Chomp Photo(blog)

New Photo Store

2010-06-18T16:17:00.005-05:00

Hello, friends!

It has been a long time (time), and I shouldn'a left you (left you), without some dope photos to step to. So, in the interest of feeding your insatiable (read: non-existent) appetite for more of my photography, I have decided to open up a photography store. Now, if you want to purchase any of my prints, all you have to do is head on over to the website and get yourself one. Or two. I would say, three, but I only have two for sale right now. If you like it, then buy it.

Check out my photo store at http://chomp.storenvy.com

Currently, following prints are for sale:

fin

Old Town West

2010-04-27T13:32:00.007-05:00

This was taken a while ago, but the scene still looks the same (sans snow now, in April). Taken from the Parkside at Old Town on Division.

Artist's Bio

2010-04-27T13:06:00.002-05:00

Joel Settecase's passion for photography began as a spark when he was living in Harrisburg, PA. He realized he needed a hobby, and passed the time climbing onto roof tops to take pictures of the cityscape with his camera phone. After moving back to Chicago his parents bought him an Olympus camera for his birthday, and the spark was fanned into a flame.

Living in Chicago, the architecture capital of North America, has helped sculpt Settecase's unique, urban shooting style. He started with simple shots of the city skyline, and has developed an eye for capturing the peculiarities that make each urban scene fascinating.

Settecase's photography has taken him from Harrisburg to Downtown, the North, South, and West Sides of Chicago, Philadelphia, Indianapolis, Nashville and other exciting, concrete jungles.

His work has been featured on Schmap.com's interactive guide to Chicago and the Chicago Stage Review's website. Settecase also operates a photo-webblog at www.settecase.blogspot.com.

Ooh, I'm Angry. You Can't See It, But My Forehead's Veiny

2009-05-03T13:00:00.003-05:00

Now that this city's Hopium buzz has started to wear off (click that link--it shows that bodybuilders have brains too), we can start to take a sober look at what President Obama has been up to for the past hundred-odd days.

I could write a lengthy article about the Boss (read: he's from Chicago. He's a boss, not a leader), but I am confident most of you precious readers know where my thoughts lie (read: as far away from "Bamalot" as possible). Therefore, I am going to leave you with this video, which summarizes Obama's first 100 days better than I ever could:

I should warn you that the last minute or so is pretty gross (though it isn't clear which is grosser, Glenn Beck mocking a disabled woman or the viscous phlegm between the singing cow's lips).

Coming next time: more Wicker Park Pictchas

fin

Wicky Wicky Wow

2009-05-02T21:16:00.002-05:00

Wicker Park: once home to the "Polish Gold Coast" in Chicago. Today, it's a cross between Little Mexico, Little Williamsburg (hipster-town, NYC), and Little Yuppie-Land (Lincoln Park being 'big' Yuppie-Land). The intersection of North Ave., Damen, and Milwaukee is like another, separate downtown within the city.

First off, a view of the infamous intersection, and the Coyote Building. The Coyote (AKA Northwest Tower) is like Chicago's version of NYC's Flatiron Building. Not quite as ornate, but easily just as classic.

Enjoy:

The Flat Iron Arts Building. Home of an artist community and one of my favorite bars in the city (also called the Flat Iron):

The Coyote, site of the annual Around the Coyote arts fest:

Around the Coyote, North and Milwaukee:

There will be more to come, I promise. Pictures that you can't even imagine. I would post them now, however the Bulls are playing. You know the drill.

lata

Increase Your Attractiveness with Reddit!

2009-05-02T03:46:00.002-05:00

Thanks, Reddit. As of yesterday, I was averaging (maybe) 10 hits per day on this here weblog. Suddenly, it occured to me (after three years of writing this thing) to post some links on Reddit and Digg.

Well, let me tell you. I instantly started getting hits. So far, it is May 2, and May is already the busiest month out of the last twelve months. When I looked at my hit counter to figure out where all these people were hearing about my weblog, guess what came up?

In other words: if you want to increase traffic to your blog, post a link on Reddit (oh, and Fark is okay too, but they have a waiting period before you can post anything). Is it cheating? Absolutely. Is it ingenius? Come on, you know Poppa Joely wouldn't steer you wrong.

fin

Chicago Base Jumping

2009-05-02T01:48:00.004-05:00

This has nothing to do with me, but it is about Chicago, and it's too cool not to show you. Enjoy:

fin

Hyde and Jackson

2009-05-01T22:13:00.011-05:00

Not content with my original trip to Hyde Park last year, I took another trip down to President Obama's stompin' grounds back in January.

Well, not exactly. You see, Obama lived in Kenwood. Kenwood is adjacent to Hyde Park. So I went to Hyde Park and Jackson Park, because that's where the best views are. Views of what, you ask? Keep on a-readin'.

I got a really great crop of pictures of Jackson Park in the snow and Chicago's multiple skylines at twilight. Why, you ask, have I not posted these stunning images until now? Well for one, you little Nosey Nelly, I have not had my camera. That is, I've had it, but it was full, and I had no place to put my photos (read: masterpieces). Long story short, I got myself an external hard drive, and uploaded these brilliant works of art for your viewing enjoyment. Now, please view and enjoy.

A skyline scene from the Kathy Osterman Beach near 5800 S. Lake Shore Drive:

South Shore Skyline from Hyde Park:

Hyde Park Skyline from Jackson Park:

The Statue of the Republic, Chicago's version of the Statue of Liberty. Half-size replica of the original Statue from the Columbian Exposition of 1983:

A view from inside Jackson Park. It was so cold, the moisture from my breath froze to my scarf:

Hey! What's that urban bus stop doing in front of that country mansion? Oh, I must be in Hyde Park:

fin

"You Have Been Published."

2009-04-27T15:22:00.006-05:00

I am officially a writer. The other night, I was tooling around online, looking for ways to make money (how many literary geniuses' memoirs could start with that phrase?), and I decided to become a writer. That is, I decided to become a real writer--one who gets paid actual money for writing.

So I signed up with Associated Content and wrote a couple pieces. The first one is just a haiku about pets. The second one is a guide to finding a library near the Lombard area. That one hasn't been published yet.

Anyhow, I get paid according to the number of people who click on the link to my haiku. Want to help me earn a dolla? Click on this link: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1679419/shadows_with_teeth.html?cat=42

So far, I don't think Associated Content is a scam, a trick, or a pyramid scheme. It is a way for Associated Content to sell advertisements (hence the authors getting paid per click), but there is nothing wrong with that as long as the content is good.

Check it out and make me a star.

fin

Addendum: The library piece has been published. For information on libraries in the Lombard area click here: Lombard Area Libraries

Hyde Park

2009-04-26T15:05:00.011-05:00

Last year, I got to thinking that maybe I knew the North Side a little too well, and it was time to check out the Land of Obama (cringe), Hyde Park. Even though President Obama is not really from Hyde Park, but nearby Kenwood, Hyde Park sounds a little more prestigious (it being the neighborhood of the University of Chicago and, along with Jackson Park, the 1893 Columbian Exposition), and that kind of become the myth-truth of the Obama Chicago Legacy (see also: The Great Obama Was Born in Hawaii Myth of 2008).

It amazed me, while exploring the South Side neighborhood, how much Hyde Park resembled a certain North Side neighborhood. Indeed, the thought kept cropping up in my mind, Wow, this is just like a black version of Lincoln Park. There, I said it. Hyde Park is the black Lincoln Park. Or maybe Lincoln Park is the white Hyde Park.

Either way, they are both culturally rich, vibrant neighborhoods. So without further racially invective ado, I give you Hyde Park:

(Click on the photos for larger images)

Promontory Point:

Ruins amongst the residences:

Hyde Park Metra Station (South Shore Electric Line):

1700 East 56th Street, the tallest building south of 13th Street:

Chicago has multiple skylines. Here is the skyline down around 71st Street:

I forget this couple's names, but I volunteered to take their picture after I saw them climbing onto the rock wall at Promontory Point. Notice the Downtown skyline in the background:

Hyde Park and Downtown:

The Museum of Science and Industry (AKA Palace of Fine Arts)

Another one of Chicago's multiple skylines, South Shore:

Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority's national headquarters:

Hyde Park has been described as Chicago's version of Manhattan's Upper West Side:

Hyde Park Blvd--Hyde Park's "Main Street":

And there you have it. Is Hyde Park the black Lincoln Park? Is Promontory Point the best view of the skyline? Is Obama really an American citizen? You'll have to answer these questions yourself. I'm going to go take some more pictures.

fin

Tweet Me

2009-04-24T12:57:00.005-05:00

I gave in (read: collapsed under the social pressure) and started an account with Twitter. I do not expect it to last very long, however. Something tells me Twitter is the new Myspace. As we all know, Myspace is really nothing more than a mirror through which narcissistic people admire themselves all day long, and every little thing everyone does is so precious. I started a Myspace account about four years ago, and gradually just forgot about it. Because really, I'm just not that precious.

The reason I joined up with Twitter: I attended a NAIFA Chicago seminar yesterday which recommended it, for business purposes. So now I can keep my "followers" updated on all my high-falutin' Chicago corporate business activities. I guess any press is good press, right?

So far, I have one follower. It's someone called Military Blogs, or something. Please, won't you validate me too?

Follow me @JoelSettecase

fin

Obamoasis

2009-04-23T22:07:00.011-05:00

Smello, my good friends (read: complete strangers), and welcome back to Chicagolanding (AKA The Weblog Formerly Known as You Better Believe It--I'm still working on a cool, Prince-like symbol).

The above picture (which is cropped, and if you click on it, shows some really cool tricks of light in the full version) features one of the most intriguing new urban spaces in The City (read: Chicago, not the inevitably terrible MTV reality series), called the Park at Lakeshore East.

Sitting on the site of a former 9-hole golf course, the Park at Lakeshore East is an urban oasis in the heart of the village-within-a-city that is the New East Side (which is, in fact, just about the complete polar opposite of the suburban feeling, run-for-your-life original East Side). Wound up from work and the state of our country, I rambled on over there last week while I was waiting for the Young Miss Leeserie to wrap up hanging with her friends. Let me tell you, the place is surreal.

It's all three-level streets and outdoor elevators and stairs that you climb from the ground level, up three stories, to find that you are right back at the ground level. There are little waterfalls and pools, and a playground, and trees. The trees are one of the best parts. That is, they will be one of the best parts in about ten years. Right now, they break up the view a little with their branches and leaves, but they are small. When they have a chance to grow awhile, I expect that the Park at Lakeshore East is going to be covered with a green canopy, like a little forest amidst the skyscrapers (read: nature meets nurture).

So, while our nation's Constitutional enthusiasts were readying their tea bags, I was climbing around the Park at Lakeshore East, trying to escape the hamster wheel that life in Chicago can sometimes be.

How about a few more images to help us all escape the unbelievable burden that President Obama's administration is dumping on our children? Sounds good:

More Lakeshore East:

Lake Point Tower and Lake Shore Drive:

Just stare at those pictures and imagine you're in a better place. A debt-free place with a great economy. Ahh, that's better.

fin

Governor Quinn, Revenue Man

2009-03-16T22:06:00.007-05:00

While Blago was being impeached, he kept insisting that the state Legislature was only trying to oust him so they could increase taxes.

On Friday, March 13, 2009, new Illinois governor Pat Quinn announced that he would raise the state's income tax by up to 50%.

So does this mean that Blagojevich is innocent, or that NKOTB Quinn is just as big a jerk as his predecessor?

Here in Illinois, the G-Men haven't disappeared. They've graduated from Chicago and moved down to Springfield.

fin

"Random" is as "Random" Does

2009-01-30T18:04:00.008-06:00

I do not normally go for this type of thing......But I'm going to do it, because I haven't had a new article up in a while, and I hate to do that to my faithful reader(s) (read: YOU if you are reading this right now).

You see, I was recently "tagged" on "Facebook" in a "note" written by my so-called "girlfriend" entitled "The Hottest Chick in the World." That was my girlfriend's title, I mean. The note was titled "25 Random Things."

25 Random Things works thusly: one person writes 25 things about himself that he thinks his readers might not know about him. Then, he tags 25 "friends" (note: if you are a real friend, you will not do this--they are the New Millennium equivalent of the chain letter--you know, "pAsS this on 2 100 of UR hOmEys and UR crush will CaLl U within a w33k!!11!1LOL!1)), and those 25 friends each make their own list. The end result is threefold:

1. By month's end, all your friends and everyone you know will have made a list.

2. The Government goes in and mines the data for evidence to use against you when they throw you into Guantanamo

3. Everybody has fun!

So like I said, I normally do not do this things, but I am going to for two reasons:

1. My girlfriend is the hottest chick in the world (see above)

2. The library stays open later tonight than I thought, so I have an hour to kill. Holy crap I hope this doesn't take an hour to do.

And now, without further adieu mon frère, here is my list of 25 Random Things:

1. I used to be in a chess club which met at this very library in which I am sitting right now!

2. I am handsome (remember, this is a list of things you probably don't know about me).

3. You already knew no. 2 was true.

4. Therefore, I cheated.

5. On dating: I prefer brunettes, and my big accomplishment in 2008 was discovering that I have a thing for Jewish girls.

6. I also discovered I have a thing for Jewish culture.

7. I wish I were more involved with Scottish culture. I am part Scottish, and if you have never eaten Haggis, you need to stop reading this right this very instant and go eat some.

8. I'll wait.

9. Welcome back. Now where were we? Oh yes: I have totaled two cars. Both were in the winter, and they were one year apart. The third year, I drove extra carefully, and my car broke down. I believe I am literally cursed when it comes to driving in the winter. At least, I used to be. We prayed over my car and I have been safe since.

10. I have always hated naps, and to this day I loathe going to sleep at night.

11. I hate physical touch, as I associate it with romance. Therefore, I do not hate physical touch from Leeserie (see above).

12. I even hated physical touch as an 18-month-old infant. My parents used to hold me, and I would squirm my little arms out and flail them around in the air. I did not associate it with romance then. I just needed my space, man.

13. I enjoy photography.

14. I am probably too into Chicago.

15. If Chicago were a girl, I would probably marry it. There is a quote that says, "Loving Chicago is like loving a woman with a broken nose." Sounds sexy.

16. Leesie is my sales trainer.

17. I love to cold-call. So if I call you, please don't hang up!

18. I have yet to run over an armadillo. However, it is on my to-do list.

19. I got stitches under my eye--with no anesthetic. That was the same eye that once got hit so hard it swelled shut for a month. I got more stitches above my eyebrow a few months later, and that side of my face is now my "good side" when I get my picture taken.

20. I was the 2005 Big Man On Campus.

21. Approximately 120 minutes after being crowned Big Man, I got kicked out of school for a week.

22. In 1997, I had an article of mine published in the Westlake Middle School newspaper. The subject: the Christian music scene in Chicagoland.

23. I played soccer for 12 years. I kept getting yellow cards and red cards for being too agressive, so I quit and started playing rugby. I still got yellow cards. What the heck?

24. I heart the homeless.

25. I also heart kids with disabilities.

26. Shoot! One too many!

fin

The Year of the Lincoln

2009-01-09T21:19:00.004-06:00

You made it, my friend. You have successfully survived into 2009. That's right, the arbitrary system which we use to determine when a new solar cycle begins and the old one ends has decided that it is now a new year. It is now 2009. Think about that. Doesn't "2009" sound like the future? And is it not ridiculous with a capital Arrrrr* that we are this far into the future and I still have to walk from Oglevie to the Avondale Center, where I work, selling *Pirate Insurance (okay, not really--but wouldn't that be awesome if I did?) If we have the technology, I don't see why I can't just ride one of these:

And so, as long as we are still bound to the ground (until I get my flying pulpit and leave you suckas behind, that is), we might as well enjoy it. In fact, I have discovered the perfect place to enjoy the ground--and the trees, and the critters, and, well, nature in general.

It's not very well known, so you might not have heard of it. It's a really obscure little 1200-acre lakeside park in the heart of the Chi's North Side (or as those masters of efficiency refer to it in the Military, CHINORSI) between North Avenue and the LSD terminus at Ardmore, and it is named after one of our nation's lesser-known presidents. You may have already figured this out, but I am referring to Lincoln Park.

Ah yes, Lincoln Park. Chicago's Central Park. Well, no, wait, it's really not. Central Park is only 843 acres, and has no lakefront (read: the Jackie Kennedy Onassis Reservoir is not a lake--not like Lake Michigan anyway). Alright, so Lincoln Park is not Chi-Town's Central Park. Lincoln Park is Chi-Town's Lincoln Park; it is a sprawling park without equal, helping Chicago live up to its ambitious Latin moniker, Urbs in Horto.

I hereby declare 2009 the Year of the Park.

In case you have not already gathered this from Poppa Joely's Facebook photo albums, a new year means new photos. Likewise, a new Year of the Park means new pictures of Lincoln Park and its eponymous neighborhood.

It also means that you can expect to read more about Lincoln Park in the weeks to come, right here on Ol' Poppa Joely's Home-Style Photo 'N' Story Interwebs Diary (Caution: link brings you to my very first weblog article; clicking on it may cause you not to leave your computer for a week--or possibly a month, depending on how slowly you read).

To start the Year of the Park off righteously, let us take a look at some photos of said park.

With a little bit of this: The William Shakespeare statue in Lincoln Park
Aaaaand some of that:
Lincoln Park West at Midnight
Have you had enough yet? No! Well then take this:
North Pond

And that:

And... that is all for now. Stay tuned.

fin

Addendum: There is a link to my Flickr gallery hidden on this page. If you find it, you will gain access to all the Park pictures I am going to put on here eventually anyway. The good news for you is that it is not hidden very well. Allez et Cherchez!

Best/Worst Week Ever

2008-12-07T14:31:00.005-06:00

This past week, consisting of the days from November 30 through December 6, was one of the (best/worst) in recent memory. It was the (best/worst) because of all the (happy/upsetting) things that happened.

Probably the (most satisfying thing/biggest disappointment) was that (I converted my fraternity brother and fellow Pan, Eazy E--who was in town for a medical convention at McCormick Place/found out I would not be getting the huge contract I thought I was going land for work).

This was (exciting/sad) because (Eazy E is originally from Jersey and loves Philly and NYC/I had worked hard coming up with a proposal and brought two other agents in on it with me). However, after (a weekend showing him the nightlife in Lincoln Park and an authentic blues bar/weeks of preparation) I was informed that (Eazy E had come around/the finance committee had turned down my proposal).

This, of course, made me (ecstatic/disgruntled) because (Chicago is the best city in the US of A/I had put a lot of hope into landing this deal). It is always (nice/maddening) when somebody (acknowledges/does not acknowledge) what I already knew: (Chicago is as good as--no, better than East Coast cities/I am the perfect man to bring in on this case).

There was one other (fun/frustrating) happening this week. I (got a chance/was foolish enough) to brave the cold and (go ice skating at the McCormick Tribune rink under the Bean/walk to meet my co-worker, G-Money, at an outdoor networking event at Navy Pier). This worked out (well/horribly) because (it was a double date with Leesie's friend and Eazy E/by the time my cab pulled up and I walked the 1/2 mile down the pier, the event was over).

After (two hours of showing off my moves on the ice/realizing I had missed the event), we (went out for wine and hot chocolate/walked 2 miles to G-Money's brother's apartment, gritting our teeth against the Hawk the whole way).

If you haven't had a chance to (ice skate in one of America's most picturesque Christmastime settings/visit Navy Pier) yet, I highly (recommend it/advise against it). It's one of this city's (most romantic date ideas/gaudiest tourist traps).

fin

Addendum: Yes, I said Christmas. I know Christians have given up on many fronts of the Culture War, but I am still not wishing anyone a "Happy Holiday." What holiday, after all? And speaking of Christ (okay, it's a stretch) I am all-but-convinced that this song is secretly about him, and his betrayal by Judas. At first I thought it was about the devil (you know--"I'll bring the fire," etc.), but I changed my mind after reading a few reviews. Check out the analysis of the song here. If the internet says it, you know it's true! See if for yourself.

Hope for Change we Need to Believe

2008-11-22T13:24:00.006-06:00

[Names have been changed to protect the guilty]

Here I sit, on the couch of my PYT (that's Pretty Young Thing, for those of you readers who are inexplicably not familiar with that great Michael Jackson song) Leeserie, down in her garden apartment on her tree-lined street in Lincoln Park. It's the same couch I slept on last night, and it's very comfortable. See, it is a hide-a-bed, and its deceptively diminutive frame conceals, tightly tucked within its innards a mattress, which, once unfolded, is surprisingly large and shockingly comfortable.

One would never know it to sleep on it, but the sofa is also apparently constructed out of ununoctium (read: the heaviest element on earth--you should really pay more attention in science class). How could I know that? Well, friend, I couldn't. Or really, I wouldn't had I not hauled the unweildy chesterfield down a precariously narrow spiral staircase two nights ago.

Yes, in an effort to demonstrate what a top-quality boyfriend I am, I agreed to not only pick up the settee from its seller, a pleasant girl also living in south Lincoln Park, but to transport it (into the smallest elevator I have ever seen and) back up to Leeserie's and down into her bedroom.

In order to accomplish this daunting task, I enlisted the help of my good friend, Meekus Jones. Or rather, Meekus was drafted by his girlfriend and my and Leeserie's mutual friend, Rachael (her name hasn't been changed for this article, but that's only because I haven't come up with a good nickname for her yet). Rachael was nice enough to let us use her Explorer (read: the SUV, not Merriweather Lewis or something) to get the love seat to it's final resting place.

Well, we lifted, and we strained. We grunted, and we cursed. We called down curses upon the stairs, the apartment, the love seat, and the day we were born. Meekus and I manuevered sofa and its cumbersome bulk around and around, over the railing, under the low ceiling, and finally, clonked it town next to Leeserie's bed. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and Meekus checked the wall for dent marks where we bashed it (read: no damage was done). As the banner once said, Mission Accomplished.

As a guy, it feels good to impress girls by lifting heavy things and carrying them down spiral staircases. Likewise, it is always good to help people. However, I still cannot understand why Leeserie could not just wait until January of '09, when President Barack Obama finally provides all Americans with universal, socialized furniture moving.

Now that will be change we can believe in.

fin

You've been waiting long enough.

2008-11-19T21:43:00.007-06:00

Well hello there, my faithful readers. Believe it or not, I've been getting some comments in the last couple of months about the (lack of) frequency of updates on this, your local source of all things great and wonderful about Chicagoland. To those who care (read: YOU), I have good news and bad news.

The good news is that I'm back. The bad news is also that I'm back, and "You Better Believe It" is going to undergo a format change in the next few months.

You may have been reading my other literary venture, CHICAGOLANDING, and noticed that there hasn't been much going on there since the early part of aught-eight either. Well, I have let my license expire over at GoDaddy, and I will be merging that fine outlet of Chicagolife with this one. The benefit to you is that you now get the witty one-way conversation you love along with the Chicagoland architecture and streetscape photography you envy in one convenient package, updated semi-sometimely by Yours Truly.

I have been inspired (read: I will blatantly and unapologetically copy him) by my boy B-Love over at PhillySkyline (take a look--it's great), and you can expect to see posts formatted along the same lines as his work over there.

Let us get things started with this grande piece de resistance, my favorite photo of the Chicago River that I (and therefore anyone else) have ever taken.

I give you: THE GOLDEN CITY.This is a shot of the beginning of the Mag Mile from the Lasalle Street bridge. For more like it, either stay tuned or visit my Flickr page.

