far he falls out of public favor, I remain a "Yeezus freak".

The Myspace Dynasty

I have to admit something to all of you dear readers--I'm a bit of a social network addict. I have about 5 I check multiple times a day, and generally always look into the "next big thing"'s of the social network world even if they turn out to be duds (here's looking at you, Google+). At this point, social networks have become integral parts of our daily lives, and mine is certainly no exception; in fact, it's probably the rule. My earliest days of the social networking realm found a pre-pubescent lad (under the guise of #1GollumFan) chatting away on nerdy book forums, using asterisk action to play out elaborate action scenes. Later, when I began to develop my cringe detection gland, I finally abandoned this notion and "*sailed away into distant seas*". Currently, I bounce between Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, and the obnoxiously addictive Reddit. Still, despite all these, one stands out more than all the rest. You know of what I speak: the bane and boon of our high school years, the training ground for profile stalking, the home of some of the most cringe-worthy memories imaginable. I'm talking about Myspace.

One of my first Myspace profile pics. A true piece of visual poetry. 

I recently had a strange curiosity to see what had become of my beloved Myspace. After a 10 minute frustration of trying an odd assortment of username/password combinations, I found myself looking at a familiar sight. Allow me to walk you through this extremely strange experience, friends. Imagine walking into your old high school gymnasium, the door creaking open to darkness. You flip a light switch only to find the dim and flickering lights do a poor job of illuminating the scene. Walking about, you notice many tables adorned with "Class of '09" signs, empty cups, and bits of confetti. This was once the site of a great social gathering, one you remember more and more as you continue your journey into nostalgia. A smile forcefully creeps up your face as you see the faded, dusty pictures hanging on the walls. Then you realize that this place has long been abandoned, and a deep loneliness fills your very core. You abruptly leave, slamming the door behind you, swearing to yourself that you'll never return. That's Myspace now.

So what's my point in writing about it? I mean, it's long gone now, right? Going back to the newly designed website proves a bit of a headache, and for must of us.....we just can't go back to myspace. It's like when Jack and the gang left the island on Lost, except they all finished puberty and never went back because the island was full of emo singers, straightened hair, and boys wearing girl jeans. Still, if we try to put ourselves back in the shoes of our 14 year old selves, we can think of a few reasons why myspace was pretty amazing. It was the original social network for our generation. While not very appealing to adults, it was a paradise for us pre-teen drama addicts. While we've undoubtedly entered the aforementioned "adult" category, there were a few aspects of Myspace that I still remember fondly. Allow me a few bullets to explain.

Good God. These were orgasmic. 

• Bulletins: Maybe this mostly appeals to the raging narcissist in me (which all writers are to some degree), but I loved the hell out of bulletins. It was essentially a way to shout at the top of your lungs for all the world to hear. I especially enjoyed the surveys. They often pushed the limits with their deliciously dark inquiries like "What color is your underwear?" or "Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?" Often people would simply reply with a "yes" or a "no," but I always answered as outlandishly as possible. At the time, I thought this made me unique, hilarious, and "random", and would gleefully sit back and revel in the thought of how individual and amazing I was.
• Coding: Believe it or not, Myspace taught me a decent amount about coding. Okay, not decent, but I learned how to post and resize photos, how to bold and underline text, how to change background colors, all through HTML. Does this do me any good in the least bit as far as a future career or even menial hobbies? Not at all. Still, did it feel like I'd just cracked some sort of impossible code after I finally saw my full profile come together? Absolutely. It was a tedious task, but I put a lot of time into it. I had to make sure every little piece was just right. Why? That brings me to my next and final point. 
• Profiles: We've all seen the horrors of myspace profiles: a neon hot pink background, an abundance of glittery, shining text, even stars that would constantly rain down the screen. Many cited this as the main reason they ended up hating Myspace, but this was the main reason I adored it. I made my profile with class. I found a catchy, yet nonabrasive background color. I found the most vivid Flickr images of kittens, oceans, or castles to start off my poetically quirky "About Me." I even made a scroll box with photos and personal messages about all of my friends and aquaintances. People would even approach me at school and request I feature them as well. I spent hours on end putting them together. Oh, and I was sure to find the most obscure and unknown pop-punk bands I could find. After all, in early high school, if you find a band before everyone else then it's your band (Mayday Parade is still mine!) 