Until next time, remember that Chicago is, and always has been, infinitely better than your city.

fin

I am Baltimore.

2008-03-03T22:29:00.002-06:00

I can't believe this...

Your Score: BALTIMORE!

You scored 48% Style, 39% Climate, and 67% Culture!

You are Baltimore, Maryland. Baltimore, the largest city in Maryland, is situated in the northern part of the state on the Patapsco River estuary, an arm of Chesapeake Bay. The city is independent and does not fall within any county. Baltimore's economy is very diverse, with strong financial, legal, and nonprofit service industries. The city also leads in scientific research and development through two highly acclaimed medical institutions, Johns Hopkins Hospital and University of Maryland Hospital. There is also a significant tourist sector. Major attractions include the the National Aquarium, Harborplace, the Maryland Science Center, the Babe Ruth Museum, Fort McHenry National Monument, and Pimlico Race Course, site of the Preakness.

While you are not the most stylish individual, you are definitely cultured and are not afraid to try new things, even if they differ from what you're used to. You appreciate diversity in life and definitely like to get out there and have fun. You like the changes in season, although you prefer warmer weather to cold. People find you to be down-to-earth and easy to get along with. Your personality is not grandiose, but just right.

Link: The Which Major U.S. City Are You? Test written by weeredII on OkCupid, home of the The Dating Persona Test
View My Profile(weeredII)

I guess after a year of living close by, the city rubbed off on me. Good ole Bawlmore, Murraland.
Real post coming soon!

fin

Man Vacationing in Madison Looks Like Moron

2007-11-20T20:44:00.000-06:00

Oops. That's about all I can say after the mega-debacle that was my mini-vacation to Madison last weekend.

Here is what happened: I drove up from Chicagoland to Madison (arguably still Chicagoland) to see my friend. The plan: we would grab a few drinks, then meet up with some friends of hers. Well, when I got there, I discovered that, like in any city, parking is tough to come by in Madison (without shelling out $15 or more).

So I parked a few blocks from her apartment and then walked. By the time I got up to her place on the fourth floor, I was tired from working, driving, and walking all day.But there was no time to rest. I said hello, then asked if she would accompany me to my car to get my bags. Not interested. Alright, I'll make the trek myself.

On the way, I noticed a nice pub full of stuck-up U of W brats, so I decided to stop in and have a brew. About twenty minutes later, I had made it back to my car, driven around, and eventually found street parking on Main, right in front of her building! Happily I carried my luggage into the lobby. I buzzed and buzzed, but she wouldn't let me in. Strange.

So I buzzed about thirty people on the switchboard until some confused (drunk?) girl on the first floor finally let me in (whoever that was, by the way, thanks. And I hope your cousin Marty finally showed up... remember, you thought I was him?). I was surprised to learn upon reentering the apartment that it was empty. She was gone, leaving me stranded to go meet up with her friends! Or so I thought...

Long story short, I got mad at her for ditching me, and I went out. By myself. With her cell phone. And keys. Yes, she left her phone and keys. Are you starting to guess what was going on? So I left her a scathing yet detached note and headed out on the town. Turns out a guy can have a pretty good time by himself in Madison. I even got some girl's number (not the one who thought I was Cousin Marty, a different one).

All the sudden it hit me like a baseball to the forehead. My friend didn't ditch me. She was asleep!

I hurried back through the surprisingly-confusing-to-navigate streets of Madison, punching college students as I ran, until, breathless, I reached her lobby. I unlocked the door (with her keys that I took) and thrust it open. No time for the elevator; I took the stairs. Down the hall, to her room. Open the door. Bam. There she stood, with steam whistling out of her ears like a tea kettle.

Well she yelled, and I yelled, and we both made some pretty decent points (I would like to say mine were better, but c'mon, imagine waking up and your friend's gone with your keys and cell phone. That's pretty rough). In the end, things got back to normal and we had a night in. The important thing is, I got to take some sweet pictures of Madison. Check them out in the Gallery at Chicagolanding.com.

By the way, if you haven't been to Chicagolanding yet, you really need to check that out. It's my website that lets you experience Chicagoland and the Midwest like never before. Like never before. Now go!

fin

Everybody Start Chicagolanding

2007-10-20T18:44:00.000-05:00

New article alert!

You might have noticed that I have not written a new article on here for a while. Like, two months. However, I have had a good reason, what with starting my career with a high-powered investment firm and generally being awesome.

A lot has been happening (he said vaguely) and I am going to comment on some of it very soon. But, in the meantime, you should check out the new website I am working on. It's called Chicagolanding, and it's a website devoted to photography, nightlife, and stories about Chicagoland. It's going to be something similar to PhillySkyline, only for the Chicago suburbs (and city) instead of Philly.

Stay tuned, and check out http://www.chicagolanding.com/.

fin

2007-09-23T02:11:00.000-05:00

I promise there is a real article coming. Until then, enjoy this link to an article explaining the real story behind the women's lib movement. How cute.

"Rockefeller also told Russo that the elite families created and financed the women's lib movement so they could tax another half of the population and so that the children would be trained by them in government schools rather than in the context of the family unit."

fin

Don't tase me, Bro!

2007-09-18T19:04:00.000-05:00

Best believe I will be coming out of hibernation to write an entertaining piece on Andrew Meyer, the Freedom of Speech Hero of the Moment.

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, check this out: "Don't tase me, bro!"

fin

You could have all the fun of Milwaukee, without having to dirty yourself by actually going there!

2007-08-16T18:07:00.000-05:00

I am seriously a genius. My friends (and I use that term as loosely as some of them require) in many social circles know me as "The Guy Who Comes Up With Great Ideas," and with good reason. This time, I have come up with a doozy.

Now, if you are a new reader to this weblog, you might not be familiar with my infamous Genius Bar Idea article from back in aught-five. Here is the link:

http://settecase.blogspot.com/2005/06/you-could-have-european-experience.html

Click on that, and you enjoy.

So what does that well-written bit of prose have to do with my new idea? I am so glad you asked. It has taken me a good two years, but I have actually topped my retractable roof bar concept. Oh sure, the retractable roof is legendary, I know this and you know this. Yet I maintain that my next idea will be so much more legendary, that they will have to invent a word to describe a level of legendariness even higher than legendary. Allow me to attempt: LEGENDORICAL. Question: Is my new idea legendary or historic? Answer: Both. It's LEGENDORICAL. Stay tuned for further use of that word. But you asked about my idea.

In order for you to understand how I came up with the following concepts, you need to know that Poppa Joely is inspired by all things urban and midwestern, respectively. I recently moved back to Chicago from Harrisburg, in order to start a career as a financial advisor with a leading investment firm. To celebrate my homecoming, my good friends DJ Vinnie Vin and DJ Micah Andrew (hereafter Meekus Jones) took me out to the Martini Ranch, a club downtown (Chicago). It was while driving to Martini Ranch that I started formulating my great new bar idea. See, on the way to Martini, I got lost.

Really, it was Meekus's fault. I was following him downtown, and as soon as we got into the city he swept from the left lane all the way over to the right lane and took an exit to which there was no way I could make over in time. This forced me to drive through the city and loop my way back around to Martini. On the way, I passed over the Chicago River via the Michigan Avenue Bridge (I think). This is where I saw the most breathtaking view of the city I have ever seen.

The way the yellow and blue lights of the skyscrapers seemed to stare down at their shimmery doppelgangers in the River struck me. So many buildings, it did not seem real. For a second, I thought I must be in some futuristic video game. I started typing GTA San Andreas cheat codes into my dashboard, but when a tank failed to drop from the sky, I snapped out of it and soaked up the view. The mental snapshot of that moment has stuck with me.

Something about a city with water flowing through it--not near it, mind you--impressed me. Having lived on the East Coast for the last year-plus, I have seen some great cities. New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, even Reading and Harrisburg. All of these (save Reading) are situated on bodies of water, but none have water actually flowing through their urban hearts. One other city* I've been to has this feature, and like Chicago it is also in the Midwest.

Indianapolis. Nap-Town. Indian-NoPlace. Does not sound like much, but it has always kind of been my second city (not to be confused with THE Second City) since my grandparents lived there. This past Sunday I went down to visit my grandma, and spent four days helping her around the house and in the garden. After she went to bed Monday night, I hopped in my car and drove downtown. I was pleased to discover that my favorite part of Indy other than the nighttime skyline, the Canal Walk, was still open. The Central Canal flows out of the White River into the outskirts of Indy's city center. Just do a Flickr search for "Indy Canal Night" to see how picturesque the Canal makes an otherwise mundane Midwestern metropolis. During the day, I understand that real-life gondolieri operate on the Canal, singing to their passengers in Italian. Outstanding. Again, I witnessed water bringing vibrancy and life to a city. By the time I got back home, I could feel my brain rumbling, silently working on its next display of brilliance.

Today, that idea has reached fruition. I want to go to a bar that has a river in it. Yes, a freaking river. Imagine it. I envision a long, single dark room. When you walk in, you are greeted by a pool about fifteen feet in diameter. It's wrought iron gate keeps out accidental swimmers and drunkies, but it can be opened for bathers as sort of a VIP section. From the pool, which is lit underwater, you see a long, slightly winding canal. Outside of the pool, it's covered in glass (again to keep out stumbly drunks), but the whole thing is lit.

It winds its way back to the fully stocked bar, then splits, curves to the left and the right around the bar and up to two waterfalls. That's right people, I said waterfalls. The water falls from two balconies, also protected by wrought-iron (think Romeo and Juliet), which are connected to the ground floor by grand staircases. Each balcony has a few tables and chairs, for a more intimate setting and a chance to people watch below.

House music (never hip-hop) is pumped out of the speakers constantly, which blends in with the roar of the waterfalls for a soothing-exciting effect on the patrons. Of course, the resident DJs, Vinnie Vin and Micah Andrew will provide partiers with a Taste of Chicago, and the party won't stop-ah, ah-till the break-a dawn-ah.

What's the bar called? The Chicago River. I know, I know. I am a genius. Nobody better steal my idea, or I am going to drown you in the swimming pool. Dead serious.

fin

*Milwaukee is another Midwestern city with a river going through it. It is really nice to look at, but come on, it's Milwaukee. Practically a suburb of Chicago anyway. Milwaukee is the Baltimore of the Midwest.

Jazz Hands!

2007-07-30T12:51:00.000-05:00

Talk about your necessary celebrations. This past weekend, Harrisburg hosted what I like to call "The Gayest Weekend Ever" down on Riverfront Park. Now, I do mean gay in the homosexual sense, but also, really, in the "happy" sense. Because what could be more joyous than hundreds of men eating, drinking, and dressing up in flamboyent accoutrements in honor of the fact that they are attracted to one another?

That is correct, diligent pupils: this weekend was Pridefest in Harrisburg. Honestly, I do not know why they call it Pridefest. No doubt, the moniker is an effort by the morally progressive gay community to make their festival more palatable to "breeders" in the city, who might be put off by the idea of their city hosting something called "We-Like-to-Do-Each-Other-Fest."

And certainly, what does something like Pridefest boil down to if it isn't just that? I believe I speak for all straight men in Central Pennsylvania when I say, drop the euphemisms and cut right to the chase. Gay guys like to bang each other. Sure, they've accumulated little extras into their society. Elements like wearing fashionable yet borderline-effeminate clothing, picking up disco music years after the rest of pop culture had abandoned it, talking with a lisp, rainbow flags, and "Save Roe" bumper stickers in support of liberal causes really round out the homosexual culture. They even have a whole section of Chicago, Boystown, dedicated to them. Pridefest is, in some sense, a celebration of these things that make the gay culture so vibrant. But let us not forget what is at the core of the festival: men doing each other in the butt.

And so I say, flame on, my flamboyently feathered friend! To the heterosexual girls you befriend, you are merely a symbol of their tolerance and appreciation of diversity. But to me, every rainbow striped banner flying from the roof of the Suba Tapas Bar on South Street will forever shine as a beacon of the freedom we enjoy in this great nation--the freedom to commit lewd acts with other men, as well as the reason I cannot ride on the back of my fraternity brother's motorcycle without qualifying it to any girls we pass: "We're not gay, ladies, seriously."

fin

"It" Happens

2007-07-17T13:38:00.000-05:00

02:15 until It walks in

A funny thing happened on the way to the Select Medical office on the West Shore this morning.

Notice I said this happened in the morning. Of course that means that I was active before noon, and I happen to be unemployed. So I will not be offended if you ask for some explanation as to why I was awake at such an early hour.

But Poppa Joely, you ask, doesn't one have to get up extra early each day to make such critical contributions to the world as you do? Simply put , my dear reader, no. Believe it or not, I actually manage to get any and every useful activity taken care of between the hours of 1:00 and 5:00 PM. The rest of the time is spent sleeping, reading, and watching movies like 'Beer League.' But I digress.

The point is, I wake up early when I have something important to do. Today, I had two important things to do: visit an insurance adjuster, and meet the young miss Karen Klinger (AKA Aquagirl*) for lunch at 11:30.

To continue, I had woken up at nine o'clock that morning (read: the Lord must have woken me, since I went to sleep at like four AM and did not set any alarms) because I had to run some very important errands.

02:00 until It walks in

Now, like most guys, I spend very little time making myself look presentable. Okay, so sometimes I take longer than the average guy (read: because I'm colorblind and have no sense of style or fashion), but I still take way less time than a girl. This was especially true this morning. I literally rolled off the couch (onto an empty plastic juice bottle, I think), slapped on an Abercrombie t-shirt that still smelled like campfire from the weekend, and headed out. Little did I suspect what gender-bending adventures awaited me, later that day.

00:45 until It walks in

My visit to the Allstate Insurance office was pleasant, and conveniently close to the place where Aquagirl works. By this time it was around 11 AM, and the morning haze surrounding my mind was starting to clear. It was at this time I realized that I looked like crap. Seriously, I pulled into a gas station parking lot, got out, and took a good look at myself. Flip-flops: tattered, with residue of s'more stuck to the soles. Shorts: wrinkled khaki. Shirt: blue and pink striped, wrinkled. Half-tucked-in and--wow, really wrinkled. Face: washed, but unshaven. Hair: curly. Nothing I could do about that. But boy, was it messy, even for me.

00:15 until It walks in

There was not a whole lot I could to do clean myself up. However, there is an old trick that my fraternity brother, Chewy Chomp, and I like to use whenever our shirts are wrinkled and there's no time to iron (read: which is always). All you have to do is find a sink and splash some hot water on your shirt, then smooth it out with your hands. This works. The key is to make sure you give yourself ample time to air out before you have to be anywhere, because then you look like a jerk with a wet shirt, and nobody likes that. I needed to find a public bathroom

00:03 until It walks in
I drove down the Carlisle Pike until I found a McDonald's, and pulled in. It was 11:12; I had 22 minutes to pick up Aquagirl for lunch. Plenty of time.

00:02 until It walks in

Vigorously did I splash water all over my front side. I looked like Jessica Simpson in the Carwash Scene from that movie she did (not 'Employee of the Month,' the other one. Maybe it was a music video). Fervently did I flatten my palms and smooth out the front of my shirt with great efficacy.

00:01 until It walks in

As I was maneuvering myself under the hands-free air dryer, I heard voices and footsteps outside the bathroom door. The door swung open and a guy walked in. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a guy. Balding, maybe 39 years old. Dressed like a trucker in flannel and denim. Then, behind Trucker Johnny...

IT WALKED IN.

It had long, blonde hair. Its hair looked natural, not like a wig at all. Also, it was well done, but not in the meticulous way a cross-dresser or tranny might do it.** It looked like well-kempt female hair. Moving downward, I noticed It was wearing a dirty, old gray t-shirt. It looked like something It maybe got at a family reunion or state fair. Oh no. No, no, no. Under the shirt I could see two bulges. It... had... boobs! But Poppa Joely! you exlaim, this so-called "It" sounds like nothing more than a plain ole woman. I would have thought so too, my precious, had I not heard it speak.

It walked back toward the sit-down stall, and Trucker Johnny followed, then stood at the door, like he was standing guard (standing guard against what?! The Pervert Police?). Then Trucker Johnny spoke up, apparently continuing the conversation I had heard as they approached. "Crazy out there, ain't it, Jess?" Oh, It's name was Jess. It must be a girl. I knew I wasn't in the wrong restroom, since there was very clearly a urinal next to the stall. Then It spoke. "You bet, Johnny. Sure is crazy." Its voice was deep and resonant. There was not even a hint of affeminate affectation that the Gays sometimes are wont to use. This thing's voice was straight up dude.

"Oooh my guh-guh-gosh..." was all I could manage to whisper as I reached for the door handle with my still-soaking-wet sleeve and skittered the heck out the restaurant. Never before had I seen such a one. One of God's forgotten's creatures, no doubt. Somebody needs to tell that Sasquatch expedition in Michigan to change course.

It's all right here in Central Pa.

fin

*Note: Karen Klinger has never actually been called Aquagirl until this article. However, she is an 'Entourage' enthusiast, so hopefully we will all get the reference.

**Let it be known that I, Poppy Joely Settecase, have had no experience whatsoever with any form of non-female females, be they transvestites, cross-dressers, or whatever else you sick liberal freaks have come up with since they tried to indoctrinate me with moral neutrality in the third grade.

I am about to hit the big time.

2007-06-20T16:37:00.000-05:00

Well, it looks like I am going to have plenty of time to write this week, since I don't have a real job anymore, and I'm only working like five hours at my illustrious career in the movie industry (I will explain that some time later).

While you are waiting for me to drop my next load of greatness (you know you love that imagery), why don't you do us both a favor and decide which of the following topics you would want to read about. That's right, reader, I am opening it up to you yet again. Here they are:

1. The unseen benefits for white, Christian men in an increasingly Anti-Male society
2. Our new environmental concern: Global Darkening
3. Fergie: is she human or something else?
4. My old dog, Scruffy, was senile. My new dog, Albert, is bi-polar.

Just let me know, kids, and whichever subject gets the most votes, I will write about.

fin

Addendum: I recently learned that Kurt Cobain, when he was writing music, would often take the title for one song and use it for another, completely different song. Because I have often, appropriately been called the Kurt Cobain of Journalism, I decided to do the same thing with this article, which really has nothing to do with me hitting the big time. Another article, now deleted, sure did though. The best thing I could suggest for you now is to get as crunk as possible, until this makes sense.

Alabama Jimbo, Y'all

2007-06-18T13:21:00.000-05:00

Southerners really are crazy. Maybe I should explain a little. But first, a little back story.

Since my last article, over a month ago, a lot has happened. For one, I decided I was going to (Lord willing) move back to Chicago. See, I have been interviewing for a very competitive position with a national financial services firm for about two months now. You read that correctly, it has taken me over two months to interview. In all my years in the working world, I have never seen a company take more care in making sure a potential employee is the right match for the job. Granted, my previous employment has consisted of selling lawnmowers, stocking the feminine hygiene aisle, and cleaning up wine spills after affluent, continuously-soused snobs with expensive carpet. That last one was my dad's company. I guess he could have been selective and not hired me or something, but I was his kid and the price was right. Anyway, this company I am trying to get into now is serious business, and they offered me an opportunity back home in the Chicago burbs. How could I turn that down?

The second thing to happen to me is that I lost my job. Let me rephrase that: my position became "downsized." As if Gemcraft Homes had not screwed me around enough (read: a nice $5000 pay-cut at the beginning of the year), the powers that be decided to put the nail in the coffin and send me off to fend for myself, without their benevolent guidance and flexible scheduling (if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you). Now, this would not have been so bad--remember I was already planning on taking another job--except my apartment lease is not up for another two months, and so now I have been forced to file for unemployment and pick up extra hours at my part-time job (as a spy--and now that you know, I am going to kill you. Not so much because I have to, more because I'm mad about Gemcraft. And that's called Displacement, kids!). That, combined with some complications in getting that financial services job, has been making my life difficult to deal with lately. So in order to deal with life's complications, I did what any upstanding, twenty-three-year-old male with hair on his chest and a glimmer of a dream in his eye would do: started drinking heavily.

And now you know why I was out at the Bourbon Street Saloon (which is confusingly located on Second Street) last night, Sunday. Okay, I should probably clarify my previous statement in case anyone important (read: Grandma) reads this article. I have not really been drinking heavily. But I have been going out, trying to hide from life's sorrows among the sweet, sweet bubbles of a delicious Tonic and Lime, or perhaps the occasional Hefeweizen.

Down at the Bourbon Street (hereafter referred to as the BS), one meets all kinds of interesting characters. For example, there I have spoken French with an African from Tunisia (read: he talked, I laughed like an idiot, trying to make him think I understood what the heck he was saying). I have shot pool with afro-headed, foaming-at-the-mouth, cocaine-addled hippies at the BS. I have gotten phone numbers of P.F.A.B.F.F.P* young ladies (no offense) and been turned down by many a bartender (supposedly it is their company "policy" not to give curly-haired guys named Joel their numbers--sounded awfully specific to me, but you can't argue with the policy, right?) Well, last night I had one of the most memorable encounters yet (read: it's mostly memorable because it happened last night. Ask me about it in a week and I will probably just tell you to read this article, because I forgot. My memory's not so good). Want to know what happened?

Of course you do. Well, I was just coming back from a long drive up to Allentown (read: I got halfway there and then decided that nothing in Allentown could possibly be worth driving more than sixty miles, so I turned around and went home). I was tired, but feeling up for a brewski, so I headed to the BS, home of two-dollar (and therefore delicious) Blue Moon drafts. It was not long before I struck up a conversation with a guy sitting three stools down. I heard him mention that he was not from the area, and myself not being from the area, decided I now had a new friend. We got to talking, and as is customary according to the Guy Code, fully developed at least two distinct topics before actually introducing ourselves. I do not want to give his name away, since my weblog will come up when he Google searches himself, so let's call him Alabama Jimbo.

About twenty minutes into my conversation with Alabama Jimbo, the talk turned to Politics. Now, there are two things one is never supposed to discuss in polite society, religion and politics. Apparently, our boy Alabama Jimbo had never heard of this maxim, and so in we dove. Of course, the hot topic right now is the Iraq War.

Here is the thing: I am not sure if we "should have gone over there or not." I am certainly not a liberal by any stretch of the imagination, but according to Alabama Jimbo, anyone who questions the appropriateness of American troops on Iraqi--nay, any foreign soil is a flaming, Michael Moore-embracing** pinko Communist. All I had to say was, "There are two schools on the subject," and he started getting red in the face. The guy would not let me finish. At one point, he actually threatened to take me outside! It was hilarious. As the night went on, Alabama Jimbo got drunker and his behavior got more and more fantastic. Here is a rough timeline of the nights festivities.

9:30
Joel: Some people think the US sent troops into Iraq under false pretenses.
Alabama Jimbo: My brother is a Marine y'all!
Joel: Yeah, but that doesn't mean we should be over th--
Alabama Jimbo: OO-RAH!

9:45
Alabama Jimbo: So where are all the hot girls tonight y'all?
Joel: They usually go out on Fridays and Saturdays, not Sundays. Only drunk rednecks and college graduates dissatisfied with their lives go out on Sundays.
Alabama Jimbo: Whatever! These girls are all fat, y'all! Southern girls are all hot and blonde!
[There were no girls in the bar]

10:15
Alabama Jimbo: My brother is a Marine, so that makes me a Republican y'all!
Joel: That's cool, man.
Alabama Jimbo: You wanna take this outside?
Joel: What? No--what are you talking about?
Alabama Jimbo: I am a Marine!