On his tombstone they'll write "You failed, Tom." 

While myspace is dead and gone to most all of us 20-somethings, perhaps it will live on for a new generation of early high schoolers. Maybe there will be others that post obscure bulletin posts about how "Preps shouldn't listen to H.I.M." (guilty of this). Perhaps another smug 14 year old will spend hours on his profile to show off his supposed individuality. Hopefully others will still inhabit this former promised land of Top 8's, "owning" pictures of significant others, and "PC4PC" transactions. You were great while you lasted Myspace. To close, I humbly submit some very fitting song lyrics, ones straight out of the Myspace era. 

"One night and one more time

Thanks for the memories

Even though they weren't so great

He tastes like you only sweeter"

*I liked Fall Out Boy BEFORE they were cool. 

I will always love you, Dilophosaurus

I always had a rather strong affinity for toys when I was growing up. It's a given that most little kids love their toys but I loved mine. As one who suffered a mild McDonald's addiction, I was very adamant that I would get the right toy in my happy meal and would get my mom to ask the poor cashier which ones they had to offer. Of course, if it didn't meet my satisfaction a horrendous tantrum would occur. Some may call that being a brat, but I like to think of it as a real passion. My toy fascination didn't subside until an embarrassingly late age; at 13 I had an entire bookshelf full of most every character from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. My younger brother and I would utilize different action figures, beanie babies, and McDonald's treats to form armies and play out elaborate story lines that spanned hours at a time; there was romance, betrayal, and monumental showdowns like you wouldn't believe. My toy days finally found an end, and most of my beloved figures are packed in a box in a dark basement. I like to think the paradigm for consciousness as established by Toy Story is true and that they still converse, move about, and maybe think of me. Sometimes I think of them too. Some I'll always remember. Some I'll always love. Perhaps none like the Dilophosaurus.

"And Iiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiiii-ii will always love youuuuuuu-hooo too, Taylor!

If I had to divide my life into time periods, it would be B.D. and A.D, eras defining my life before and after Dilophosaurus. Having your soul robbed at such a young age hardens a boy quickly. For those of you unsure of what a dilophosaurus might be, I'll take you for a walk back in time. Back, over 65 million years in the past. I'm talking about the year 1989, when Jurassic Park was first released. Remember the obnoxious, blubbery antagonist that smuggled out the dino DNA in a shaving cream can? He met his shrieking fate at the hands of a certain hissing, frilled beast, one that went from cooing and innocent in one scene to rather rude and unfriendly in an instance. As you remember well (and if you don't, then you haven't seen Jurassic Park, and I'll kindly ask you to never read my blog again), Newman was either eaten or sexually assaulted by this flamboyant monster. Still, to me, this beast was a good friend. Rubber, pocket-sized, and able to withstand my most violent playing sessions, Dilo was a beloved toy. Or perhaps it wasn't at the time...my perspective is skewed. You see, we never know what we have until it's gone.

It was a fateful trip to Kroger that burgled me of my innocence. Grocery shopping was always a tedious journey for a young lad, and I'd chosen my companion well. The store was an endless labyrinth, and aside from a few brightly colored cereal boxes marketed to catch my child eyes, there was little to keep me entertained. Somehow, though, I made an error, one that haunted me for days on end. One moment I was toddling about, Dilo in tow, and the next....it was gone. I checked my pockets, scanned the buggy, scavenged the shelves, but Dilo was missing. Perhaps the reason I relate to Gollum of Lord of the Rings lore so well is how similar we were in our reaction to losing our "precious." It was this panic that alerted my mother to this threat level red crisis. She helped me look, but in vain. Perhaps we could call the police, I suggested, but she would not allow it, a notion I couldn't comprehend at the time. How could she not understand? Why was she continuing to shop for groceries? What sort of world did we live in?? My reality was, for roughly 2 hours, shattered.

Last known photo of Dilo. Missing since circa 1995. 