10:30
[At this point, an Egyptian Muslim joined in our conversation. Alabama Jimbo proceeded to pat him down, "to check for a suicide belt." I am not making this up.]

10:45
Alabama Jimbo: You ever git in a fight?
Joel: Eh, once or twice.
Alabama Jimbo: [long pause] ...You threatening me, Boy?

11:00
The Egyptian: We could never have an open conversation like this in my country. We are always being watched.
Joel: Wow, for being a United States ally, Egypt is not very free, are they?
Alabama Jimbo: I'm not prejudiced y'all, but my daddy is, and he says that all you sand niggers is towl heads. Buh-HA HA HA!

12:00
Joel: Personally, I think that as a country, we should focus on our own problems before we go deposing dictators all over the world. But hey, that's just my opinion.
The Egyptian: Sounds good to me
Alabama Jimbo: You ain't a Republican y'all. You wanna take this outside? OO-RAH!

In the end, I ended up having way more in common with the Egyptian than with my white, Southern friend. We talked about theology, free will, and the nature of God. I even got to share the gospel with him! As for our friend Alabama Jimbo, he left the bar screaming that a biker gang was going to meet him at his house and kill him because his daddy was in the KKK.

All in all, not a bad night.

fin

*Pretty From Afar, But Far From Pretty

**This is not to say that it is possible to embrace Michael Moore. Although, I guess, if you had really long arms...

Boys vs. Girls, Part 1: The Desert

2007-05-07T16:38:00.000-05:00

The man had been sitting with his back against a boulder for hours. It was now late afternoon, and the red sun seemed to be only inches from the top of his head. The rock offered some shade, but not much. Scorching sand scalded the bottoms of his feet. He felt nothing, though. His feet had long ago become cracked, calloused, and numb to the searing heat of the desert. He smacked his lips together. The sweat had stopped coming when the sun was still low in the sky, and now he was so dried out that he couldn't even get enough saliva to spit out the tiny granules which had blown into his mouth. He grinded the grit between his molars and let out a whimper.

This was it. The man knew this was where he was going to pass away. He thought about that. Just one week ago he had been comfy in his soft bed, nestled up under cool 500 thread-count cotton sheets. His Serenity Fountain gurgled softly on his nightstand, lulled him to sleep. Out here in this wasteland, the only gurgling was that of his stomach. The last thing he had eaten was a scrawny gecko he managed to nab. The little guy had looked hungrier than he was. That was three days ago.

He would kill for a drink of water. Kill? Who was he kidding. At this point he could hardly move.

Then the man clenched his fist. No, he thought to himself. He was not going to die out here, slouched over against the jutting limestone. He leaned forward and placed his hands out, so he was on all fours. He was going to find sustenance, even if he had to crawl.

He made it around to the other side of the boulder. The sun was now blazing directly in his face. He squinched his eyes and crawled. Then he saw something. On the horizon, a figure. A person! The undeniable shape of a human wobbled in the heat. The man thrilled inside. His strength was sapped, but someone was on the way. Feebly, with his last remaining gasp of strength, he uttered the name of the one thing that came to his mind. "Maybe," he wondered aloud, "maybe it's--a hot chick." Then he collapsed and passed out.

***

Next time: How that story you just read applies to real life. (Note: if you are reading this and you are a guy, I'm sure no explanation will be necessary. However, for you girls, you are about to see just exactly how realistic the dying-man-wants-a-hot-chick-instead-of-water scenario truly is. No, I'm not kidding.)

In two episodes: I tell you my amazing discovery about why no guy can ever, ever say, "I can get any girl I want." And it's all true!

fin

Albrecht the Compassionate

2007-03-21T16:18:00.000-05:00

Welcome back to another enthralling edition of You Better Believe It! the weblog in which I, Joel Settecase, teach you, Johnny Q. Public, how to survive in your lives after college, trade school, or, if you happen to work as a temp for Dunder-Mifflin paper company, business school (it's a good investment, I swear). Of course, my qualifications speak for themselves, as I daily take up my burden of working not one but two (count 'em) jobs for a total of fourteen hours per day.

Alright, so it is true that not every second of those fourteen hours is actually spent working. In fact, there is a whole hour (read: 3,600 seconds) in which I do nothing but kick back, relax, and drive at break-neck speeds from York to Harrisburg so as not to be late for job nombre deux (that's French for "I work at Blockbuster"). The point is that I'm qualified to tell you what to do. Sure, I may not always take my own advice, but that's okay because I am purchasing carbon offsets. People who buy carbon offsets can do whatever they want. Now I just need to get that private jet for which I've been hankerin'. Now that my credentials have been established beyond any dispute, let us get on to the advice.

Here it is: to survive in the real world, you have to be able to spot a good idea when you see it.

Good ideas come in many forms. They can be a stroke of brilliance from a coworker regarding a way to market your new homes community. They can be a newly-discovered short-cut that saves you ten minutes on the way home, enabling you to get crunk ten minutes earlier each Friday. Or, the good idea can be something as simple as euthanizing a healthy baby polar bear because it's what nature would have wanted. We can all be thankful that there are people like Frank Albrecht, the "animal rights activist" from Germany.

Recently, Albrecht demonstrated that ol' fashioned Deutsch compassion did not go out of style with the end of the Third Reich when he suggested that the humane thing to do the little bear from the Berlin Zoo, nicknamed "Cute Knut," was to murder it in cold blood.

Apparently, little Knut was abandoned by his mother. Since then, zoo handlers have been caring for the ursine fuzzball by feeding it, and generally providing the nurture that the mother is unwilling to give. In the wild, little Knut would have died without the protection and care of his mother.

The thing is, this all happened within the Berlin Zoo. You know, the zoo. The place where animals are fed, bred, and cared for in captivity. The place that is the exact opposite of "the wild," where animals that might normally be doomed find a second chance at life.

Albrecht der Compassionate echoed the humanitarian* philosophy of the Berlin Zoo when he summarized his plan for taking care of Knut:

"The zoo must kill the bear."

Yes, rarely (if ever) have so few words so completely embodied the spirit of animal rights activism. Albrecht der Compassionate went on to explain that killing the bear would be fulfilling nature's way, etc. And you know what? He made a lot of good points. In fact, I am so fully convinced by Albrecht's philosophy that I am going to do everything I can to really apply the spirit of his attitude toward animals to my own life. Starting now.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to cut this article short. I just noticed a squirrel in a tree outside that looks like it could use a good thrashing. It's what nature would want.

fin

*Not an accurate usage of this word, I know. Deal with it.

Find the Hidden Theme In This Article

2007-03-10T12:12:00.000-06:00

If you really want to be successful in the business world, you will need three things:

1. Internet radio. Life, even in a cubicle, is better when there are sweet tunes rocking in the background. Go to www.live365.com right now. This site has thousands of stations run by independent and corporate DJs. You can find just about anything you want to hear. The only drawback is that, similar to regular radio, you are at the mercy of the DJs as to what songs play. Playlists are available. Also, www.pandora.com is a great site. These people from the Music Genome Project(R) have a system in which you can enter a song or artist you enjoy, and it will find other songs you like--many that you have probably never even heard of. The only drawback here is that, while you can hear a lot of songs similar to the song you want, you might go all day without actually hearing that exact song, since Pandora's licensing does not allow them to play music on demand. Also, Pandora does not seem to have any classical music. Anything in the last century, though, and you should be good to go.

2. A favorite place. Become a regular at a really good Irish pub or Middle-Eastern restaurant. Once the servers and staff get to know you, this can become a great place to bring clients, or just relax after work and get crunk with your homiez (read: your friends, not the little figurines you can get for 25 cents in a vending machine in the entryway of Steve's Gyros). There is a reason that part of Cheers' appeal is it's the place "where everybody knows your name." In Harrisburg, I recommend Molly Brannigan's. 2nd Street Kabob is also great.

3. An organization. Volunteer, or get involved with a church. Join a fraternal organization. In life, it's not what you know but who you screw. I mean, know. It's who you know. What? Look, the point is that you want to network. Lately, I have been getting involved with the Evangelical Free Church of Hershey. Good people. Also, getting involved in your community will help keep you busy. This is great for taking your mind off of heart-crushing experiences like... well, I won't get into that. Let's just say it helps. So, yeah, get involved.

I'm going to go jump off a skycraper now. That is, I would if there were any in Harrisburg.

fin

The (Second) Greatest Story Ever Told

2007-02-28T10:17:00.000-06:00

The word commencement is a loaded one. Technically, it means "beginning," yet it is also the word we use to describe the conclusion of formal education. So really, when one walks up to the podium to collect one's diploma, one is not so much participating in a ceremony of ending, but rather more of an educational bar mitzvah which signifies the beginning of a new epoch: educated adulthood. Graduation, therefore, is expected to serve as a division between youth and maturity--an act break, if you will (and oh, you will). While this is supposed to be the case, personal experience has led me to quite a different point of view.

Lately, it has come to my attention just how much of a state of limbo the average college graduate finds himself in for the first year or two after leaving school. For example, take me, the Famed Poppa Joely. Since May 2006, I have carried out all the necessary steps to begin my adult life in the real world. I left my parents' house and rented an apartment halfway across the country, bought a car, got a new job, and have been paying bills and buying groceries for eight and a half months now. As The Bard* would say, You can do it like me, I'm by myself/I do it so good, I don't need nobody else.

By all respects, I am an adult living and working in the real world. Yet, I find myself strangely drawn back to college. More than once have I got up in the middle of the night, sleep-walked (slept-walked?) down Green Street to my car with my keys, and started driving toward the Turnpike, only to awake thirty miles from Harrisburg, cold and confused. Yes, something in my subconscious seems to be pulling me west, toward College after all these months. It is almost as if, though my body be in the HBG, my mind is still in the GC (not to be confused with the OC).

Because of this state of mind in which I find myself, I have been developing a theory. After much consideration I have compared my life to a movie or play, and I have divided my life into five acts. Each act represents a different part of the movie, and each has a distinct rising action, climax, and denouement (French for "the credits"). So, without further ado (pronounced like a Southerner saying his wedding vows--think about it), here are the five acts of my life, including a brief teaser for each (which is best read aloud in a movie-trailer announcer voice):

The Last King of Internet

Act I: Birth of a Legend
In a world where lies, deceit, and treachery are the rules of the game, a hero will be born. Coming in the fall of 1983, a story of one boy's brilliance in a dark world of fingerpainting and sandboxes, where the only sure thing to keep you safe against girl germs, is a shot of germ insurance...

Act II: The Coming of Age
In a world where you have to fight just to stay alive, one young man will rise above the terrors of the soccer field and face down the enemies of mankind on stage--and on the wrestling gym floor. [Cue punchy rock music riff] He will learn that it takes a battle in the Middle... to make it to the heights of the High.

Act III: Double-Secret Probation
In the year 2002, a new storm loomed on the horizon. [Cue eerie ghost music and show wind chimes tinkling in front of an ominous grey sky] In a world where "higher ed" means playing by all the rules... one man will take a stand with a band of brothers, and show the evil world of corporate America the real meaning of success. Coming this summer: a spine-gripping** story of one man's righteous rise to power.

Act IV: This would be the part where I get married and have kids.

Act V: This would be the part where I get old and die.

You get the idea. As you can probably tell by now, I am still somewhere in Act III; I have graduated, but really I am still in college. If you are like me, then the next article is going to rock your socks. It is going to be about my "Office Space" experience at work. As in, I believe you have my stapler....

In a world where one man's writings keep you on the edge of your seat, your only choice is to stay by your computer, eagerly awaiting the next installment of...

YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT: THE WEBLOG OF DESTINY!

fin

*Lil Jon replaces Shakespeare as "The Bard": you read it here first. Tell your friends!

**yet another phrase which I coined (in a past article--look it up)

Reminiscing: The New Growing Up

2007-02-27T16:09:00.002-06:00

<--WE ARE GOLDEN.

This just in: either Blogger or me is retarded. Considering the way that last sentenced was phrased, can you guess which one it is? Or, you can just go through the archives and read previous articles I have written, if there is any doubt. I will wait....

Alright, by now you should have figured out that, while I am supremely good looking, I am like a Chimpanzee when it comes intelligence. At least, I must be, because I cannot for the life of me figure out how to change my profile picture. I have messed with it long enough, so I am giving up. However, in order to give myself some small sense of accomplishment, I shall post the picture which I was going to crop and use in my profile below for your viewing enjoyment. You see, it was a picture from my junior year of college, and it happened to depict me right after the last match of the spring season of aught-five (read: if they could say it in the early years of the twentieth century, why can't we say it now?). It is a great picture, and is one of the Young Miss Tara Wagner's favorites. What's that you say? Haven't I graduated, and therefore shouldn't I be moving on with my life, and past the magnificent glory days of college? Aha! I just happen to have an answer for that. Read on, won't you?

I believe that the first year or two out of college, one is still mentally attached to one's alma mater. Maybe I will turn this into a future article, but I recently divided my life up into five acts--much like a play would have--and decided that I am currently still in the third act, which is college and, I suppose, young professionalism (or "van der yüngenproffengoogenheim", if you happen to be Dutch). Therefore, it is completely appropriate that I still keep up with Grove Rugby. It is also 100% appropriate that I spent last Thursday and Friday an hour north of Pittsburgh hanging out with current fraternity actives and harassing (read: not hazing) our new guys (read: we do not haze).

In conclusion, and for all you yüngenproffengoogenheims out there, remember that it is okay to move on, to grow up, to get that great job and to follow in the wisdom of Lil Jon, who says so eloquently, "I do it so good, I don't need nobody else."*

But also remember where you came from. Remember your roots. Call your fraternity brothers drunk every now and then, even if it means you have to wait till the weekend, and you also have to drink alone in your cramped apartment, because you cannot afford to actually go to a bar. Also, you have no friends. Leave comments on your girlfriend's Facebook wall saying that she is the hottest girl on campus, even though you have been gone so long that nobody who reads it is even going to know who you are. They will wonder who the creepy old guy is harassing (not hazing) their friend. And finally, take to heart the old Abercrombie and Fitch addage which they long ago displayed (along with half-dressed coeds sleeping on each other) on TV monitors in their stores: "When you're young, you're golden."

To fully appreciate the idea that youth=gold, enjoy the following picture of the greatest sports team in the history of the world (or at least since the founding of youvegottalovesports.com): the 2004-2005 Grove City College Men's Rugby Football Club, saying exactly that (see above).

fin

*While working at the Hardware Bar in Harrisburg, I actually heard one dude quote Lil Jon while he was taking a leak. I mean, he was serious, like, actually applying it to what he was saying. Meaning he actually took Lil Jon seriously and wanted to apply "Snap Yo Fingas" to his life. Bah! Only in Harrisburg, as they say. What a crazy effin' city. Also, it's huge. Bigger and better than anywhere in North Carolina, even if it doesn't have a quality song by Petey Pablo about it. PLAOW! Smithers gets CRACKED!

A Blinkered Septic Talks Codswallop About British Telly

2007-02-25T11:42:00.000-06:00

In the past few months, this weblog has featured some political interest stories that have dealt with perceived human rights violations in both the United States as well as another country which, I had thought, were similar to the US in culture and government. Of course, I am talking about that spiffing little island across the pond, England. Come with me whilst I take you spods down the road of enlightenment to the destination of knowing just what is so insane about our former colonizers. And I'm not just talking bollocks.

Now, I had been under the assumption that, because America came out of England, the two nations were similar in more ways than it turns out we really are. Recently I was struck completely googled to learn that the Brits are really nothing at all like us. In fact, given the daftness of their backward society, maybe they deserve to have talking cameras shouting orders at them on the street corners.

How did I come to the conclusion that England is so full of nutters and numpties? Well, as you may know, I recently took up employment at Blockbuster Video in the Harrisburg suburbs. This new job has played a crucial role in educating me on authentic English coloquialisms through my new ability to rent up to (and not to exceed) five DVDs per week. Lately I have been getting into the comedic gold that is "The Office." So far I have seen most of the second season, and it seems to get funnier with each episode. From the salad-dodger Kevin to the bothersome boffin Dwight, each character finds a way to fill my heart with glee. Now, you may know that the Yank version of "The Office" is an adaptation of the original BBC series that aired in 2001. Aware of this, I decided to have a butcher's at the Brits' version and evaluate it for myself.

Not to witter, but what happened next knocked me arse over elbow. I mean, I felt like I had been smoking the wacky backy. It wasn't that the British version wasn't humourous. That is, I really could not be sure if it was humourous, because I could not understand what the bloody 'ell the actors were saying! Their comedic timing seemed all wrong, and the delivery of their lines was just nonsensical. I was giving it welly to get into it, but before long I was whinging on about how I wanted to take the mickey out of Ricky Gervais, the creator of the series and also the principal actor.

Actually, I should not say that there was sweet fanny adams I understood. After a while, it started to make some sense. I watched every episode in the first series from A to Zed, and by the end I felt like a bloke who just graduated from uni with a major in British humour. In fact, I actually found myself laughing at a few of the jokes.

Does this mean I am going to join the Monty Python fanclub any time soon? Not bleeding likely. Those English tossers are still loony enough to make me want to thump them in the face, but as far as entertainment is concerned, you could look left, right, and centre and still not find a programme on the telly as entertaining as the Office. It might not be my style completely, but it's horses for courses, I suppose.

So quit fannying around and leg it over to your local Blockbuster. If you did not enjoy British comedy before this, you'll be quite gobsmacked at how gormy you've been all along.

Cor blimey!

Something to Tide You Over.

2007-02-20T10:26:00.000-06:00

Coming soon: a real article.

In the meantime, I thought you might like to know that Italian judges are now forcing thirteen-year-old girls to have abortions.

I thought abortionists were supposed to be pro-choice?

fin

They Beat Me To It

2007-02-17T14:41:00.000-06:00

The news just came in that Britney Spears has shaved her head. Immediately, my brain cranked into overdrive trying to come up with a sweet new name for her, like Baldney Spears or something.

Much to my delightful dismay (I just coined that), Fox News seems to have beaten me to the punch (which, unlike what I supposedly thought when I was a small child, does not mean that somebody is going to "beat you and punch you"). Anyway, it is time for the world to be introduced to "Britney Shears."

I know, it's brilliant!

Two Choices: Live In Your Car or Listen to Me.

2007-02-13T11:39:00.000-06:00

This is crazy. We are still two years out from the next presidential election, and already America's best and brightest are out and about, campaigning for our votes. In the spirit of the politically-charged times, the following article will be sprinkled with memorable quotes from our nation's finest liberally-minded folk.

Hello, my dear, steadfast, probably college-aged reader. It has been a long time since you and I have talked. I feel like the dialogue between us has grown thin and strained over the last twenty days or so. You might say that is because I have not written anything in about as long. I might say that that does not matter, it's still no excuse for my daily hit count to diminish to a lousy eight per day. So is that how it works? One minute you read every day, and the next minute you up and leave me? What, just because I stop writing for like a month? Thanks a lot.

Now set down that hardcover biography of your hero, Benedict Arnold (sure, you need it for a report that is due tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM), and come sit on Poppa Joely's lap while we renew the bond that has stretched almost to the breaking point and get back focused on the important things in life, which is what we* do so well here at You Better Believe It**. Let's talk. Let's chat. Let's start a dialogue about your ideas and mine. Let's institute full-blown socialism by the 2009. Then communism by 2012, and a merger with Soviet Russia by the end of the next president's second term. Oh, sorry. I guess I got a little carried away there. Also, it looks like those ideas have already been taken. So instead I want to talk about what you are going to do after you graduate. Because we need to ask not what the workplace can do for us, but what we can do for our workplaces.

Alright, Guy Faulkes, it is now time for me to tell you a little something about the Real World. As it turns out, my close personal friend John Mayer was incorrect. In the last two weeks, I have discovered that there is such a thing as the real world, and it is not "just a lie you've got to rise above." The fact is that the Real World is out there, and it is gunning for you.

Keep in mind, however, that Reality after college is not the way you picture it while you are racking your brain until your eyes go blurry at three in the morning as you furiously rewrite your Historical Studies thesis. I know you think that, as long as you cram your brains out now, foregoing both fun and rest, your sacrifice will somehow translate into a steady, easy flow of income after the Pres hands you your leather-bound certificate on that shining day in May. Then, you will be able to spend the following fall making frequent road trips back to your alma mater and throw your wads of cash around at all your pathetic, still-in-college fraternity brothers who are so envious of their newly graduated and unlimited-beer-money-endowed pal. Well I've got a news flash for ya, Joy Boy: it is not happening. Do you want to know what really happens after you graduate? Of course you do, which is why you are still reading my brilliance. I have a dream.

To find out what is really in store for you the first year after you get out of college, please take note of the following timeline:

May 15 - August 15: Graduate and enjoy your last three months of "summer," as you have always known it, with your buddies from home.

August 21: Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, begin your new and prestigious career at the law firm/engineering firm/sales firm/congressman's office, certain that you have found your calling.

November 15: You begin payment on your student loans at the tough but manageable monthly rate of $303, give or take. Uh-oh.

January 1: The market slows/your firm downsizes/your congressman gets indicted. Start to worry.

January 10: Receive pay cut, reducing your annual salary by $5,000. Begin panicking.

January 28: Start applying for part time jobs to work on the side. It takes a village.

February 1: Come to grips with the idea that even people with a B.S. in marketing from a top-ranked school may not be above flipping burgers during the night shift at Wendy's.

March 1: After a month of working three jobs and 70 hours a week, decide it might be time to move back in with Mom and Dad.

March 15: Make it halfway home before your car breaks down, and you have no money to pay the tow truck guy.

March 16: Groggily wake up and wonder why you are lying in a ditch next to the turnpike, and how you got that purple goose egg on your temple. Vaguely remember something about a pissed-off tow truck guy and a Louisville Slugger.

March 16 - May 14: You now live in your car, surviving on roadkill and rainwater. At least, you think it is your car. Although it used to be silver, that darn tow truck guy torched it to a crispy black when you said you were not going to pay him. There are two Americas.

Now do you see what I am talking about? This kind of stuff happens e'rrrry day, cous'! However, you should not lose hope. Yes, keep hope alive, because Poppa Joely is here to assist you. Help is on the way! In a world where radical Christianity is just as dangerous as radical Islam in this country where we have a separation of Church and State, I am going to dedicate this weblog to a new purpose and theme: how to survive in the working world. I figure if I can survive all that the good Lord has been bringing me through over the last months (see aforementioned timeline), then I am more than qualified to tell you how to do your job.

To summarize, I am going to be refocusing the future content of You Better Believe it to fit the profile of the new Real World theme. Maybe it is because I have been watching "The Office" on DVDs that I picked up for free thanks to my sweet new part-time job at Blockbuster, but I am very excited about these developments. And you should be too.

Stay tuned...

fin

Addendum: Hey kids! Count how many Liberal phrases are in this article, and give your answer in a comment on this page for a super prize!

*The Royal We
**Note: we don't actually do it so well. You should probably stop reading at this point if you are looking for any sort of quality.

Vive Benedict!

2007-01-23T16:37:00.000-06:00

U.S. Attorney Johnny Sutton is the worst traitor to the United States since Benedict Arnold, for the following reasons:

1. He trusted the word of a Mexican drug trafficker over US Border Patrol agents. Think about that. Border agents are sworn to protect American interests; the drug smuggler makes his living doing the exact opposite.

2. After the incident, he sought out the drug trafficker and offered him immunity in return for testimony against US Border Patrol Agents.

3. In the process of bringing the drug trafficker back to testify, the drug smuggler was treated in an American hospital. The bill was paid by you and me,

4. During his trial, the jury was apparently misled. Members of the jury later stated that, had they fully understood the impact of their decision, would not have voted to convict Ramos and Compean.

5. Because of the conviction which Mr. Sutton headlined, these agents are being held in solitary confinement. Ignacio Ramos is actually shackled--with shackles--when his family comes to visit him. His little girls may be scarred for life but at least "justice" has been served. See you in 11-12 years.

6. The families of the convicted agents went broke fighting an unwinnable legal battle against the United States of America they had sworn to defend.

7. The final reason is a question. How can our Border Patrol agents feel secure doing their job anymore when, after the national attention Johnny Sutton garnered while making an example out of Ramos and Compean, they could face not only a written sanction but jail time?

More and more, the American government is taking sides with Mexico and against the American people (do not even ask me about my opinion of Ahnold giving financial benefits to illegals over against Californian children). I don't know about you, but I am not ready to sign over my sovereignty just yet.

Last night, it was said best on The Savage Nation: "Where is the conservative voice in America?!"

I promise the next article will be lighter. I'll tell you about how I made a small schoolchild weep. Seriously, it's hilarious.

fin

Mexican Invasion? Sounds delicious.

2007-01-09T15:13:00.000-06:00

People who know me (and there are a lot) know that I tend to be a bit of an alarmist from time to time. A reactionary, one might say. A xenophobe. A conservative with a patriotic stripe as wide as the broad side of a barn (if that even means anything). Therefore, it should come as no surprise that my reading list as of late has included such books as State of Emergency by Patrick Buchanan, or another one on the "secret wars of the CIA." But hey, I am not completely unbalanced. I also recently borrowed a copy of Madison, Jay, and Hamilton's Federalist Papers and I have decided to read Tocqueville's Democracy in America for a second time. As well, just to keep things balanced so my head would not explode (seriously, it's come darn close in the past), I visited the East Shore library here in the H-B-G and checked out a book published by Scientific American which debunkes 9/11 conspiracy theories. Keep in mind, this is coming from a guy who daily visits sites like www.rense.com and other gems of fringey delight online.

Now, as the self-proclaimed reactionary that I am, and avid readers (AKA you, if you have ever read, like, one other article on here) can attest to this, I have been more than a little concerned regarding the ongoing Mexican Invasion which has been going on completely contrary to the explicit wishes of the American people, who, last time I read the Constitution, were supposed to be in control of this supposedly Noble Experiment. But then again, it has been a while since honors history with Mr. McGivern at Glenbard East, and maybe my memory isn't so good.

Well, as up-in-arms as I may be about vast numbers of criminals pouring in and rapingour welfare state, I have had an epiphany. Yes, even we hard-nosed Patriots get a flash of intelligence every now and then. Two things occurred to me today, which prompted me to write this article.

1. First, not all these Mexicans coming here illegally are bad people. Sure, their first act upon our soil may be the breaking of our laws, but it would be wrong to classify them all as murderers, gang members, rapists, and druglords simply because of the actions of a couple thousand of them. Seriously, I am trying to say that many are hardworking and share some of our family values.

2. Secondly, and this is the real important one, more Mexicans mean more Mexican food. Oh, that's right my friends. Just think of all the tasty tortas, tacos, gorditas, refried beans, fresh pico de gallo, and guacamole we will all soon be able to cram into our fat American faces once this whole invasion is complete. There will be a La Fiesta on every street corner. I don't know about you, but that adds a nice, dare I say tasty twist to the whole issue of losing our national sovereignty.

So try not to get too upset.

fin

Immigrants on a Border!

2007-01-05T10:03:00.000-06:00

Happy Friday. Now, I want to discuss one major issue with you, my illustrious readers, but before I do I need to address three current events. I am just going to mention them; I am not going to comment on them. If I try to comment on them, I will inevitably get into a verbose tirade about how George W. Bush is trying to merge us with Mexico, and then my head is going to explode. Seriously, it happened to a guy I knew.

Thing the first: Our first story was brought to my attention by Fox News and the Glenn Beck Program. The Mexican government is going to start giving away GPS locaters (that's free) to Mexicans planning on crossing the border (that's our border). After this and that fiasco with giving away guides on how to cross the border (still our border), I think it is pretty clear where the Mexican government stands on working with us to quell illegal immigration. But I'm not going to comment.

Thing the second: Lou Dobbs is the man. Why? Because he talks about things like this: President Bush currently has, sitting on his desk, awaiting signature, a bill called the U.S.-Mexico Social Security Totalization Act. This bill proposes that Mexicans who have worked for 8 1/2 years in Mexico and immigrate--legally or otherwise--across the border (OUR border) will be eligible for American Social Security benefits in a mere 18 months. It takes an American citizen ten years to be eligible for those benefits, and that is not to mention that the SS system is on the verge of bankruptcy to begin with. So now our government is going to do two things: one, allow illegal aliens to suckle at the teat of American taxpayer money, and two, equate working 8 1/2 years in Mexico with working the same amount of time here. But, aren't we two different countries? Hmm...

Thing the third: Rocky Balboa, er, Sylvester Stallone has publicly made a statement condemning the United States' (of America's--AKA our) plan to put up hundreds of miles of fencing at the Mexican border. Say it ain't so, Rocko. Appaently, making awesome movies--and the new Rocky is definitely awesome--does not translate into political coherency. One too many haymakers to the head, I guess.

Finally! Now I can get to the real meat and potatoes of the article. What I really want to talk about is, of course, airport security. This past Thanksgiving, I flew home to Chicago out of Harrisburg International Airport. A small, regional airport, HIA is generally laid back. However, I could not help but notice the signs reminding passengers that they were not to bring certain liquids and such on board the planes. And of course, we all still had to go through the long queues and violating personal searches. Personally, I felt that it would benefit my own security more if the fragrant individual in front of me kept his shoes on, but hey that's just me.

Ever since 9/11 happened security has been beefed up to nearly oppressive levels at airports across the world. Until last night, this fact frustrated me immensely. What happened last night, you ask? Simple. I watched the greatest movie ever created by man or machine: "Snakes on a Plane."

After watching "Snakes on a Plane," the harshness of airport security makes sense to me on multiple levels. If each and every passenger is not rigorously checked, passengers can expect a lot more of two things: molestationally (yes it's a word; I just coined it)-autographing rappers busting out their nines and slithering, venomous, deadly SNAKES! Yes that is correct, I said mo-autographing rappers! Horrifying!

Seriously, these snakes on this plane are out of control! I mean there are big ones, small ones, some as big as your head. Some that will eat your head. If it had not been for everyone's favorite Braumeister, Samuel L. Jackson, the whole plane would have gone down. Luckily for the passengers--AND US!!!1--Sam Jackson was there to save the day. He was even helpful when that crazy, boob-signing rapper whipped out his gat. This movie did definitely not disappoint.

Aside from being entertaining, and bringing me back to my original thesis, Snakes on a Plane* is educational. It sends a strong message to the American traveller about airline safety. That message is, "Without strict security measures at your airport, whether it be O'Hare, HIA, or LAX, you will get a plane full of snakes. Plain and simple."

So the next time you get fed up at the airport and feel like belting out, "Enough is enough! I have had it with these mutha-f--king random searches on this mutha-f--king terminal," think twice. That invasion of your privacy might just keep you from getting "a big old bite outta yo butt."

fin

*I never know if I am supposed to put quotes around a movie title, or underline it, or what.

Happy New Year to All, And to All Global Warming

2007-01-03T12:29:00.000-06:00

Well, it is finally 2007, or as I like to call it, '007. That's double-oh-seven. I think with recent events being what they are (Russia slowly rising to world power status again, international spies being poisoned with polonium, and the grand opening of Spy Club in downtown Harrisburg) 007 is a good title for this one. Let's face it, readers, the world is going crazy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't the world supposed to end in Y2K (better known to some as Will2K)? How many of us could have guessed that, seven years later, we would be in the midst of World War III? Is this really how life on this cosmic dustball is supposed to end--long, drawn-out warfare that taxes our economy from without and undermines our moral culture from within?

Call me a traditionalist, but I always envisioned good ole Planet Earth going out a little more like the Death Star in "A New Hope." Ol' angelic Luke Skywalker, on orders from God--who has finally had enough of our crap, would boldly fly his heavenly X-Wing down an abandoned volcanic shaft, right to the Core, and then let fly the proton torpedos just as the ball drops in Times Square, 6000 miles overhead. KRACKAW! Humanity goes out with a bang.

Well, (un)fortunately the world did not end in 2000, and Western Civilization is still going strong, despite the efforts of those crazy liberals and Islamo-Muslo-Qu'ranico-Fascist-Neonazists, or whatever we are calling them these days. For those of you living in the part of said Civilization known as Central Pennsylvania, you know the only place to be last Sunday night was right smack in downtown, in Harrisburg's Market Square. Tens of thousands of people (the official report gives the figure as "a bazillion") made the pilgrimage to the 'Burg's version of Times Square to welcome '007 by watching a gigantic, lighted strawberry drop from the top of the Hilton Harrisburg and Towers. Then, if they were like me and my posse, they worked their way into one of the myriad of clubs on Second Street.

After all that celebration, it can be tough to come back down to still unexploded earth and get one's feet on the ground. What with all the buying, giving, sharing, rushing, boozing (for some--not me, Mom), and ball-dropping*, your head is probably still racing through the stratosphere, from where it will soon plummet, hurtling you toward the inevitable midwinter emotional crash known as the Doldrums. Personally, I think the Doldrums start when people stop being distracted by all the lights, glitz, and shiney wrapping paper and take a look around them again. It is then that they realize that, while they were camping outside Target for three days to make sure they scored a TMX Elmo toy for their unappreciative swine children, nothing has changed; the world is still going to hell in a handbasket.

Here are some things to be upset about in 2007:

- The Democrats are in charge and talking about raising taxes.

- Iran is making nuke bombs.

- Putin is reviving the USSR.

- A large segment of Americans think Al Gore has something important to say.

- Your new sweater from your wife doesn't fit your fat holiday gut, but you have to wear it at least once to church to make her happy.

The list goes on and on, but it will all be okay, because Poppa Joely is here to help. I have painstakingly developed a foolproof system for overcoming that post-Christmas depression before it starts. Just you follow my five-part program and before you know it, you will be back to your jolly, oblivious self.

1. Take down your Christmas tree right away. The holidays are over, and there is no sense trying to deny it.

2. The same goes for your lights, and especially those awful inflatable Snoopy snow globes. You know I hate those things.

3. Do not watch the news for a month. It's only going to depress you. Ever heard the expression, "Ignorance is bliss?" Exactly.

4. Embrace global warming. Whether you believe in it or not, you have got to love 50 degree days in January!

5. If you are a guy, lift weights. Working out, even if it's just a couple sets of pushups before work, is a great stress reliever. If you are a girl, do... whatever it is you do. Yogilates or something. I have no clue. Do they still have aerobics on TV?

If you do these five things, I guarantee a significant decrease in the Doldrums department. I also guarantee a significant increase in your appreciation of awesome alliteration!

Hang in there, fair readers, and remember things could be worse: we could all have been French.

fin

Addendum: Check out my new real estate weblog. It chronicles my life working for a homebuilder in the Harrisburg-York area and shares some great insights on where to find a quality new home in Pennsylvania, if you are looking. Either way it makes for some good reading. Click here or type http://gemcrafthomes.blogspot.com in your browser's address bar. Happy new year!

*Don't be a perv.

What a wonderful way to start the day, announcements!

2006-12-29T13:03:00.000-06:00

I have an important announcement, friends. Read on. By the way, the title of this article is from a classic Saget film called Father and Scout. If you have never seen it, rent it right now. Cinematic gold.

Recently, I told my good friend, who goes by the name of DJ Vinnie Vin, that I had a dream for myself. That dream goes something like this. Ten years from now, there is going to be a People Magazine that has Vinnie Vin, the famous house music DJ from Chicago, on the cover. The shot is going to be of the interior of a limousine, and in the background, mouth gaping to welcome a flowing cataract of high-priced bubbly, will be Yours Truly. That's right, my dream is to be in DJ Vinnie Vin's entourage. Just think of it: days, weeks, and months spent doing nothing but partying full-time and trekking around with your famous friends, sucking back on grandpa's cough medicine.

So, to do to my part to get DJ Vinnie Vin to where he needs to be for me to cross that nigh-celebrity threshold, I decided I am going to write an article promoting the music of DJ Vinnie Vin as well as another up-and-coming house DJ, the young DJ Micah Andrew. You know, just to put their name out there so that when somebody Googles "Chicago DJ" or "Chicago House Music" or something, they will get a link to my awesome article, where they can learn all about DJs Vinnie Vin and Micah Andrew. That way, if either one of them gets famous, I can be sure to have an all-expenses-paid ticket to the three Fs: fame, fortune, and free stuff (or as we in "the biz" call it, "swag." I also like to use "quotation marks"). So stay tuned for that article. As the young Tara Wagner loves to say, "It's gon' be great!"

Which brings me to my announcement. In the spirit of shamelessly promoting things for my own self-benefit, I am about to initiate a new weblog for Gemcraft Homes. In all seriousness, Gemcraft builds very high quality new homes, and it is about time somebody started a weblog for the company. It will be unofficial of course, but if it brings just one or two people to the zenlike, illuminated lifestyle that comes from living in a spankin' new Gemcraft dreamhome, then my work shall not have been in vain. Feel free to check it out if you are looking for a new home in the Mid-Atlantic region, specifically Harrisburg, Dauphin, or York, Pennsylvania. And of course, if you print it out, it makes for great bathroom reading (or toilet paper, if you don't like my writing style, I guess. Jerks). Until my next shameless promotion--er, article, keep it crackalackin', suckas.

fin

Addendum: the Gemcraft Homes weblog can be found here.

Girls Gone Wild! We'll Settle For Mild Even!

2006-12-13T16:32:00.000-06:00

On December 31, 2006, I am going to have a party at my swinging bachelor pad in Harrisburg. Now, as you should already know if you read my weblog regularly (read: that means nobody, and I realize this), there are a few key elements to a successful party. If by some chance you were not with us last January (read: all of you) you can check out this brilliantly written article I wrote to see what "elements" I'm talking about.

So far, my party has a few things going for it. Yet if I want to follow my own guidelines, I am going to need to kick it up a notch. Because I am looking at what I've got so far, and realizing that, while I am all set to have a kick-asphalt party, I am going to have to really stretch my boundaries if I want to have a party that is up to my standards (and whoo boy, let me tell you they are high). I am going to list five components to a rocking party, and you see if you can determine which one will act as the infamous mooring tower to the Hindenburg that is my party-to-be.

Theme: It's called "Get Together With a Bunch of People and Ring In The Death of 2006 While Partying One's Face Off." Okay, it could use some tweaking; I realize this.

Occasion: celebrating the 144th anniversary of West Virginia's admittance into the Union (oh, and New Year's Eve). But seriously, look it up on Wikipedia, it happened.

That Guy: No party is complete without "that guy" that just pops up out of nowhere. My previously-established guidelines call for somebody that no one knows, who creepishly hangs around in the corner checking out girls, etc. While I do not have anybody lined up for the position yet, I'm sure that this great city will cough up someone like this into my life between now and New Year's Eve. Restaurant Row's economy actually depends on these people.

Me as DJ: Again, no party is a great party unless I, Big Poppa Joely, am the DJ of it. This one is easy enough. It's my place, my equipment, my (second) city (next to Chicago). I foresee greatness.

Girls: Uh oh. Here is where I run into problems. What problems, you ask? Well how about this one for starters--I do not know any girls. Seriously, not a single girl in Harrisburg. And this is not just because I am a huge fricking loser (read: I am not denying being a huge fricking loser). It is because I have a certain female gender-oriented human companion in my life, or as I like to call her, my "girlfriend," and I just have not been out there looking for chicks. Let's face it, my idea of a hot night out anymore means heading to Molly Brannigan's, downing a couple of Stellas while theologizing with fraternity brother Janssen, and then walking home before midnight to watch a Bond flick and talk to Tara for an hour before crashing. Right, not exactly the formula for getting a lot of hotties (although I must say that Tara is quite the brick house).

And it isn't like this bothers me, most days. In fact, the whole "not hanging out with other chicks" thing really contributes to smooth relations with the ball-and-chain, if I may. The only day, really, when it matters that I don't hang out with any girls is going to be on New Year's Freaking Eve when I have an apartment full of dudes. As for me, I will be fine--safely smooching my baby doll when the giant strawberry drops from the top of the Hilton Harrisburg and Towers (they have strange customs in this miniature New York City in which I live). But my fraternity brothers who just drove four hours to party it up with Brother Soul Glo (that's me--ever see of a picture of me? You'll get it) and his hot female friends are going to be pissed. We all know that a party just is not a party without girls.

So if you read this, and you are 18-25... heck if you are under forty, female, attractive (these guys aren't picky), and still have no plans for New Year's Eve (I realize I'm going to get some winners with these specifications), do me a favor and call 1-888-HELP-ME, and we'll get you directions to my apartment for the New Year's Bash. Operators are standing by.

fin

Addendum: If you are one of my fraternity bros. and just read this article, I need you to do me a favor. Click here and say these words aloud: "I am getting sleepy. Sleeeepy. Sleeeeeeeeeepyyy. I will forget everything I have just read. Joel's party is going to be awesome. Aaaaawwwesome. Soooo aaaawwwwesome. I am a chicken. Buck, buck, buck, buh-GAWK!! Seriously though, I forget the article. I forget, I forget, I forget....

Red and yellow, black and white...

2006-12-12T15:40:00.000-06:00

Attention reader: you are a racist. That's right, you are racist. Racism permeates to your very bones, which are nothing more than a wretched, calcified cage and protecting your icy, bigoted heart.

Oh, you may tell me it simply isn't true. You might protest, argue, cajole and plead. And in your mind, you probably really believe that you are not racist. However, you are incorrect.

Take me for example. As a newcomer to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, I am not used to being a minority--which is exactly what I am as a white person in a city that is fifty-five percent black. Taking my newness into account, I felt like I was doing a pretty darn good job of not harboring any resentment, animosity, or negative feelings toward my fellow Harrisburgers who happened of African descent. Actually, I take that back. I did not feel that way. I did not feel any way. Frankly, I really did not think about it. Black, white, illegally-immigrated Mexican, people were people (granted, with varying legal status as such). That is exactly why I was so happy to come across a new report on CNN.com. In this article, which oddly names no author, the said Unnamed One sheds light on why, exactly, I (read: and you) are racist.

But, you interject, aren't the days of separate water fountains, lynchings, and burning crosses in the past--gone forever? Aha! It would seem so on the surface, but by thinking that you are only showing how racist you are. You see, racism has changed, my friend.

Whereas under the old style of Racism you would have to actually hate a black person (or white person, if you happen to be black), with the new kind you don't have to do anything at all. It is automatic!

According to professor Jack Dovidio of the U of C (as in Connecticut), "up to 80 percent of white Americans have racist feelings they may not even recognize." Eighty percent?! Wowieee, what a bunch of racist jerks we are! And I think Mr. Dovidio would know; he is a medical doctor. That's how he is able to say that racism is like a "mutating virus" that has changed so much as to be unrecognizable, even subconscious. Oh wait, Mr. Dovidio is not a doctor. Of any sort. He has, however, studied the topic of racism for the last thirty years of his life. I wonder if he has any vested interest in saying white Americans are still racist, even when all outward--and yea, even inward--signs of it have disappeared. Perhaps, could he be looking for a validation for spending a lifetime researching a mood which has all but dropped out of the American zeitgeist?

Sure, there is latent racism in all of us. Black people are different than white people. We talk differently than they do. A lot of times we behave differently. We watch MTV, they watch BET. We wear pocket protectors, they wear their pants too low. Everybody knows the stereotypes. How long are we going to stand for people like Jesse Jackson, the other Reverend What's His Face, and this guy Dovidio tell us not only how to think but also what we think? Flying in the face of our best knowledge of ourselves, they hammer it into our heads that we are bigots, racists, and somehow need to apologize to... whom? Not Jesse Jackson. He wouldn't accept it when Michael Richards tried that.

How about this, we put everybody in re-education camps, er, clinics, and "begin the long process" of recovering from this terrible illness from which we do not even know we suffer. Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton (that's his name!) can be our clinicians and accept our monthly donations in return for counseling us toward the light and freedom of a racism-free mind. The camps will have to be separate, of course, to make sure that each race gets the proper instruction. But they can be equal. Separate but equal: where have I heard that before?

Meantime I am going to go donate a thousand dollars to Reverend Jackson's "Operation Rainbow-PUSH" to stave off these pangs in my conscience. Whew! That's better. Until next time, racists!

fin

Addendum: if you enjoyed watching your carefully-constructed self-concept collapse like a house of cards, you might also like to check out these commonly-believed fallacies as well. Funny stuff... to a RACIST! (No just kidding they have nothing to do with racism. Promise)

They Took Arr Jaaaghbs!

2006-12-08T13:13:00.000-06:00

Immigration Update:

As you (most likely don't) know (since you probably stumbled across this weblog by accident while Googling "Lundy Lundy Bridge Lyrics"), more than one of my articles have dealt with the topic of illegal immigration. Well there is a new article out on Breitbart, in which ACLU attorney Omar Jadwat worries that new anti-immigration legislation will confuse the puny, simple-minded humans into racistly (new word, just coined it) backlashing against legitimate American Citizens with Mexican accents.

Come on, now. Saying that anti-illegal immigration laws make people racist against any American citizens is like saying that a vaccination for measles makes your body hate its own pancreas. It does not make sense!*

It isn't the laws which make people distrustful of people with Mexican accents. Now I know what you are thinking: But Poppa Joely, if it isn't the anti-immigration laws which make Americans distrustful of illegal immigrants, then what could it be? I don't know, maybe the millions of illegal Mexican and South American criminals living for free in our country right now?! The fact is that these municipalities are passing these laws because We the People are already upset about immigration. And this has nothing to do with race. If millions of white, Canadian criminals were pouring in on boats across Lake Huron, I guarantee there would be Minute Men scrambling to piece together a fence up there as well.

These laws legitimize our naturalization process while commending those Americans who hale, not only from south of the border, but from around the world, who came to our land with respect for our rule of law. We get all the illegals out, and I guarantee nobody has a problem with the fine, upstanding and decent Americans of Latin descent who did what they were supposed to do and got naturalized.

Nobody, except of course for maybe Michael Richards.

*Nor, I see now, does that metaphor.

Addendum: There is only one phrase to summarize the true American's response to illegal immigration, and it can be found right here.

Mason Steelcore is not the Great Satan.

2006-12-06T15:10:00.000-06:00

Hello, my name is Mason Steelcore, Joel's friend and fellow writer. He asked me to do a piece on the current happenings in Iraq. Basically, Joel called me in because he knows that I won't back down from telling it like it is--even if that means getting the nation's top bureaucratic brass breathing down my throat for exposing their villainous schemes, which is exactly what I am about to do in this article. Joel will be back next time.