The ride home allowed for it to sink in. I had bawled loudly, and now simply wept in silence. The world was cruel to me that day. I would not gleefully return to the car to find Dilo hiding under the seat. My mother would not reveal him from her purse as some sort of cruel joke. I was a cocktail of depression and a rising fury; someone had stolen it from us. I'd imagined the faces of all the other snot-nosed brats, so unworthy to wield my favorite possession of the day. Murder filled my heart, yet it only made me cry harder. In an effort to calm me down, my mother loudly turned up the radio in an attempt convince me to sing along. The melody that filled my ears was so fitting and so haunting. Dolly Parton's angelic voice soaked my very essence in a soothing understanding, and so I struggled to sing along. "I will always love you," I sang to Dilophosaurus. I looked to the sky for hope, yet it starred back blankly. I wondered if Dilo saw it as well. Perhaps, one day, we would meet again in heaven. For now, Dilo, I can only say this to you: You are still remembered to this day. Never forget.

Where is your hope?

Usually I like my posts to be a little laid back and humorous, but this may be a little different. In light of the attack in Boston yesterday, there's something that's been on my mind.

I like to believe that we always have hope. Does this mean a New Hope that a young lad will eventually grow to Jedi status and overturn the evil cosmic empire? You bet it does. Does this also mean the Hope we see plastered on bumper stickers next to President Obama's face? Well, Republicans may disagree, but also yes. Perhaps this means the HOPE referring to the lottery scholarship I lost two years ago. I'm a little bitter, but I guess it technically works too. All silliness aside, I believe in hope more than I believe in most things. Some may call me naive, others may call me an optimist (and many will say the two are synonymous), but I refuse to put much stock in the idea of despair. If I wanted to mope about all day, get drunk, and give in to the idea of the futility of hope, I'd just move to the caribbean and pretend to be a washed-up pirate. As fun as that sounds, I think I'll stick to my belief because hope is honestly a very dangerous thing to lose.

"No hope! No hope! A pirate's life for me!"

I guess the real reason for this post is the tragedy that occurred in Boston yesterday. I'm guessing there's no one reading this that isn't aware of what happened, but I'm going to recap it anyway. Two bombs went off at the Boston Marathon. Two were killed, one of them being an 8 year old child waiting to see his dad finish the race, and over 160 were injured. When I hear that people were "injured", I often think of imagine that as something like a fractured shoulder or a few nasty cuts. In this case "injured" meant brain injuries, full body trauma, and loss of limbs. The entire event was absolutely horrible and has left my heart in a squeezing vice. Not much is known about the actual explosions, although it seems clear that this wasn't just some sort of pipe leak or natural gas accident. That means somebody willingly decided that they were going to hurt and murder innocent people at what was supposed to be an inspiring event. Naturally, this is hard for a lot of people to take in. The idea that someone would do something so despicable often leaves people confused and questioning, and we have to find a way to cope. Still, despite how bad it may seem, I refuse to let go of hope. But where to find it? 

I came across this status today as I was scrolling down my feed. It's a nice thought and a lot of people seemed to like it, but something about it just didn't sit right with me. This hope is "elsewhere" which means not of the world. Of course this means this person is putting faith in God or Jesus or both. That by itself, I do not have a problem with at all. We often turn to our faith in a time of crisis, and I've never thought ill of anyone for doing that. My problem with it is that it reminds me of a common Christian saying that absolutely kills me to death: "Be in the world, not of it." The idea behind it is that you have no choice but be in this dark, sick, twisted world, but you don't have to be a part of it. Just stick to the holy high ground and you'll one day find the true refuge in the glorious afterlife. I promise this isn't some sort of attack on religion: if someone spouted off that phrase but believed that aliens would one day come and take them, I'd still hate it. It's easy to think about all the people that were hurt or lost, but what about all the people that turned back to help the injured after crossing the finish line? What about the fact that local hospitals are filled with blood from donors? What about the fact that Bostonian residents and businesses are offering food, drink, and shelter for no charge whatsoever? It reminds me of one of my favorite quotes: "It's a shit shit world, but you know what? Good things are done every day."

I am in this world and I am of it. And I love that fact. Because if there is a grace to speak about, this world is truly of it. Evil happens in ways that sometimes seem overwhelming, but let us not forget the response after the storm. The incredible outpouring of love and kindness. I put my hope in this world and I put my hope in the people of this world and I will never give up on either.