Obviously, the Mideast has been in the news lately (and by lately, I mean the last twenty-seven years). The things that have been going on there have been affecting us here at home more and more. Especially Iran. By this point, it is pretty clear that Iran is setting up to be our next big enemy. Our Moriarty, our new USSR. They are our antithesis. Where they are oppressive, cold-hearted, and nationalistic, we are licentious, free-loving, and tolerant. They are Muslim, we are "Christian." They are the Axis of Evil, we are the Land of the Free. We are the "Great Satan," they are Allah's true believers. They pull the strings behind Hezbollah and Iraqi insurgents in the Muslim middle east; we dominate the democracies and veritably control former Christendom. It would seem we are perfect counterparts--identical opposites.

There is only one problem with this concept, and that is that Iran is nowhere near as strong as we are. I mean, come on. If we wanted to, right now, we could bomb Iran back into the stone age (which, for them, would be like sixteen years ago). Nobody on this Earth has more firepower. The only entity that comes close is the EU (read: it takes an entire continent to come close), which spends, in total, less than half what we do on military expenditures. Next comes Great Britain, then France, Japan, and Germany. Iran's rank? Twenty-fifth, with about one tenth our firepower. Hardly our identical opposite.

Enter Iraq. Under the chest-thumping Saddam, it was a major presence in the region. When the Cold War ended, the US needed an ideological enemy, and while Saddam was a bad guy, did he really have any sort of philosophy backing his murderous tyranny other than self-aggrandizement, greed, and other essential qualities of your typical dictators? Not so much.

Well, since war is the health of the state, something had to be done about the whole "America-is-so-far-on-top-that-nobody-else-even-comes-close-to-challenging-up" situation. How can anybody expect to successfully govern a people not living in fear of some great foreign threat? I've got it! We pick ourselves a fresh new enemy from a different area. Can't be Eastern Europe, we've been there and done that. Can't be Asia, we've nuked them into submission. No, it's got to be some place new, some place Americans haven't heard from in a while. Hey! How about Iran? Didn't they take some of our people hostage a couple decades back? They sure did! And then we can tie it back to the epic struggle, you know between the West and the Middle East. Everybody knows about the Crusades!

But Iran isn't tough enough. They don't control enough land; they don't have the resources, and almost half their people live below the poverty line. I've got it! Let's take out Saddam, who is not doing us any good anyway, botch a war over there, and leave a power vacuum. Then, we'll put together a "study group" made up of hacks, and find a way to gracefully make our exit. The best part is, the "study group" will recommend that Iran and Syria, two of our sworn enemies by this time, have a share in determining Iraq's fate. Since they are so close, Iraq will be an easy acquisition! Voila, Iran doubles its population, influence, and petroleum reserves, and suddenly we have a real enemy over there to unite our people against.

Of course, it cannot be Dubya to lead us into battle against our new nemesis; that will be too obvious. We'll have him set it up and then wait until his term expires. Then the next fella (or--gasp--dame) can get the war started, making sure to keep his subjects (make that fellow citizens) are so distracted with PS3, MTV, "I Love the 80s", Paris Hilton, and singing along to "Sexyback" that they forget all about how their leaders blatantly set them up for failure overseas and handed over a whole people group, the Iraqis, like chattle to be culled by tyrannical Islamic murderers.

Don't say it couldn't happen. It happened after WWII when the Allies gave Eastern Europe to the Soviets. No, you're probably right. I'm sure there is some other logical explanation for British SAS agents posing as Iraqis and firing at peacekeeping forces, along with all those stories of innocent Iraqis being removed from their cars at military checkpoints and later discovering that the reason their car feels heavier is the newly-installed car bomb under the back seat.

It's obvious that the US and Britain wanted to at least divide-and-conquer in Iraq, hence the new "civil war" (thanks NBC). But until the new study group report came out, and Mr. Stay-the-Course himself began talking about changing tactics and giving Iran input did it occur to me that this might have been the plan all along.

Usually I get my ideas from some crazy conservative show host or another, but this time it's all me. At the very least, this stuff has to make you think.

Read this Canadian story for some insight.

I'll let Joel close this one out.

Wow. Thanks Mason. Let me just make it clear that everything up to this point has been solely the work of Mr. Steelcore, and I do not necessarily agree nor disagree with any of his wacked-out ideas. As for me, I support our troops and am proud of the work there are doing over there. Keep it up guys.

See you next time, faithful readers!

fin

"I'm Not a Racist, That's What's So Insane About This!"

2006-12-04T10:39:00.001-06:00

Everybody who is anybody is talking about Michael Richards' recent tirade at the Laugh Factory comedy club. For those who don't know, I'll give it to you in brief. Remember the guy who played Kramer on "Seinfeld?" Well, he does stand-up comedy these days. Or at least he did stand-up comedy. However, the consensus seems to be that he has ruined his career. You see, at a recent show, it appears a couple of black guys were not finding Kramer very funny, and decided to vocalize their concern in the form of heckling the comedian, rather than just walking out or, I don't know, asking for a refund.

So this goes on for a while, and finally Richards loses control and goes off on the guys. Picture it (although you really don't have to--the video is all over the internet): Kramer from Seinfeld shouting, spitting, and dancing all over the stage, hollering epithets at the unseen haranguer in the balcony.

The problem, then, is not that Kramer lost control, or even that he singled out the two guys. Trouble arose, rather, due to the fact that Richards called the two guys, and I quote, "Nigger! Throw him out he's a nigger! Look there's a nigger! Ooooo! Oooo!" Now if this was just some guy, it probably would not have been a bigger deal than the two guys getting refunds and never going to see the comedian again. Unfortunately for Kramer, though, people still remember who he is, and that he indubitably still has a lot of money from his "Seinfeld" days. Hmmm... it does not take a genius to figure out the possibilities here. Rich "celebrity," racist-sounding tirade, lots of money. So now the delightful Gloria Albright, litigator extraordinaire, has taken the poor, plighted men into her loving, litigating arms and has promised to litigate until the situation is remdedied and, well, Kramer's money becomes their money.

I am going to resist the extremely strong urge to comment on this matter. I am not going to fill this article with links for you to explore. The information is out there. What I am going to do is give you one link to my new favorite music video. What America needs now is healing, and I think it's safe to say that "The Kramer Rap" by Michael Richards is the best way to nurse the wounds to our collective racial psyche.

Until next time, keep it litigious, my brothers!

fin

From Russia...To a Kill! or: Dr. Nyet

2006-12-01T11:22:00.000-06:00

The delightfully clever mashup of James Bond movie titles in the title of this article is in response to the amazing news stories that have been cropping up over the last half month. If you have not been following the happenings in Mutha Russia, then have no fear of remaining disinformed for long, because I am about to fill you in. Enjoy.

October 7, 2006:
Madame Illych closed the door to her apartment, hoisted her bursa strap higher on her shoulder, and fumbled with the keys as she turned to lock the deadbolt. She moved creakily toward the elevators, which would bring her down to the fourteenth floor of her Moscow apartment building, where she would meet her new friend, Anna, with whom she had a coffee date at a cafe in town. She hadn't known the woman long, but something in her eyes conveyed a fierceness, an indefatiguable spirit. She liked Anna.

Anna was a journalist who had spoken out against the Kremlin's war against Muslim Chechnyan Rebels, and this had not won her many friends. Madame Illych looked forward to developing a long camaraderie with Anna. Though at 48 Anna was twenty years her junior, she had a feeling Anna could teach her a lot about life. She depressed the button for the lift, which no longer lit up after who-knows-how-many years of post-Soviet neglect, and listened to the hum as the elevator approached her floor.

Ping. The door slid open. Madame Illych started, then gasped at what she saw. She collapsed to her knees and clutched her heart as the floor seemed to give way beneath her. There, lying in a heap on the elevator floor, was the body of Anna Politkovskaya. Beside her lay a Makarov pistol and four expended shells. Madame Illych fainted.

The story, as it developed, would involve the following elements:

1. A philanthropic billionaire offering a million dollar reward for information regarding the murder of Anna Politkovskaya.

2. Police search Anna's laptop and discover that it is filled with compiled research on torture methods used by Kadyrovites, Chechen security cells loyal to the Kremlin. Missing from the material are two photographs of the torturers.

3. A retired Russian KGB agent named Alexander Litvinenko, who begins an investigation into Anna's murder.

4. But the investigation is cut short when Litvinenko has a clandestine rendezvous with two mysterious Russian men in a London hotel.

5. Shortly after the meeting, Litvinenko begins to die--poisoned by radioactive Polonium.

6. A friend of Litvinenko's, the Italian academic Mario Scaramella, claimes that the former KGB agent "saw documents naming him as a target during their meeting...."

7. Litvinenko issues a statement to his killers, calling them "barbaric and ruthless."

8. The Kremlin denies all involvement as traces of Polonium begin to pop up all over British planes and London office buildings.

The amazing part about these nine story elements is this: they're all true (except how Anna's body was found--that I embelleshed with names and not much else).

Although the story is still developing, this appears to be a case of intrigue pulled right out of an Ian Fleming novel. And I should know. In the last week or so, I have educated myself by carefully observing eight James Bond films.

Russian KGB agents? Italian intellectuals? Espionage? Spies bumped off by radioactive Polonium-210? I am willing to bet that SPECTRE is behind all this. We will just have to wait and see. I do not usually do this, but I am going to wait before I pass judgment (read: give the authoritative truth) about this series of spine-gripping* events. Stay tuned; I just might feel like following up on this one.

Until then, read the full story.

fin

*Let it be known that I, Settecase, the author of this weblog, am the first person to use the term "spine-gripping." Yet another phrase coined for your reading pleasure here at You Better Believe It!

25 Reasons Why Milwaukee is Wrong

2006-11-18T13:17:00.000-06:00

Attention: the following article has been updated to account for my laziness. Basically, too much has happened since this article for me to continue the series. Especially now that I have been accused, not once but TWICE!!1!1, of racism--I better get to the important stuff. You understand, don't you?

Final Edition: December 1, 2006

Alright kidderoonies, I know I said that the Ultimate Knockout World Championship Battle of the Cities (or whatever I called it) was over. And it is, kind of. That is, I am done talking about how Harrisburg is infinitely better than, say, Peoria (you can't say Peoria without saying pee!). However, I was just doing a little reconnaissance on the internet (or as I like to call it, the World Wide Your Mom), and came across an article which I had read long ago.

The article is from a website called www.onmilwaukee.com, and the article is entitled--wait, before I tell you what the article is called, I should warn you to swallow any pop or milk that might be in your mouth right now, because I don't want it to come shooting hilariously out of your nose. The article is called, and I quote, "100 reasons Milwaukee is better than Chicago." BAH! HAH! Now, for decorum's sake I will ignore the myriad of grammatical mistakes in that title, and address its absurdity (as if it needed addressing). The mere thought of Milwaukee being better than Chicago, I know, is so overwhelmingly absurd to you that your brain is no doubt trying to shut itself off after reading is. However, I need you to hang in there, my right-brained readers, and keep those minds of yours from blacking out from their sheer incapacity to process such a ludicrous concept. The problem is, this seems to be a widespread idea in Brew City (Milwaukee's nickname--bah!).

I mean, sure it is great to take pride in the place where you live, but I mean come on, you cannot be running around saying your better than THE GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD! And since the whole city thinks this way, that means the whole city is wrong (click on that link to visit the greatest website ever created).

Moving right along, it is time to address this so-called "list." It is a long one, and rebutting each claim is going to take some work--too much work for a single article. And so...

In the following article, I will present the first 25 of OnMilwaukee's list of "100 reasons Milwaukee blah blah crappity crap grammatical mistakes etc Chicago," and then after each item, I will explain why the author, some fellow named OMC Staffwriters (bah--what a fruity name!) is wrong.

Yes, I never thought it would be possible to make one hundred consecutive wrong statements in a single article either, but aparrently Mr. OMC Staffwriters (bah--still a fruity name!) is master of the impossible.

Let's rumble. (Exceptionally fine treatings* will be punctuated with a "BAH!")

www.OnMilwaukee.com Presents: 100 reasons Milwaukee is better than Chicago!

1. Rush hour is only an hour [in Milwaukee].
Nobody lives in Milwaukee, and there is nowhere to go. Thus, nobody is on the roads. Ever.

2. Our art museum has a retractable, moving roof.
Our art museum was established in 1879 and is world renowned as a extensive, premier collection of Impressionist and American Art.

3. So does our baseball stadium.
“…An afternoon in Wrigley Field is still better than a season pass to Miller Park.”--Michael Hasenstab, Milwaukee Resident

4. One word: tailgating.
One word: tailgating does not make you unique.

5. We can see trees, nature and stars just 10 minutes outside downtown.
Yeah, I suppose there are no nature, trees, or stars in Chicago's 7300 acres of parkland, 552 parks, 33 beaches, and two internationally-celebrated conservatories....

6. We're two hours closer to Door County.
We’re two hours closer to Starved Rock; and Chicago is closer to Starved Rock than Milwaukee is to Door County by 64 miles.

7. Our baseball loyalty isn't split between two teams.
Milwaukee has two professional sports teams. Chicago has five.

8. The Packers have won a Super Bowl in the last decade.
But do the Packers have a Superbowl Shuffle?

9. You won't get tailgated at 90 mph on our highways.
Chicago drivers can drive at 90 mph, just inches from the cars in front and behind us, and not get into an accident.

10. Our lakefront isn't obstructed by skyscrapers.
There are multiple websites published about Chicago’s lakefront architecture. Some of the world’s most beautiful buildings are on the lake.

11. A cheesehead is better than a F.I.B.
Anything is better than being a Cheesehead!

12. Chicago is the second fattest city in the U.S.; Milwaukee is 22 (Men's Fitness Magazine). Chicago has more top-rated restaurants than any other city in America. You would like to eat here too.

13. Plenty of good parking still available [in Milwaukee].
It's probably a good idea that you do not drive in Chicago anyway. We have already established that you cannot handle driving on our roads. Besides, there is plenty of parking on the side streets.

14. [Milwaukee has] no freeway along Lake Michigan.
There are nineteen locations of note along that "freeway", along with eleven historic neighborhoods, including the ritzy Gold Coast and trendy Lincoln Park. See? It's not so bad.

15. Milwaukee police not as easily mistaken for Checker cab drivers.
No, but they are easily mistaken for stripper-beaters, perjures, and killers of the innocent!

16. More beer at Milwaukee Mile than Magnificent Mile.
The Magnificent Mile has 16 upscale hotels, the famous Watertower Park, an eight-story shopping center, fine dining, world class architecture, and 47 premium retailers. Milwaukee Mile has NASCAR.

17. Milwaukee has Harley headquarters, Chicago has Harley-Davidson store.
49 major companies are headquartered within Chicago city limits, and 52 are based in Chicago metro area. Milwaukee has 12.

18. It's free to drive on our I-94.
Yeah, it must cost a lot to upkeep such a major highway in a city with a staggering population of over 500,000 people! You would think that Chicago, clocking in at 3 million, would be able to pave theirs for free, with how much less wear and tear it gets.

19. Santiago Calatrava picked us for his first U.S. project.
Calatrava’s Chicago project, 400 North Lake Shore Drive, will be 2000 feet tall—the tallest building in North America. Oh no, another skyscraper along the lakefront! BAH!

20. Milwaukee River has dirt, not concrete at the bottom.
Milwaukee is proud of… dirt?

21. Most famous "Chicago" architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, actually a Cheesehead.
Frank Lloyd Wright was born 144 miles from Milwaukee, and never lived closer than 78 miles away from the city. Besides, notice that he left Wisconsin altogether and moved to Chicago when he wanted to start his career. He never even graduated in Wisconsin! Plus, nice grammar! Double BAH!

22. Parking tickets don't cost $50 [in Milwaukee].
The Law of Supply and Demand: as demand rises and supply falls, price increases. That parking fees are higher in Chicago implies that more people want to park there (read: it's more popular) than Milwaukee, where apparently they are giving parking spots away for free! Hooray! Free parking for all!

23. Parking checkers can't give you the boot. Again with the parking. What, do you own like six cars or something?

24. Milwaukee River doesn't require regular dye job.
That's what we in Real America (AKA Chicagoland) like to call a cultural celebration. Milwaukeeans who are unfamiliar with the concept should imagine a beer fest, only with actual significance.

25. Sacks of gold bullion not required to pay rent each month in Milwaukee.
Chicagoans can afford to pay for their rent in sacks of gold bullion.

That was the first 25 from the list. Can you believe that Chicago is only one fourth of the way through kicking Milwaukee's collective glutes? Well then stay tuned, readers, for the ubiquitous truthiness that is to follow.

fin

*As in the popular Chicago slang term, "You got treated!"

The Seventy-Fifth Article Is So Close I Can Taste It, and It Tastes Like Triumph*

2006-10-29T17:07:00.000-06:00

In a few days, You Better Believe It! will reach the milestone to which every weblog aspires: seventy-five articles. For an author who tries not to write "posts" on my "blog" about what makes me mad, or how much my life was impacted by a poem I read on Myspace, I really do take pride in that. And so should you. You should be proud to know somebody as incredible as I am. Think about this: how many people do you know who can write seventy-four (counting this one) individual articles about basically nothing and still not run out of things to talk about? One! You know one person, and that is me.

I think that, as the benchmark seventy-fifth article rapidly approaches (read: I'll be lucky to get to it in another month), it would be good for us to look back on all the crazy things that have happened to me in the last seventeen months that have made for such great stories. Frank, could you roll the montage film please? Oh shoot, I just remembered that I fired Frank last week for looking at my girlfriend, the Young Tara Wagner.

Oh well. I guess if you really want to know what has happened since I started this weblog, you can go back and look in the archives. I recommend anything before September 2005. After that they really went south.

Until next time, happy reading, my minions!

fin
*

The Knockout World Championship, Part II: Peoria Gets Slapped

2006-10-29T11:14:00.000-06:00

"Will it play in Peoria?"
During the Vaudeville age of the early twentieth century, this was the question that revealed a show's appeal to middle-class America. You see, Peoria, Illinois, is the largest city on the Illinois River, boasting a population of over 100,000 and a metro population (read: the surrounding area) of over 300,000--370 to be exact. Situated in the geographical center of the great Land of Lincoln, it is surrounded by a pretty flat, Midwesternly (I made that word up) landscape and Midwesternly, salt-of-the-earth-type folks. As a bonus, Illinois is home of Chicago (or as I like to call it, The City of Dreams) and therefore is the quintessential Midwestern state.

So is it any wonder why Peoria, a centralized city in Middle America, close to Chicago and situated on a major waterway, would come to symbolize the heartland of America? Yes! There is a wonder, because Peoria is crap. Seriously, don't be fooled by the semi-impressive skyline:

Peoria is a dirty, dirty town. You cannot see it from that picture (not mine, by the way--I found it on Flickr), so don't sue me, you rotten, litigiously-crazed mass of greedy drones), but the streets of Peoria are filled with filth and drudgery. Strong words? Perhaps, but we are talking about a strong odor of degeneracy, requiring a strong anti-perspirant of TRUTH. But I am getting ahead of myself. Besides, Harrisburg has a decent skyline as well. Check it out:

[having trouble with Blogger image uploader]

Let's talk demographics. In fact, let's do a head-to-head comparison. This series ain't called the Knockout World Championship of Universal Domination for Midsized Cities for nothing (actually it's not called that at all, but bear with)!

Here we go... cue "the Final Countdown," because we are about to have ourselves a slugfest of epic--er, midsized proportions!!!1 (note the 1 for added excitement!)

For simplicity's (read: my tired, furiously-flailing fingers') sake, we will abbreviate our two contenders this evening. Harrisburg will be shortened to "Hbg," and Peoria's Urban area will be shortened to "P-U" (That's right, stinkers).

Population:
PU: 112,936 Hbg: 48,950
Uh-oh, things look bad for Pa's capital! He's reeling from the first blow. But what's this? He steadies himself. He's winding up, and POW!! Hbg connects with a brutal haymaker to Peoria's left brow! It turns out that Hbg's metro area has 643,820, and that's almost twice as much as puny Peoria! PU hits the mat!

Ding ding ding! The bell sounds the end of round one. The contenders retire to their corner, and their managers prepare them for the round two, in which they will battle for historical significance!

History:
Hbg lofts up out of his corner with a hop, and shakes out his hands and feet. He rolls his neck with anticipation. PU should only look so confident, so primed, so ready to do battle. He bounces once or twice, puts on his most determined expression, and swaggers to the center of the squared circle, where Hbg is waiting eagerly already.

Let's look at the stats:
PU:
According to Wikipedia, early man can be traced in Peoria as far back as 10,000 BC*--and it looks like not much has changed since then (TREATED)!

Fast forward a few millennia, and La Ville de Maillet was established as a trading village by some French people in the 1770s. French people. Yeah, we are off to a great start, P-U. Yadda yadda yadda, the War of 1812, the town was burned to the ground, etc., and finally Peoria was incorporated as an actual, American city in 1845. Since then, not a whole lot has happened. 500 or so men fought and died in the Civil War, and then there was the whole Vaudeville thing. But the last time I checked, most people do not even know what Vaudeville is. So congratulations, Peoria. Your historic achievement is being part of something nobody knows about.

Hbg:
Founded by Native Americans 3,000 BC*, who used the name Paxtang. Many areas around Hbg are still called either Paxtang or Paxton. Keeping a tradition alive for five thousand years, across two distinct people groups? Not too shabby.

BAM!

1719: John Harris buys some land in the area, and later gets a license to operate a ferry in what is then called Harris' Ferry. His son later renames the town Harrisburg in 1784.

1812: After a vicious battle with former US capital Philadelphia, Harrisburg is declared the capitol of the state. Hbg can take on Philly? Yeah, and P-U stands a chance. Bah! Bah I say!

1839: "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too!" That was the slogan of the Whig party, who held their presidential nomination convention in Harrisburg. Naturally, they won.

1860: Hbg is officially chartered as a city. This means that everything significant that happened in Hbg before this was while it was a lowly town (or township, or whatever they call them in Pa).

Civil War: thousands of troops passed through Camp Curtin in Hbg. Located in the heart of the mid-Atlantic region, Hbg saw its share of excitement. In fact, it was Confederate general Lee's order to his man Ewell to withdraw south from Hbg in 1863 (perhaps he did not want to fight against the hearty, fierce townsfolk?) that sparked the battle of Gettysburg--arguably the most infamous battle of the war.

1897: two years after UVa's rotunda famously burnt to the ground, Hbg experienced a similar tragedy when its capitol dome caught fire. Not to be daunted, a new capitol was constructed and finished in 1906. That's one hundred years ago!

WHAMMY!

I could go on and on about the civil rights movement, Hurricane Agnes, and the nearby Three Mile Island incident, but I know your eyes are glassing over. Just like Peoria's eyes are completely swollen shut by the merciless historical beating Hbg has been dealing out these last seven paragraphs.

Announcer: Only seconds remain in round two, and we are all amazed that Peoria is still standing. If you ask me, Jim, I say it's only because Hbg's power-packed uppercuts to the chin keep propping him up. Whup, and down he goes! Here's the count...

1...

2...

3...

etc...

....10!
Ding ding ding ding ding!

That's it! Ladies and gentlemen, it's a TKO! P-U is down for the count, and his professional career is as o-v-e-r over as Vaudeville!

So there you have it, devotees. Hbg wins the first challenge. But I am not going to lie, this article took forever to write, and I'm sure nobody is even still reading it by this point. In fact, let's test that theory. If anybody reads this, comment on this article and I will send you one hundred billion dollars, cash money.** This reminds me of the time in high school English class. It was a well known fact that the teacher never actually read our exam essays, so for one test I wrote a bunch of jibberish nonsense that had nothing to do with the actual essay smack in the middle of a lengthy paragraph. Too bad he actually did read it--whoops! Luckily I am good at talking my way out of situations like that. I had to work pretty hard to convince the guy I did not really think his mother was a street-walker.

Anyway, the point is that Harrisburg is better than Peoria. And, though we didn't touch on this, Hbg is cleaner. Even the run-down parts of the capital are pretty clean. Sure, you might get shot in them, but you can take comfort knowing that your chalk outline is going to be on a spic and span stretch of clean American road. Peoria, on the other hand, is not exactly known for its cleanlines. I would not say the town is a dump, but, that's just because I am taking a break from saying things that are absolutely true. Okay break over. When I accurately (read: with extreme bias) described Harrisburg to my buddy Nate back home, he replied, "Oh, so it's like Peoria only not sh--ty." An accurate comparison if ever there was one. Harrisburg is like a lot of cities, only not crappy.

In fact, it is so much better than all of the other cities on the list of upcoming challenges that I am not even going to compare them. A little research and you should be able to come up with the same conclusion as me (read: I am lazy).

What I am going to do next time is tell you a little something else about why this is such a cool place. No, it's no Chicago (City of Dreams, in case you forgot), but it is a kind of mini-Chicago. About that, more later.

fin

*not to be confused with BCE, which means the exact same thing but excludes the ever-offensive word, Christ
** not to be confused with an actual monetary offer. But if you want to send a couple bucks my way, I won't complain.

The Knockout World Championship, Part I: Intro

2006-09-28T17:20:00.000-05:00

Welcome back. That was for me; I am welcoming myself back because I haven't written anything in a while. But you too, welcome back. I am talking, of course, to my actual readers, not these crazies from Stockholm and Buenos Aires who show up on my weblog after poking around Google for things like "Lundy Lundy Bridge" and "Abercrombie Male Model" (yes, I'm sorry to say that some people find me that way. But, never to turn away a potential new pupil in the school I call You Better Believe It! University, I am welcoming myself and you, my readers, back for another thrilling multi-chapter saga of eye-popping wonderfulness that is my writing.

Now, before I get struck by lightning (see Proverbs 16:18*), let me tell you about coming events. In the spirit of last Christmas' Snow Globe epic (read: the greatest story ever written), I am about to hit you with another chronicle. Come to think of it, this is really nothing like the Yuletide epic, so don't bother clicking on that link (it wasn't very good anyhow).

So, what do I have cooking? I have noticed that my articles have been getting awfully depressing lately. People losing their civil rights, invading armies of Mexicans, and pretty much the end of the world. Well, I just recently finished Bradbury's classic Fahrenheit 451 (not to be confused with the Michael Moore masterpiece (read: socialist propaganda) of a similar name, and if there is one lesson one can take away from that book, it is that people need and want to be entertained. They do not want to read about boring Armageddon scenarios or--yawn--lame Paul Revere-like warnings about the impending collapse of Western Civilization. Ensuite**, since I have my fingertip on the pop-cultural pulse of the 16-30 age demographic, I am going to give you what you, and I, so desperately want. Entertainment.

My next series of articles is going to be about a particular American city, and why that city is better than a welter of other American cities. No, don't jump the gun. I am not talking about that land of dreams Chicago--we all know Chicago is the best there is. Instead, I am going to talk about a city which cannot quite compete on the level of Chi-Town, but must take on smaller, more vunerable cities. That's right, my friends (and I use that term, as well as wear my pants, loosely), what you are witnessing is history in the making: the first ever Middleweight City Knockout World Championship!

[Cue intense sports music and slow-mo montage of skyscrapers boxing each other]

In the MCKWC, middle-sized cities will compete against one another in such categories as...

Historical Significance! BAM!

Nightlife! POW!

Architecture! THAT MEANS BUILDINGS!

Sports Teams! IF THEY HAVE ANY! WHAM!!

Famous Natives! KA-BLAM!

Contemporary Cultural Impact! huh? I MEAN KA-POW!!!

Some of you can see the storm clouds gathering now on the darkening horizon, feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up with fear. Oh, no, you remark to yourself, what if he picks my city to compete?!11 And nervous you should be, my friend, nervous indeed.

The following cities are not safe:

1. Albany, NY
2. Peoria, IL
3. Lancaster City, PA
4. Springfield, IL (I'll have to consider this one)
5. Lansing, MI
6. Youngstown, OH
7. Dover, DE
8. Flint, MI
9. Flagstaff, AZ
10. Knoxville, TN

Why, you ask, would I want to take the risk of possibly offending each and every one of you who lives close enough to a metropolitan area to have it evoke any sense of loyalty in you***? The answer is simple. I just moved to Harrisburg, PA, and it is a pea compared to Chicago. Therefore, I have to make myself feel good about where I live by scribally bashing your hometown. Really, this series could be called "Why Harrisburg is Better Than Where You Live." But won't it sound much more exciting when I say...

Get ready for the ultimate battle of the burgs, tussle of the towns, mauling of the municipalities; prepare yourself any way you can for:

THE MIDDLEWEIGHT CITY KNOCKOUT WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP 2006!

(Stay tuned) fin

*My way of getting you heathens into the good book
**Look it up in your handy Francais-to-Anglais pocket dictionaries
***You know, like if you live in Erie, PA, but still--inexplicably--call yourself a Steelers fan (you know who you are)

Another One Bites the Dust.

2006-09-19T12:03:00.000-05:00

Another what, you ask? How about another civil right for Britons. For example, the right to walk down the street without being yelled at by unseen bureacrats. Keep reading.

England keeps getting better and better. No longer can concerned citizens say things like, "That is a lot like Big Brother." Now, they must say that is really is Big Brother. Ever heard of talking surveillance cameras on the streets? The city government of Middlesbrough has recently installed CCTV cameras mounted with loudspeakers. Now, when free citizens of one of the last truly democratic nations shamelessly violate the social contract by committing such atrocities as littering or bike riding in pedestrian zones, the unseen officials, watching from monitoring rooms, can belt out an order to cease and desist. Read this article and notice the following passage:

"The surprised youth stopped, and looked about. A look of horror spread across his face as he realised the voice was referring to him."

These cameras are terrifying people. Horror, terror. That word sounds familiar. Don't we know somebody who is currently at war against that? Yeah, these things are really beneficial. How can people allow their government to get away with this kind of thing? I guess I will have to wait and find out in a couple years when they come to the US.

Government by fear. Social harmony enforced by terror. Would we accept a foreign power to impose such conditions upon us? How could we let our own government? Are the British people so completely anesthetized to the violation of their rights that they could passively accept this? Are they all just distracted by the bar culture and pop culture? I could understand that some people accept giving up basic freedoms for security purposes (such as submitting to embarrassing, unwarranted searches at an airport), but I mean, there is not even a pretense of putting this in the context of protecting citizens. Litter? Riding a bike?!

Call me old fashioned, but I have always thought the following: the people are not a threat to the nation; the people are the nation. The government is not. And when the government oversteps its bounds, the people need to take a stand and say something. Yeah, go have a march in the streets about it. That'll help. I cannot even joke about this. More to come.

fin

Put That In Your Pipe...

2006-09-13T15:35:00.000-05:00

...And smoke it. But before you do that, and before you are allowed to read this article, I need you to do three things. They follow.

1. Go smoke an entire pack of cigarettes (preferably Jacks).

2. Eat a whole Dominican cigar. Yes that's right, I said eat it.

3. Now, go to your local Rite Aid and get yourself a nice, tasty corn cob pipe, a pouch of vanilla flavored Captain's Choice pipe tobacco, and a free book of matches. Light up and enjoy.

I know what you're thinking. Right now, you're thinking, Joel, you're so sexy. And you're also thinking, That last step was really like five steps in one--boo! But most importantly, you're thinking, Joel, why would I want to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes and eat an entire cigar? The answer is simple, my children. This article is going to be about the virtues of smoking a pipe, and some of you are going to have objections to the very thought of inhaling tobacco smoke right from the get-go. You know who you are, you so-called "health nuts" and "people who don't want cancer." You make me sick. So, to get you to the point where you can successfully appreciate the sage piping wisdom I am about to share with you, you need to take a crash course in the study of tobacco (or as I like to call it, "tobacky.") Now, stop what you are doing and go complete those three steps.

(I'll wait.)

All done? Congratulations, you are now a graduate of the You Better Believe It College Of Tobaccology University, or Yibbicot U, for short. Your diploma is in the mail. Let us get down to business (since I only have seven minutes remaining on my free internet time at the local Dauphin County Library).

Yesterday, I fulfilled a lifelong dream that I have had since last year. I bought a pipe. Now, we are not just talking about any old pipe here. This is a gen-u-wine, bonafide Missouri Mirschaum corn cob pipe. It has been crafted in the time tested fashion from a real corn cob, grown and harvested in the fertile fields of the American South and imported with care to my local purveyor of the finer things in life, AKA Rite Aid. There were a couple reasons for my doing this. First, I had been telling Tara (or as I like to call her, Princess Gorgeousa--oh, I thought that would sound better before I wrote it) that I was thinking of getting a corn cob pipe for a couple weeks now. Second, I had recently called my good brother Andrew regarding an urge I had to recontinue smoking. Yes, I used to be a "smoker," as in I smoked real cigarettes and cloves occasionally (read: habitually) until recently, when I graduated from college. I would not have called myself an addict--I rarely actually craved a smoke--but the little guys did help to take the edge off from time to time (read: all the time).

Now, living as I do a solitary life of solitude in my solitary apartment, with no cable TV or internet, I have to sometimes try extra hard to find ways to pass the time. Since, like most of America's future leaders, I hate to read (scary thought, right?), I had to look elsewhere. Well, yesterday "elsewhere" meant my ceiling, and as I sat there examining the cracks from nearly a hundred years of habitation, I had an epiphany. I should buy a pipe! I knew I could find one for a great price if I did a little investigation. So I set out on a tour of Harrisburg's retailers until I arrived at the aforementioned pharmaceutical emporium. I asked the clerk for her cheapest pipe and her cheapest tobacco, slapped my card on the counter, and walked out feeling inwardly satisfied.

It was Tuesday, my day off, and usually it would have been spent running boring errands or watching my season one DVDs of The O.C. (or as I like to call it, "tobacky"). Yet after I purchased the pipe, it was like somebody turned the railroad switch and my day took a different track. I had just picked up a volume of William Faulkner's greatest works (okay I was lying about hating to read--don't tell anyone) from the 'brary, and I thought, What better way to break in my new hobby than heading over to the park for a read? A billion answers immediately came to me (among them: drinking heavily), but I headed for the park anyway. I spent the next hour engrossed in a world of recently-discharged Great War veterans, luxurious railroad dining cars, and the sweet vanilla aroma wafting up from my cob.

The pipe satisfied my craving for a little smoke, and at the same time encouraged me to appreciate fine literature. What is it about a pipe that causes it to have such an effect?

Could it be that it is the oldest form of tobacco use, next to actually inhaling it around a bonfire? The sheer ancience (I made that word up) of the activity seems to connect the pipe smoker with his predecessors. Perhaps, I thought in between flavorful puffs, perhaps somebody sat on this very same bench a century ago and enjoyed a pipe.

Maybe it is the aroma. Few things are as soothing as the creamy fragrance of flavored pipe tobacco. Just ask somebody who is against smoking. I bet even anti-smoking advocate William H. Sorrell has some fond memories of Grandpa Sorrell lighting up a pipe and telling stories of the Old Country (Buffet--m'mm, delicious). I can see it now.

Speaking of visualizations, there is something slmost spiritual about regarding a curling plume of pipe smoke as it rises out of the bowl. Okay, maybe not spiritual, but you get the idea.

The fact is, smoking a pipe is not healthy, and it should never be done by anybody under the legal smoking age of 18. But it is certainly a lot better then sucking down cigarettes like Coca-Cola, and a whole lot more relaxing. Some may say it's for just for geezers, but that is just untrue. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go put on my maroon cardigan and penny loafers, and join Ol' Man Sam Weatherby, class of aught six, for a game of chess in front of Mr. Klemper's corner drugstore.

fin

Addendum: I promise to never again use the phrase, creamy fragrance.

Eric Prydz, Eat Your Heart Out

2006-09-07T14:21:00.000-05:00

I was just listening to a soft-rock-at-work station, and a song caught my attention. I could not believe what I was hearing. I mean, I know that a lot of new songs bite from older, forgotten songs of years past, but this was beyond belief. As it turns out, one of my all-time favorite house songs is not original. Who would have thought, right?

For those of you clubheads and house music fans out there among my readers, check out Steve Winwood's song, "Valerie."

Doesn't that chorus sound familiar?

fin

It was nice while it lasted.

2006-09-07T12:49:00.000-05:00

So long, Freedom of Speech. Remember the good old days when Great Britain's common law provided its citizens with basic human rights--the same rights from which the American Founding Fathers drew when they composed our Constitution? And do you remember that one of the basic rights characteristic of a free society is Freedom of Speech?

Well, you can go ahead and forget about that one, because right now evangelical Christians are being arrested for no more heinous crime than handing out leaflets with Bible verses on them. Of course, the Bible verses condemn sodomy, so naturally they are a threat to British society (read: gay lobbyists).

We all know that what happens in Europe doesn't stay there, but soon finds its way to our shores (first the coasts, then the heartland). So if you disagree with homosexuality, you had better tell as many people as you can now, because you might not have the chance for much longer.

Isn't England supposed to be a Christian state?

Here is the story, and there will be more to follow.

fin... for now

Hail to the Cheese

2006-09-02T13:52:00.000-05:00

Friends, there is something I would like to bring to your attention. Now, I say something, but really it is some one. I would like to introduce you to a great man. This is a man whose purpose in life was to spread peace on earth and goodwill toward men. I am talking about a man everybody should know and have a deep, personal relationship with. For there is only one man to live who can truly save humanity from its greatest challenges which have become so apparent in these dark and troubled times. The man I am referring to stands head and shoulders above the impoverished and destituewith whom he spends his time, yet he is never above stooping down to their level to offer a helping hand. The man I am referring to, of course, is Bill Clinton.

When Bill and his lovely and demure wife Hillary gracefully left the White House in 2001, they showed the world how much they loved fine elements of Western culture, like furniture and art. Since that time, Bill has been actively traversing the globe showing the masses that he appreciates their cultures too. Moreso, however, he appreciates their pain. And he is going to do something about it.

Enter the Clinton Global Iniative. The Clinton Global Iniative was initiated with great initiative on the part of the initiator with an express purpose, "To bring people together from all walks of life, with national leaders from all over the world, to discuss four of the subjects that will shape the 21st century...." The Clinton Global Initiative is more than a jabber session for diplomats and media mongers to act self-aggrandizing, however. The Clinton Global Initiative is going to yield results by encouraging each attendee to go back to their homelands and commit to taking action on four key issues. On the Clinton Global Initiative homepage, producers have taken the initiative to initiate a slick video which goes into detail about these four issues which require initiative. The video opens with Bill Clinton's soothing voiceover and an image of the rotating planet earth, so you know right from the start that it is going to change your life when you watch it.

Issue 1: AIDS
AIDS is a pandemic that has become a human rights violation (thrust upon us insidiously by our age-old nemesis, the chimp). Bill Clinton and his Global Initiative realize that fact. The best way to deal with such a catastrophe, of course, is drugs, not avoiding things like casual sex and philandering. Okay, fighting disease really is a good thing. But just wait for Issue 2!

Issue 2: Religion
All religions share similar elements. This leads us to the natural conclusion that all religions are the same. To understand this, we need look no further than the esteemed Abdullah II bin Al Hussein, King of Jordan, from whom all spiritual truths originate. The message from King Hussein would suffice, however President Clinton has peppered his video with not just one but three spiritual experts, including Robert Malley, CGI Coordinator for Religion, and Elizabeth Cheney, Deputy Assistant Secretary for the U.S. State Department.

These revered religious leaders agree that the 80% of the citizens of the world who call themselves religious need to put aside their differences and work toward common goals, like, "fighting poverty, fighting AIDS, and building houses." Ms. Cheney asks the question, "How do we defeat extremism?" The answer comes to us a moment later: extremism comes from ignorance, isolation, and deprivation. To what kind of extremism these great leaders of faith are referring is not mentioned, but one can only assume that they were talking about any religious faith which espouses absolutes. Isn't it time we put aside all our pesky claims to exclusivity and embraced one spiritual guide to whom we can all relate?

Needless to say, you and I should both be glad that our esteemed president is now a religious authority as well.

Issue 3: Poverty
I don't know about you, but I find few things as inspiring as watching CEOs of Starbucks and Goldman Sachs sitting comfortably on white thrones, while drinking expensive bottled water, talk about helping humanity's poor. The Clinton Global Initiative promotional video has exactly that. If you aren't inspired, you probably hate the poor.

Issue 4: Global Warming
Global warming = impending doom. I will discuss this in a later article.

Bill Clinton is a man for the 21st century. No, he is the man for the 21st century. In such a time of uncertainty, where else do we have to turn? If somebody takes the initiative to start a foundation in his own name, then that person in my eyes is a saint. I think--no, I know--I speak for us all when I say that I want William J. Clinton to be the next President of the World.

fin

Addendum: I should point out that I am a big fan of helping people out of poverty and disease. And I do understand that, because of our greedy human natures, sometimes the only way to get somebody to help somebody else is by turning it into a publicity stunt. I just think we need to be careful before we start calling somebody a modern-day messiah. Thank you.

Thank You, Lundy

2006-09-01T17:44:00.000-05:00

It has recently come to my attention that

1. Telling people to obey the law makes one a racist, and

2. My weblog is the number one Google Italia result for "London Bridge Lundy!"

That means that when people in Italy search for "London Bridge Lundy" or some other variation of Fergie's now-infamous lyrics, the first site to come up is You Better Believe It! Also, there is some website that allows people to trade in weblogs. I am not sure how it works, but this bad boy is worth over a thousand dollars. I better see some of that cash, is all I'm saying.

King of the Internet, out.

fin

No Human Being is Illegal. Except the Following.

2006-09-01T10:25:00.000-05:00

Bostonians living near the Granary Burial Ground have been waking up late at night lately. They are having trouble sleeping due to a strange whirring noise emanating from the graveyard. A couple local students set out to investigate the sound the other day and discovered that the whirring seemed to be originating from below a simple, white grave marker inscribed with the name, Paul Revere. Puzzled, one student lowered his ear to the ground and pressed it against the grassy earth. Yep, he distinctly could hear a noise like a turbine or industrial fan, interspersed with a rhythmic thumping. It was the sound of a great American patriot rolling in his grave. What would cause such a phenomenon, the lad wondered to himself. Well, I have decided to write this article to explain to Bostonians, and all Americans, just what is the cause of Mr. Revere's recent turmoil.

For those of you who are unaware, Paul Revere is the man who rode furiously through the streets of Boston, calling American citizens out from their homes to prepare for battle with the cry, "The British are coming!" Yes, he prepared a tough citizenry for an invasion, an invasion which led to a war against the Redcoats and the birth of a new, great nation called the United States of America.

The reason old Paul is rolling in his grave right now is because there is another invasion underway, and that great American citizenry, the same folks who were once riled up to the point of taking up arms and defending this great land, are asleep. We are desparately trying to hit the snooze button and ignore the alarm that modern-day Paul Reveres are sounding! We have all heard the phrase, history repeats itself. Well, not in this case, my friends. Yes, we have an invasion happening. We even have "Minutemen" rushing into action to defend our country. However, history is not repeating itself, because instead of Americans rushing to join the fight against the foreign enemy, they are desparately trying to ignore it.

Webster's dictionary defines an invasion as:

1 : an act of invading; especially : incursion of an army for conquest or plunder
2 : the incoming or spread of something usually hurtful

Is the Mexican army literally invading the United States? Technically, no. However, thousands of Mexicans cross the American border each month, ignoring and defying our laws. How is this not an army? They have no allegience to the United States. They have no desire to follow our laws or assimilate into our culture. And they are here for conquest and plunder. Have you ever heard of the Aztlan movement? Does the word, reconquista mean anything to you? There are currently between ten and twenty million Mexicans (read: citizens of Mexico, a foreign country) living inside the borders of our sovereign nation. These aliens, living in defiance of our laws, cost us legitimate Americans millions--wait, make that trillions of dollars. Think about this as you drive yourself to work tomorrow: a portion of your time each day, trying to make an honest buck, is spent validating illegal immigration into your country, and helping those who do not care about honesty, the rule of law, or our American way of life.

"No Human is Illegal!" This is the rallying cry of Mexicans trying to leech off of American taxpayers. Come on, peeps. Can we seriously cut through the rhetoric and canned speeches and chants for five minutes to dissect exactly what these people are trying to accomplish with such phrases? Just what does that mean, "no human is illegal?" Obviously, every human has the right to live (so long as they do not take that right away from others, which is a whole other discussion). So you could say that in that sense, no human is illegal. But those of us who oppose the Mexican invasion are not saying that Mexicans are "illegal." That is, we are not saying these people should legally not be allowed to live or something. The fact is, however, that when one commits a crime, as these illegal aliens are doing, one is acting illegally. It is these illegal actions that we ought to have a problem with. Come on, it isn't the fact that these people are Mexican that bothers us. If French Canadians were crossing into our country and trying to create a second Quebeqois homeland here, we would be just as incensed!

Few things crank my gears more than seeing foreign-born criminals marching through American streets, chanting anti-American epithets and calling me an "illegal blue eyed devil." And all of this with the protection of American police! When the British invaded, we did not sit back and wait for our government to do something. We mobilized and we drove the invaders out. If the British invaded us today, most of us wouldn't even find out about it until MTV News ran a story about how it affected Paris Hilton.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to get to work. Twelve million Mexican criminals are counting on me.

fin

God help us.

2006-08-31T12:20:00.000-05:00

The Mexicans are invading. I will address this further later. Right now, I have to decide whether to march on Washington or drive down to the border and start acting like Andrew Jackson.

fin... for now

The Lundy: A Medical Miracle

2006-08-24T16:09:00.000-05:00

I live in the Hole. For those of you who have never done hard time like I have, you might not know that the Hole is where the put the bad dudes who are too hard-core (read: demonically violent) for regular prison. Inmates refer to a stint in to the Hole as "going to jail," because it's like prison, even to somebody who is actually used to prison. Did that make sense? You get the idea. The Hole is solitary confinement.

So why do I say that I live in the Hole? Allow me to explain. In the Hole, comforts of home are few and far between. You get a bed, four walls, and three square (or as I, and those born after aught-four call them, meals) a day. When you live in the Hole, you don't get any 400 channels like you do in the real world. Heck, you don't even get a TV. You can't even listen to the radio to check out the latest top-40 songs. Alas, my peeps, I live in the Hole. In my apartment I have:

1. No cable
2. No network TV
3. No FM radio

Unlike my good friends on lock-down, I do pick up AM radio, but AM radio is about as good for staying up on pop culture as a bowl of elephant pudding. What is elephant pudding? I don't know, you're the one with the Discovery Channel. Look it up!

So, because I am completely cut off (thank the good Lord) from popular culture while inside my apartment (A.K.A. the Hole, if you are just joining us), I seemed to have missed something very important. Apparently, there is some new device which alerts guys to when girls are turned on. Yes, that's right my friends, now you can take the guesswork out of picking up females (or as I like to call them, "the ladies") with a brand new contraption. It's called a lundy.

The lundy is also called the London London Bridge® . I am still not one hundred percent positive what a London London Bridge® (lundy) is, but I do know this: I want one for Tara. Keep reading, guys, and you will surely see the benefits of the lundy. Pretty soon, every guy is going to want to get one for his significant other (girls only, no homos please). The benefits are clear, as you will see. And guess what, Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas already has three lundies. At least, that is what I have to assume when she says the following:

"How come every time you come around/My London London Bridge® wanna go down/Like lundy lundy lundy wanna go down/like lundy lundy lundy!"

Clearly, Fergie has installed some sort of device which reacts to the presence of a particular male acquaintance. When this male person approaches Fergie, her "London London Bridge® ," or lundy, wanna go down. One could only assume that the lundy is named after the sound it makes when it goes down, and one could also only assume that Fergie is impersonating that sound with her lyrics. Otherwise, if this were not true, that would make the entire chorus of her debut solo song complete jibberish. Why would she want to make a song about a lundy if there is no such thing as a lundy? She's British--they are a rational bunch. It just would not make sense, people.

So I maintain that there is such a thing as a lundy, or London London Bridge® (same thing?), and that it is a type of alarm or alert system which, when triggered by arousal due to the arrival of a male, both wanna go down, and also wanna emit the siren-like noise, like lundy lundy lundy!

Naturally, the importance of an event such as the arrival of the lundy requires that we spread the word quickly. We can certainly thank Fergie, then, for doing her share. She wants to get the message out as soon as possible. That means she can't be bothered with things like creativity or originality, people. So what if her song sounds exactly like Gwen Stefani singing J-Kwon's "Tipsy?" So what if, in the intro of the song, when she says, "It's Fergie," she sounds just like an elderly man with bronchitis? She had to do these things so that YOU could be informed about the lundy! You should be thanking her, not writing wry, sarcastic-yet-witty weblog articles about her.

No longer, fellas, will we have to endlessly second guess ourselves. For example, the next time you take your best girl out for a night on the town, and you just aren't sure whether it's time to make that bold move of pulling the fake-stretch-but-really-putting-your-arm-around-her, just do what I do and click on your girl's lundy. Then, triumphant, you fake that stretch and put your arm across her shoulders. Then join in with the glorious song of the London London Bridge® , and sing, "lundy lundy lundy!"

fin

Get Addicted

2006-08-20T10:06:00.001-05:00

I do not remember how the habit started. I really don't. It might have been the fact that I have been living in isolation for the last twenty days, and I just wanted to hear a neighborly voice to console me while I supped in solitude at my small but classy apartment. Or, maybe, as I adjusted to the unfamiliar surroundings of a new city (read: a medium-to-small-sized village with a couple highrises), something deep inside me harkened back to the days of college when I turned into a die-hard neoconservative. Perhaps, it was just because my stereo, which is still kicking after ten years of use, only picks up AM stations. I do not recall the first time I turned it on, but I do know one thing now, and that is that I am hooked on talk radio.

Let me give you a little history (so that my degree will not go completely to waste). Long before the days of the so-called "internet," whatever that is, or seven billion cable channels (my favorite: al-Jazeera), there was only one form of "alternative media." I am referring, of course, to conservative talk radio shows.

In Harrisburg, all the big names are on one station, WHP 580. You've got your Rush, you've got your Sean Hannity, and you've got your Glenn Beck, who happens to be my personal favorite. These guys are all "conservative," and Rush and Hannity are gung-ho G.O.P. Glenn Beck? Well, he is a true American hero. Naturally, he thinks like me. If you liked the last article I wrote about the end of the world, you will probably like Glenn Beck. You can hear him talk about anything from sending his kids to college to the Connecticut Sentatorial race.
One of the best things about talk radio is the way the host segues from a serious and important topic, such as World War III, (or as I like to call it, Dubya-Dubya Eye Eye Eye), to a seemingly-just as earnest endorsement for corporate sponsors. Yes, talk radio has kept the old school style of commercial endorsement, thought to be a long deceased vestige of the days of Orphan Annie and Jack Benny, in which the host reports the endorsement in the first person, with as much gravitas as he would report a major news story. Want an example?

Talk Show Host: Clears Throat. "You know what is driving me absolutely insane this week? The absolutely worthless UN and their liberal, al-Qaeda-loving cronies in Washington. These people and their so-called cease fire is only allowing Hezbollah to regroup and wait for the signal from Iran to strike again. Everybody in America is going to die because of Bill Clinton, Algore, and the likes of Cindy Sheehan. Get those bomb shelters ready, folks, because it's bombs away USA! That reminds me, Sheryl and I just bought a Sleep Number Bed a couple of weeks ago, and I have to tell you, I have never slept better in my entire life. Trust me, after your first night you will want to set your old mattress on fire and back over it with your car, and then punch your old mattress salesman in the face for ever letting you sleep on anything other than the Sleep Number Bed. Now, I want to talk some more about Iraq...."

The absolute best thing about talk radio, however, is the unabashed way in which the hosts spew forth their own opinions. You can seriously listen to a whole four hour program about UFOs, nephilim, and parallel universes if you stay up late enough. Or, here in Harrisburg, you can listen to some washed up old-timey vaudville comedian congratulate himself on his successful career every 30 seconds in between news blurbs (that's going to be me someday, by the way).

Now you can see why I would get hooked on talk radio. And you will too, especially if you are into weblogs and such truck. So fire up the old Eveready and clear three hours from your schedule. Or you could read a book, but that's no fun.

New "College" Blog

2006-08-10T15:06:00.000-05:00

I finally started up the College living weblog. I will contact those of you who have asked to be co-authors and make you administrators, once I figure out how to do that. For everyone else, go to

www.college-living.blogspot.com

for the sweetest ride this side of Hershey Park.

fin

Michael Stipe Was Right!

2006-08-07T10:46:00.000-05:00

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. That's right, peeps, it's the end of the world as we know it. Catastrophic floods, tsunamis, city-destroying hurricanes, global government, oil running out, and every country sitting on the verge of WWIII--these are the things that characterize everyday life on Earth today. UFOs are running rampant in Mexico, the Discovery Channel and the History Channel have been running "What If" programs about mega-disasters, and crazed theme park owners have brought back to life massive carnivorous dinosaurs, which are learning how to open doors and terrorize young children in restaurant kitchens.

Of course, in the book of Matthew Jesus says that when we hear of "wars and rumors of wars," we should not be worried (he really stresses the whole "don't worry" thing throughout his ministry). However, it think it might be a good time for us (that's you, my faithful readers, and me, the King of the Internet) to take an in-depth look at just how doomsday is going to play out.

Basically, things are falling apart at the seams all over. Next, as if all this weren't enough, we have people out there who actually think that the war in Iraq is nothing more than a David Blaine (or perhaps Copperfield, if you prefer)-like diversion, distracting the American people of our true aim: invasion of Iran. In fact, these conspiracy wackos say, the rising "civil war" which seems to be developing over there is not characteristic of the region at all. Sure, the Sunnis and Shiites have never really gotten along, but they certainly have never been at each other's throats like this until the Brits and the Yankees got all up in their grills. The idea is that Western nations are purposefully stirring up dissension, and sometimes even creating it, in order to use the turmoil there as a stepping stone for invasion into Iran and a tighter grip on the whole Middle East. Personally, I think these people are crazy. However, if you want to read something interesting about the theory, click here and here (read the comments), and especially here.

There are clearly some people out there who have questioned our (and I use "our" loosely) motives for trucking off to Iraq from the very beginning. Personally, I hold two divergent (read: completely contradictory) views.

The first is this: whether or not Iraq is better off without Saddam (and of course it is), we should not be gallavanting all over the world saving the helpless until we make more of a concerted effort to clean up all the garbage going on domestically, and you can decide for yourself which problems I am talking about; there are a myriad. Like George Washington, I believe that Americans are best off when America avoids "entangling alliances" and basically tends to its own house.

The second view is this: we are an empire. Let us face the facts, fellow citizens. We are the Roman Empire, two thousand years later. We span the known world with our influence, our Latin (English) is the lingua franca of the globe, and even (read: especially) our methods of entertainment have permeated the furthest crevices of distant, foreign cultures. Therefore, when we invade and occupy other nations and countries, we are just doing what empires do. If invading Iraq is best for the American people, i.e. it is going to make our lives easier, then let's do it (hopefully without killing any innocent people, of course). If we need to take out the brazen Ayatollahs so that little Jenny and Jimmy can sleep better at night in their four bedroom two-story in Suburbia, USA, then let's take them all out (the Iranian leaders, not the sleeping kids). Because, let's also face the fact that no empire lasts forever. And when we do fall, we are going to fall hard.

So live it up, America. Maybe our time is almost up, or maybe Kim Jong-Il is going to nuke us tomorrow night. Either way, if you don't know Jesus as your Lord and Savior you're screwed anyway (from what I hear, the Lake of Fire is going to be way worse than any terrorist attack). The moral is: repent, believe, and be baptized, and don't worry about who is going to get to us first, a global warming-induced super tornado or the next Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.

Apocalyptically yours, until next time.

fin

Addendum: what would you, my future collaborators, prefer our new blog to be about, college living or current events, or perhaps some sick and ill-advised combination of the two? Perhaps we could each specialize? Let me know what you think, ladies and germs.

New Weblog Action!

2006-08-06T09:56:00.000-05:00

Since I mentioned the idea of starting up a new, collaborative weblog, I have gotten some pretty positive feedback. So, you might be wondering why I haven't done anything with it yet. Well, I am in the process of moving into my new apartment in the bustling metropolis of Harrisburg, and I do not have cable or the internet yet. Please bear with me and I will get the ball rolling within the next couple weeks (or possibly years), Lord Willing.

So far, Mitch, Shoa, and Patrick seem to be on board. How about the rest of you?

That's all for now.

fin

More Like VH-DUMB!!!!1

2006-07-22T01:38:00.000-05:00

Booty Booty Booty Booty Rockin' Everywhere! Those lyrics from my good personal friend Bubba "Advancer of Human Dignity" Sparxx remind me of the state of our popular culture. You see, unlike my other good personal friends, Keith and Andrew, I still have cable. Of course, that's because I do not pay for it, rather I gleefully mooch of the people who have so benevolently allowed me to live in their house like a gigantic termite or some sort of parasite for the last month. Yes, my good personal friends, I do have cable TV(or as I like to call it, Magic Fun Box), and therefore I can keep up-to-date on all the goings-on of our good personal celebrity friends like Nick Lachey, Flava Flav, and Matthew McConnegheighgheiygh (it's fine).

Tonight, as I was blissfully allowing Magic Fun Box to siphon my intelligence through my pupils like some crazy science experiment from a bad B movie, I chanced upon a delightful program (programme, for you crazy, dirty, more-letter-using Brits) on my favorite pulp-television channel, which of course is VH1. If you know VH1 as the home of fan favorites like "Pop-up Video" and "Behind the Music," then you haven't been watching your VH1s lately, mister. Let me bone you up on the details (there's an expression for you--what perv came up with that one?).

VH1 has all but abandoned its musical roots in favor of "Celebreality" (if you don't know, you don't wanna know) and pseudo-documentaries in which C- and D-list "celebrities" comment on everything from Rubick's Cubes to the latest hot celebrity couple nicknames, like Brangelina or Vaughniston (next up, Keithicoleurbman--if you can figure it out I'll give you ten bucks*). VH1 is now the prime portal through which one can gain insight into the workings of American pop culture, which rocks its proverbial booty everywhere right into your FACE as you watch (read: not a very good tie-in with the opening line, while trying to add some cohesiveness to the article; my bad). It was only about an hour ago that I was watching the latest, greatest series to hit the silver screen since "Best Week Ever." I am referring, of course, to "Web Junk 20."

I just have one thing to say about this show, and that is: if there is any better way to spend your time than surfing the internet looking for poorly recorded videos of teenagers bouncing off trampolines and landing on each other, it's watching some douche named Patrice Oneal on TV, commenting on the teenagers in good ol' ghetto-a$$ ghetto talkin'.

"Web Junk 20" features Patrice Oneal (best known as Cracka Azz Cracka, the racially confused wacky kid neighbor from the short-lived sitcom, "Fam'ly Mattas" (featuring Li'l Jon as the tragically divorced dad trying to raise his three girls and fit in in his newly-moved-into country-club community full of crackas with two room mate buddies--think "Full House" meets Erkel meets da Kings of Crunk) as the host. Tonight's episode was a classic, too. Patrice (a dude, by the way) would introduce the clip with some funny, outrageous one-liner, like, "What, couldn't that cat just use the litter box like every other mutha #$%*&* cat in the U-nited %^*&$ States of America?! I mean #@& #$%$!! And then as if that weren't hilarious enough, VH1 actually showed the clip, in three chopped up segments, in between which 'Trice offered more wacky commentary.

Tonight, Patrice brought the viewer's attention to a clip from Kirk Cameron's Christian themed talk show, in which an apologist (think explanation, not saying sorry) for creation science came on and used evidence from nature to argue that the world was created by a divine intelligence, or as we know him here in "the real world," Jesus.

The thing is, this guy used words like "insertion." What! This cracka-a$$-cracka's said insertion?! That's a dirty word! Now the best option we have is to completely dismiss everything else he says and start making gay jokes! Patrice then went on to call cucumbers, well, I really do not feel comfortable repeating it, since blasphemy is probably better left as minimized as possible. You get the idea, it's real classy.

So Keith, Andrew, and anyone else out there who does not have access to the Wonderful World of Ted Turner's Secularly Hedonistic Worldview (read: basic cable), woe is you. Woe is you, my friends, because you are missing out on a gem of a show in "Web Junk 20." Trust me when I tell you that "Temptation Island" and "elimiDATE" (yeah it has its own Wikipedia article) are but poor substitutes.

Till next time, keep watching the good stuff.

fin

*Sike! But seriously, can you figure it out?

Addendum: I want to start up a separate weblog about college living, with tips, advice, and stories from people who have actually survived four years of American post-secondary education. If you want to help me out as a co-writer, please let me know. My intent is for this to be a collabo, not just me. So Keith, Andrew, Shoa, Patrick, James, and anyone else who is a college grad and reading this right now, get on the stick and let me know!!!!11

One a Day and You'll Be Feeling Gay!

2006-07-10T17:40:00.000-05:00

I was at a training class for the homebuilder for whom I work, and came across this document entitled “Random Acts of Kindness.” It was one of those junk documents that is just used for teaching purposes. You are not supposed to read it; it’s really just filler, along with a few clip art pictures nobody would ever use.

Anyway, I started to read it, and I discovered that it really has some good advice inside. Inspired, I began to add my own contributions to the document. I thought it might be nice to share these ideas with you, my faithful readers. See if you can figure out which ones were already there, and which ones are mine. Here it is, a life-changing list of helpful hints called…

Random Acts of Kindness – 30 Ways to Brighten Somebody Else’s Day

1. Go to a local Laundromat and give out quarters to people washing and drying their clothes

2. Purchase a roll of quarters and head down to the downtown, business district. Walk through the parking lots and streets and when you see a meter expired or about to, pop in a quarter.

3. Go to the post office, pay for a stamp, and ask the postmaster to give it to the next person who comes to buy a single stamp. I've done this before and asked the next day what the reaction was. Sometimes it has made someone's day. Other times the person then pays for another stamp and passes it on. A lot of joy for 37 cents.

4. When in the grocery store, gas station, or other store, buy the cashier a pop or candy bar. You'll shock em, especially during very busy hours.

5. If you are asked to buy a candy bar, etc, for a fundraiser, either give the kid more $ than the product cost, and tell them to keep the change, or, if you're on a diet, ask them how much they cost, then hand them that and tell them to keep the candy.

6. If you know someone going through a hard time, secretly give them a flower or encouraging note.

7. When going through a fast-food drive-through window, pay enough to cover at least one more vehicle behind you.

8. Pack some extra cold drinks on your next road trip and stop and offer them to any working road crews.

9. Adopt a local elderly neighbor. Mow the yard. Do some house work. Spend some time in conversation. Check on him/her regularly.

10. Call the grocery store checker and bagger by name (they usually wear name tags) and thank and/or tip them for their help.

11. If you see somebody’s car has broken down on the side of the road, stop right in the middle of the lane and offer to help. Pay no attention to the cars which screech to a halt behind you; those people do not care about helping others. If they honk, back up into them and give them a good smash. That’ll teach ‘em.

12. Call the garbage collector by name, but not his own name. The last thing we want is friendly garbage men. Let’s keep them good and confused.

13. Next time you go on a road trip, pack a cooler full of cold beer. When you see a construction crew working with heavy machinery, and traffic slows a little, lean out the window and toss the fellows a couple of cold ones. Then drive away knowing you made the highway environment a little more exciting.

14. Spend a Saturday with a homeless person. This one is going to take some monetary investment and some prep time. Go out and buy a really nice, flashy pinstripe suit and fine hat from a haberdasher. Get two large, burlap sacks and paint dollar signs on them. Then, fill each sack with gold coins. Shine up your shoes really nice, because the point is to look rich. Now find a homeless person and follow him around all day, swaggering proudly with your moneybags clinking and jangling as you walk along. He will feel so happy and blessed to know that you are fortunate enough to afford all that wealth. It will make his day!

15. If you are handy with computers (read: nerd), create a ‘friendly’ virus and send it to everybody you know. Most computer viruses are hostile, but you can create one that does something nice. How about a virus that displays a nice, happy smiley face every time somebody turns their computer on? And then, every time they press a key or click the mouse, there’s another smiley! And they stay on the screen, so the person remembers to be happy all throughout the day. A monitor full of permanent happy faces, what fun! Intersperse some menacing devil-faces for extra fun.

16. Slide down the rubber handrail of the ‘up’ escalator when a lot of people are riding on it, and stick your legs straight out. People will love to be turned into human bowling pins!

17. If you know someone going through a hard time, forget about them. You don’t need that negativity bringing you down.

18. ‘Adopt’ an elderly neighbor. Offer to mow his lawn, help out around the house, etc. Then, actually adopt him. Be sure to file it through the local adoption agency so it’s official. Give him a new birth certificate with your last name, and you can even give him a new first name, too! Set up a baby’s room in the attic, complete with crib. If your adopted senior citizen misbehaves, send him to his room. Do not be afraid to spank, because you know what they say: spare the rod, spoil the elderly person.

19. Hand the tollbooth attendant your money then tell her you have a surprise for her. Reach into your pocket and pull out a handful of thumbtacks and staples. Toss them at her face and speed away. She will be very grateful for the helpful office supplies!

20. Switch out the blueprints at a construction site with your own, skewed version with angles everywhere and walls and stairs that lead to no where. Add an in-ground pool to the living room. Then watch with glee as the builders build a crazy house. They will love it!

21. Bring a jackhammer out onto a pond when it is frozen over and people are ice skating on it. Everyone will have fun guessing how many seconds you can jackhammer before you fall through the ice. How many people will you bring down with you? Make it a guessing game.

22. If you are asked to buy a candy bar for a fundraiser, confuse the child by giving him an odd amount, such as $37.63. Throw in a few Canadian dimes. Tell him he has ten seconds to figure out exact change or you want a refund. Enjoy your free candy bar as he runs away crying. You have just taught him a valuable life lesson: time to learn math, kid!

23. When going through a drive-thru window, take the food and keep driving. Give the person behind you a chance to do something nice for you, i.e. pay for your food. It will warm his heart. Write “THANKS” on his windshield with ketchup.

24. Head on down to the police station and write graffiti in somebody else’s name, such as “Bob Reilly hates the dirty po-pos.” Make sure it’s somebody you know, so you can include his phone number and address. Everybody loves a friendly visit from the police!

25. Offer to baby-sit for a married couple with young children. Encourage them to make extravagant plans and non-refundable reservations for Saturday night. Then teach them the value of family, call and cancel on Saturday afternoon, so they have to stay in. Parents should be home with their children, not gallivanting all over town on a Saturday night!

26. Order a big bouquet of flowers for a coworker signed, “Love, your secret admirer.” Wait till she gets good and excited. Soon all her girlfriends will be talking about the mystery man. When she can stand it no longer, tell her it was only you, so stop getting so excited. Knock the flowers off her desk and into the trash bin. It is good to help your coworkers stay grounded in reality, not off in the clouds somewhere with a fairy-tale romance. She will appreciate the gesture!

27. At the pool, jump from the high dive onto the low diving board, while somebody is on it. Landing on a kid who is about to dive can be entertaining for everybody!

28. Shave an encouraging message in somebody’s hair while they are asleep at the beach. What a surprise to find “YOU ARE GREAT” shaved into the back of their head when they wake up!

29. Find out your roommate’s password to his computer then change it while he is out of the room. When he asks you about it, deny any knowledge. Watch as he builds problem solving skills and develops character, making him a better person. After he calls tech support and gets a new password, change it again.

30. Kidnap somebody’s dog to show them how much they need to value the ones they love. Feed the dog well and return it after one day. Feel free to substitute “kid” for dog, if you can pull it off. (Note: this should probably not be done to a complete stranger, as family is more forgiving. Believe it or not, some people won’t recognize the value of this lesson immediately).

I hope you enjoyed this list. Let's all try for one a day, every day for a better tomorrow, and a better America for us all.

fin

You Can Do It All By Yourself, Let Me See You Do It

2006-07-04T23:05:00.000-05:00

George Washington is rolling in his grave right now. And do you want to know why? The reason George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, John Jay, and the rest of this great nation's founding fathers are rolling in their graves is because of what happened tonight. Some of you may know that yesterday was the Fourth of July (read: Independence Day, for you liberals who might not have known). Well, on this, what is supposed to be the greatest day for our country, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of a historic land. That's right, this year I had the privilege of spending the Fourth of July in beautiful eastern Pennsylvania, just a short drive from America's former capital, Philadelphia.

Since this was to be my first Independence Day in the actual "State of Independence," I was looking forward to a day to remember. So I called up my good friend and brother Chewy Chomp in Philly. Chadwick, as some call him, has always been proud of his city's former status as capital, and brings it up pretty regularly in conversation (e.g. "Today I went to Best Buy and bought an external hard drive. Speaking of things that are the best, Philly is the former capital and the greatest city ever!!!!!11") As you will soon see, I was a little disheartened by the attention this supposed patriot gave to America's birthday. Here is how our conversation went:

Me: Hello, my good man Chomp. Happy Fourth of July.
Chad: Oh hey, Chomp. Huh? What do you mean?
Me: Um, Chad, you know that today is Independence Day, right? It's the day that America's founders declared their freedom from the cruel and oppressive British government.
Chad: Oh, yeah, right. Happy Inde... all that stuff... Day.
Me: Yeah! So I was thinking I could drive up to Philly to celebrate with you and everyone up there. You know, watch fireworks, maybe light off a few ourselves. What do you say, brother?
Chad: Well, actually I think I am just going to go to bed instead. Have fun with all that though.

Yes, friends, you read that right. It was like he was not even aware of Fourth of July procedure. Everybody knows, or so I thought, that there is no "not going out" on the Fourth. We aren't talking about some little trivial holiday, like New Year's Eve or Veterans Day. This is the daddy of all Veterans Days. The Fourth of July is New Year's Eve, Memorial Day, Veterans Day, Presidents Day, Columbus Day, your own birthday, and Christmas (hey why not?) combined. I'm not trying to imply that the founding of America was more important than Christ's birth, just the most important event since Christ lived. Or how about since the first century. You know, I'm not the first person to ever say that. Seriously! We're important!

The worst part is, Chad was not the only person who seemed eerily undereager (that's under-eager, not under-ager, like my gorgeous, albeit cradle-robbed girlfriend) to celebrate Independence Day. No, he is only one of five people I talked to who said the same thing. To put that into perspective, I only know like six people who live out here. Maybe seven, but even still you get the point.

Ainsi, in defiance of the indifference I perceived all around me, I set out on a mission to celebrate the birth of our country the best way I knew how, which is sweatily surrounding myself with people I don't know and cheering loudly at huge explosions in the sky.

Yes, friends, I drove out, by myself, to bustling Lititz, Pennsylvania, home of the best fireworks show in these parts. I paid twelve fifty for admission and a strawberry banana Italian ice, and I got drenched. As soon as the fireworks show started, so did the rain. I ruined a new shirt, damaged my cell phone, soaked the contents of my wallet, and walked through ankle-deep mud to get out of my car. And so did hundreds of other people who came out to celebrate this great, crazy place we call the United States of America.

So, there is hope for Pennsylvania. and maybe, just maybe, there is hope for this crazy land we all call the good ol' U.S. of A.

But probably not.

fin

Addendum: Next time I want to write about how PA roads are terrible, apparently no matter what part of the state one is in. The roads are treacherous! Also, tonight I had fog on both sides of my windshield while I was driving on said roads. That, people, is a physical impossibility. Thanks, PA.

No Habla eSPPañol

2006-06-30T09:06:00.000-05:00

You know, people always tell me things like, "Joel, you're too patriotic," and "Joel, you're such an asset to this country," and, "Joel, you're a Yankee Doodle Dandy." That last one was my uncle Robby, right before he fell backward into the above-ground pool. He had been hitting the sauce that day.

Well, friends, it is true. I have three interests in life, and they are truth, justice, and the American way. Seriously--you can check out my Facebook profile and see for yourself! It is those three loves, readers, which compel me to write this article about the North American Union. Now, I know what you're thinking. "Poppa Joely, how do you get your hair to have such lustrous, full-bodied curls?" But this is no time for discussing my caucasiafro (new word--just invented it), people. We have serious matters to discuss, and the issue on the table is a little thing called the Security and Prosperity Partnership Of North America. Huh? The Security and Prosperity Partnership of North America (SPP for short) is a political agreement that representatives from three major North American nations came together to draft in March of 2005. Those three parties were, of course, Mexico, Canada, and my personal favorite, the U S of A (I am guessing Honduras did not make the cut).

Now, the implications of this are apparent to any Bible-believing, conspiracy-chasing conservative like me. However, the underlying theme here might not be so apparent to all you devil-worshipping, big-government-loving liberal pinko commies who so avidly read my little publication.

According to the official, SPP website, the Security and Prosperity Partnership Of North America is, "a trilateral effort to increase security and enhance prosperity among the United States, Canada and Mexico through greater cooperation and information sharing." Now, I want everyone who thinks that the prosperity of the United States can be "enhanced" by contributions from Mexico to raise his or her hand. I'm looking out there into Cyberspace, and I do not see any hands raised. Exactly. Also, what is all this talk about increasing security? When was the last time you heard of somebody trying to up security by diminishing his borders? That would be analogous to saying you want your block to be more secure, so you are all going to agree to leave your doors and windows unlocked at night. Why should you trust your neighbors? Why should we trust Mexico and Canada?

That is a good question, and here is the official answer (keep in mind that these are representatives from our country, the "Land of the Free," initiating this):

This trilateral initiative is premised on our security and our economic prosperity being mutually reinforcing. The SPP recognizes that our three great nations are bound by a shared belief in freedom, economic opportunity, and strong democratic institutions.

Yes, so true. Clearly, the drug cartels of Latin America have a strong vested interest in American security and economic prosperity. Hey, why not remove that pesky border entirely, and we can all have a great big coke party!

Also, Dude: our three nations are suddenly "bound by a shared belief" in something? If a guy came up to me on the street and told me that we had something really important in common with nearly-socialist Canada and nearly-Third World Mexico, I might look at him skeptically. If that guy then told me that that something was "a shared belief in freedom... and strong democratic institutions," I would promptly give that guy a democratic punch right in the face. Come on, guys. Mexico, of all places, does not have a strong belief in democracy. I mean, sure, maybe they believe in democracy the way some people believe in, say, the South Pole. It exists, but I am never going to see it. Yet to imply that Mexico is "strongly democratic" is an outright fallacy. Everybody knows that Mexico is steeped in corruption. What do we have to gain by joining with them--are we not corrupt enough yet?

That is the fear that opponents (like me, obviously) have with the SPP; it will lead to a North American Union with the aim of competing with the European version. Look at the SPP website again. Notice the wording of the third paragraph. This organization provides the framework to ensure that North America is the safest and best place to be. Screw those Europeans, we want to be the best! American citizens never mind the fact that the European Union was created in the first place to compete with the United States. Now we want to be bigger and better too. How do we do that, by turning our attention inward, promoting small businesses and encouraging an entrepreneurial ownership society? Nope. We get bigger and better by annexing two other countries. Why didn't the founding fathers think of that?

Before I close, I would like to direct your attention to the Wikipedia article on the North American Union. Check out the section entitled Current debate. Notice who is dissenting: Americans are worried about violating the Constitution and losing sovereignty, and Canadians are worried about being completely absorbed by the US (it's going to happen eventually, so get used to the idea, crazy canucks). Who is the only country 100% gung ho about the idea? (Drumroll please) Mexico! Of course Mexico is not complaining. Their biggest export to this country is human beings. I just feel sorry for all those poor schmoes who risked life and limb to illegally immigrate here. Imagine crawling on your hands and knees for one hundred miles in the desert toward a better life, and then all the sudden your leader (read: ruler) makes a law that says you could have taken the next Trans-border Immigration Bus down the Supranational Highway Express. Think about it.

So now you know about the SPP. The next time you hear somebody complaining about all the illegal Mexicans we have in our country, just turn and say, "Hey, you watch the way you speak about my fellow North Americans." Then go jump off the nearest bridge.

fin

Just Hold On a Second!

2006-06-21T16:51:00.000-05:00

Man, are you people greedy! I mean I leave for like one week and everybody gets all up-in-arms and stops visiting my weblog. You know, some of us have very busy lives that involve moving permanently another state, starting a job, and screeching on our brakes to avoid hitting an idiot deer that intentionally jumped out in front of my car while I was driving through horrible Maryland.

Speaking of which, I have a lot to tell you folks about. They are as follows, and will be included in my upcoming articles (for which you are just going to have to wait a little longer, stinky-pants).

1. Deer are retarded, plain and simple.

2. We should kill all deer before they kill us.

3. Maryland is nice, if you like riding on rollercoasters that you have to actually drive on, risking both life and limb.

4. I know nothing about selling new homes, but I am doing that for a living now.

5. Hotspots for Lancaster County nightlife (for example, the local pig farm and the manure pile).

6. Why I hate deer.

7. The many reasons dogs are way better than cats (which will always try to gouge your eyes out--even the nice ones eventually do this at least once).

8. A man's guide to taking a leak at a bar or party.

9. And last but certainly not least, Deer Suck.

Now, I really hope this pseudo-article is going to be enough to tide you beautiful babies over until I have some time to write a respectable one. And hey, you know what, Shoa? You could just write a guest piece for me. It would get your name out there, save me some work, and generally make us look good (like we need help).

Till next time, jerks!

fin

Flickr Pics

2006-06-13T03:24:00.000-05:00

Take a look at some cool pictures my friends and I took, and comment so I know you stopped by.

Stuff and Words

2006-06-13T00:28:00.000-05:00

(Title dedicated to the Pan Sophic Club's Old Guard--look it up on Wikipedia).

On Monday June 12, 2006, the unprecedented happened. "You Better Believe It" reached thirty-three visitors. And the really impressive part is that only two of them were me checking in at various times! That means that, in the course of the twenty-four hours from 12:01 AM to 11:59 PM on June 12, thirty-one people visited my humble online abode. Sure, we had a few repeat visitors. And we also had some people accidentally show up while searching for some other, crazier things.

You know what? I had a couple ideas in mind for this article. First, I was going to do a plug/promotion (unsolicited, mind you) for Jay Mathes. Jay Mathes is a local Chicagoland musician and a personal friend of mine. He is really good, and you should check him out. The next thing about which I was going to write (and probably still will) is the fact that, although my starting salary at the homebuilder for whom I work should be more than enough to cover payments on a really nice car and apartment, I am actually going to get stuck with not-so-good, thanks to Ol' Uncle Sam sticking his grubby hands in my wallet.

While these would have made for great themes, instead I just now decided to do something a little different, and important (read: completely self-referential and self-aggrandizing). I am going to show you people how...you people... wind up on my weblog. Sure, many of you come through my Facebook profile, and I know there are a few from Myspace, as well as my link on www.Sexy_Mustachioed_Suburban_GoatHerders.net. Oh, and hello to everyone from Patrick's weblog. Patrick hooked me up with a great shout out. His stuff is really good, like mine. You should check it out (People : Places : Things--look to the right by the links and stuff).

But the real freaks are the ones that are sneakily sneaking their way across the sneaky World Wide Web (how long since you've seen that one?) sneakily in search of really wacked out, and sometimes seriously perverted things. These folks--can't you just picture them?--are carousing their way through Google and other search engines, thinking that nobody is watching them. You see, what a search engine does, as far as I can tell, is it combs various websites looking for key words (or as I call them, "keywords") and phrases, and then provides the inquirer with a list of sites that could potentially contain that for which he or she is looking. Sometimes, people search for crazy crap that no self-respecting person should ever expect to see on a website. This type of folk usually winds up clicking on some link to a site completely unrelated to what they were searching for, except for maybe a couple words that Google (or whatever) picked up. Luckily for them, they think nobody knows they searched for that, because nobody can see them. They go on their merry way to a less-perverted site. Well, thanks to the little ticker I sneakily put on the bottom of my sneaky weblog, I can do exactly that (see them, not search for perverted stuff)!

I have scoured my database, going all the way back to January 21, 2006, and have found some real jewels. So now I present to you, my thirty-some readers, the official list, in no particular order, of...

BEST THINGS PEOPLE WHO VISIT THIS SITE HAVE SEARCHED FOR!! (with commentary!):

1. '[Censored]* development' [I actually am the #1 result on Google for this phrase--crazy right?]

2. 'grove city college ain't she sweet' [I guess it's maybe like an old Appalachian song or something. What "Ain't She Sweet" has to do with GCC I have no clue.]

3. 'confederate states of america TATTOOS' [the capital letters let Yahoo know that you mean business! How the heck did you wind up at my site?!]

4. 'joel and tara' [apparently my girlfriend and I are FAMOUS (note the caps--I mean business)]

5. 'semi trucks' [Yes! "You Better Believe It" comes in at numba two! And the article isn't even up any more; I put it on Keith and Andrew's weblog. They are ranked top five for this one, by the way. Good stuff.]

6. '"nude" "abercrombie" "male"' [I cannot tell you how ashamed it makes me that a search like that links to me OH HOT DIGGITY CRAP I AM THE FIRST RESULT! NOOOO!! Oh, and the article it links to is called "The Irresistible Call of the Moose." What the heck did that guy think it was referring to when he clicked on that? I tell you, there are some sick people out there. Sick, I tells ya.]

Oh well. Anyway, it looks like my list has been cut short because my tracker (or as I like to call it, Mr. Roboto-Counting-Helper-San) only lets me see the last hundred visitors. Unfortunately, I am so unbelievably popular that that gives me like three days to work with. So change my aforementioned January 21 and make it a June 9, and nobody goes home sad.

But since I feel like I gypped (enjoy the racial slur) you guys a little bit, maybe I can at least entertain you by telling you the coolest places from which the last hundred people have visited. Enjoy these, and then you kids need to go to bed. I don't care what time Jonny's parents let him stay up till. As long as you live under my house, you will obey my rules. Because that's the way it is. Now fetch me my slippers and pipe!

SETTECASE WOULD LIKE TO WELCOME VISITORS FROM THE FOLLOWING SWEET LOCATIONS:

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
Chihuahua, Mexico
Consett, Gateshead, United Kingdom
Bucaramanga, Santander, Colombia
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Chavannes, Vaud, Switzerland
Madrid, Spain
(Unspecified), Japan
Marlia, Sao Paulo, Brazil
Christchurch, New Zealand
Akron, Ohio (I hear it's beautiful there)
And last but not least (actually probably least), the city-state of Singapore!

I have had visitors from every continent except Antarctica and Atlantis (or as I like to call it, Hotlantis). I'm sure most of those people arrived here by accident, but it still makes me wonder that people from the far stretches of the earth, in places I will never visit, can sift through the trillions upon trillions of bits of data out there in cyberspace and finally arrive here, to read what I, Poppa Joely, have to say about things like ringworm, dog poop, and semi trucks...hmm, maybe its time to consider some weightier subject matter?

And that concludes our broadcast day, loving (tolerating?) readers. But first, one more thing. Just for you freak-lovers, let's see how many people I can draw in from search engines with this one:

"THIS IS YOUR HOME BASE FOR SEXY MUSTACHIOED SUBURBAN GOAT HERDERS!!! ALL THE SEXY MUSTACHIOED SUBURBAN GOAT HERDERS YOU CAN HANDLE!!!!!111!1!1123!6!!n!

fin

Addendum: no sooner did I finish writing this article, than somebody from Melbourne, Australia landed on my weblog from Google. And for what was it he searched? "Ubulus dorsimus!" I do not know about you, I think but anybody who is a fan of Will Ferrell should find that awesome. "You've got your ubulus muscle, connected to your upper dorsimus. It's boring, but, it's a part of my life."

*Name of builder has been removed.

Featured On Wikipedia

2006-06-11T01:51:00.000-05:00

You Better Believe It has just been featured on Wikipedia. Check it out; go to the main page and type "You Better Believe It" in the search box toward the left. See to what levels my ego will take me!

Party like it's 1299!

2006-06-10T20:30:00.000-05:00

Well, it had to happen some time. It seems that the big telecom corporations (e.g. AT&T, Verizon and BellSouth) are trying to take over the internet. If they get their way, bandwith will be meted out according to who pays the most money (to the telecom companies). Everyone is up in arms about this. In fact, there are a few coalitions being formed out there.

What's the big deal? If you ask me, there isn't one. So the heads of these big corporations want to put a little extra cash in their pockets. Don't they have kids to feed, just like every other Joe America out there?

Maybe David Dorman and Ivan Seidenberg are just old-fashioned. You know, it was not too long ago, across the pond, that those wonderful Brits developed a wonderful way of life which we wonderfully call feudalism. In this system, benevolent lords would grant portions of land to vassals, who would in return provide the lords with military service. Messeurs Dorman and Seidenberg are like the lords, sitting high atop their plush leather thrones in their castles, gazing down upon their fiefdoms. Only, these men do not require military service from their vassals (website operators, small businesses, and bloggers like me). Rather, in return for high amounts of bandwith (read: accessibility), they require nothing more than large sums of money. Surely you will agree that giving a little (read: a lot) of your hard-earned American greenbacks for the ability to be seen online by thousands of people is really nothing more than reasonable. I mean, sure, we get that now for free. But would we not appreciate it more if it cost us a little something...extra?

I don't know about you, but I trust CEOs like Dorman and Seidenberg to tell me what I should watch and read on the internet. It is high time that somebody took control and suppressed all those two-bit hacks, amateurs, and nogoodniks with nothing to say worth reading.

So here is your chance to take a stand, faithful readers. Fight to end so-called "internet neutrality!" Help Dorman and Seidenberg take away your right to choose how you get your information. Because, let's face it: reading my weblog is only the first step toward abusing that right.

For those of you who do not agree with me (impossible), do yourself a favor. Run a Google search on "Internet Neutrality" and see what you come up with. There is a bill currently making its way through the Senate. It could not hurt to contact your Senator and let him or her know how you feel (I did). Call 202-224-3121, which is the Capitol switchboard in Washington, D.C.

fin

Addendum: Here is a video with some crazy, ridiculous points of view to which you should not listen. The internet must be controlled, and telecoms are the ones who need to do it. Do not listen to Moby; he's a vegan (and they are seriously crazy). For the record, you people who know me know that I am about as free-market, laissez-faire kinda guy as you can get. But I really, really like the internet. Call me crazy.

Instant Messaging Our Way to a Better Tomorrow

2006-06-09T14:50:00.001-05:00

Don't hate me.
"But Poppa Joely," you say, "How could anybody feel even the slightest bit of dislike for you, let alone--the H-word (hydrogen) (no, wait, it's hate. My bad)?!"

Well, you see it's like this. My last article was a cut-and-paste from myspace. And my next article, which you are about to read, is going to be a cut-and-paste from IM. Screen names have been changed to protect the innocent. However, as you read along, I am sure you will see that the person to whom I am talking is anything but.

Won't you join me, now, as I take you on a magical journey all through the wonderful world that is the college/young adult American mindset? Be sure to wear a helmet, because it is going to get rough.

The following conversation occurred from 2:18-2:46PM on Friday, June 9th, 2006. Somehow, me and my friend Sally (not her real name) got to talking about sex. What a perfect time for me to flex a little self-righteous obnoxiality (it has been a while since I made up a new word)!

Here we go...

Girl (2:18:45 PM): hey
ChiTown 2 PA: Hi, what's up
Girl: not much u home for the summer?
ChiTown 2 PA: well, not exactly
ChiTown 2 PA: I am home for another week or so, then I move to PA for good
Girl: that'll be fun
ChiTown 2 PA: I mean what's up with you?
Girl: not a whole lot chillin at my dads
Girl: been helping him out

...
Girl: seriously my dad doesnt like my bf [...] my dad doesnt like anyone
ChiTown 2 PA: oh really, your dad would have liked me. Dad's love me.
Girl: i am serious he wouldnt have liked u

...

Girl: haha. its bad my parents know me and my bf have sex
ChiTown 2 PA: well then stop having sex
Girl: haha no
Girl: if they only knew how much sex we have then they'd really be pissed

[The conversation turns to the idea of abstinence and saving one's self for one's spouse.]

...

Girl: but i mean it would suck honestly to only have had sex with 1 person ur whole life, bc then u wouldnt know if it was good or not.
ChiTown 2 PA: wow [...] you have a very warped view on sex
Girl: i mean if the sex sucks then it's gonna be hard on the relationship honestly it will be
Girl: i've only slept with 5 people
ChiTown 2 PA: WAAAARPED

...

ChiTown 2 PA: Because, the point of sex is to create kids and fulfill physical, emotional, and spiritual needs in a consentual, mutually-reassuring, permanent relationship. So it doesn't matter how good the sex is, because if it's with someone you love and are committed to for the rest of your life, then you have all the time in the world to work on the quality.
Girl: haha yeah but that sucks

...

ChiTown 2 PA: When you take it out of that environment, it becomes dangerous, physically and emotionally.
Girl: um not really
ChiTown 2 PA: It's like fire. Fire is good when it's in the fireplace. But when it spreads all over your hardwood floor in your living room, you have a problem [...] Yeah, you definitely have a warped view

...

Girl: well most people think the way i think. most people arent virgins [...] bc yeah having one person ur entire life and not knowing if its good or not that just sucks
ChiTown 2 PA: maybe your sex will never be as good as mine, because you cheapen it. Mine will probably not be the best at first, just like yours wasn't at first. The difference is, when I am banging my wife, I won't be thinking about anybody else.
Girl: haha yeah right. so what do u think of porn stars then? they have lots of sex
ChiTown 2 PA: Oh, really? I didn't know that. Thanks [...] I am going to put this conversation in my weblog. This is going to be my next article
Girl: haha well i hope u keep my name out of it
ChiTown 2 PA: And as far as most people thinking your way, most people are wrong. Have you ever heard of Nazi Germany?

...

ChiTown 2 PA: haha but seriously, that's enough talk about sex. Clearly I am right.
Girl: haha no ur not. most college students and young adults would agree
ChiTown 2 PA: Are you serious? Did you just read what I wrote? It's perspectives like yours that are making society what it is today.

...

ChiTown 2 PA: My grammar is better, therefore I am more credible.
Girl: haha yeah right i am talking to u on AIM, no one cares about grammar on aim. if i wrote a paper i guarentee u my grammer is better than urs
ChiTown 2 PA: Maybe if "urs" was a word, I would be able to understand what you just wrote. But that's neither here nor there.
Girl: yeah and that's how society thinks and that's how it's going to be....good luck trying to change it
ChiTown 2 PA: I don't need to change it, if I am doing everything I can to live my life the right way.
Girl: haha define right way, what is the right way for you may not be the right way for another person.

...

[Then we got into a five minute discussion on moral relativism before she put up an away message.]

Clearly, the moral of this conversation can be summed up in my closing words to my friend, in between away messages:

ChiTown 2 PA (2:46:10 PM): Virgins are people too!

fin

The Survey

2006-06-04T18:13:00.000-05:00

For those of you who have a Myspace account (read: huge waste of time), you may have seen a certain document floating around called "About Me: The Survey." It is the stuff of the old email chain-letters, which you do not really see anymore (my theory: Myspace has helped clear a lot of the garbage out of my email inbox--perhaps more on this later). Well, in the mad rush to define one's self, somebody came up with this "survey," and I figured I would give it a whirl. Keep in mind that these answers are off the top of my head, but I tried to be as honest and forthright as I could.

So here it is, readers (if you are out there, comment--I need validation), a chance to get to know a little more about Poppa Joely. I have reproduced it exactly, spelling and grammatical errors included.

Let me know what you think.

TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF - The Survey

Name: Joel

Birthday: suit

Birthplace: of Abraham Lincoln: Illinois

Current Location: where you are now::future location: where you will be

Eye Color: Gooey Bluey

Hair Color: Medium Fluffy Brown

Height: Taller than you can imagine

Right Handed or Left Handed: More right handed than you can ever contemplate

Your Heritage: is more diverse than you could possibly fathom

The Shoes You Wore Today: Chuck Taylors

Your Weakness: I am too awesome for words, and that leads to difficulties when people try to describe me. My bad!

Your Fears: Growing my fingernails so long that they curve back around and gouge out my EYES

Your Perfect Pizza: Microwavable with Chicago deep-dish quality, and topped with a HUMAN HEAD!!!!!1!11one12211

Goal You Would Like To Achieve This Year: Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooollll!

Your Most Overused Phrase On an instant messenger: "Seriously, please sign off and call 911--my house is burning down and I'm going to die"
haha, yeah, okay pal.

Thoughts First Waking Up: Is it only three in the morning?! Oh wait, it's the afternoon.

Your Best Physical Feature: My ubulus muscle, connected to my upper dorsimus. It's boring. But, it's a part of my life.

Your Bedtime: (story): The Little Engine That Could...KILL!

Your Most Missed Memory: That time me and Prince had a dance-off.

Pepsi or Coke: Pepscoke

MacDonalds or Burger King: McBurg Doner Kingalds

Single or Group Dates: Me with tons of girls, whatever that is.

Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Lipton to wake me up in the morning, Nestea to refresh me after I have JUST KILLED A MAN

Chocolate or Vanilla: Vanocolate

Cappuccino or Coffee: Cappuccino when I'm out with my friends, coffee to make me chipper after I JUST JUMPED OUT A FIFTH-FLOOR WINDOW AND INTENTIONALLY LANDED ON A KID!!!

Do you Smoke: Yeah, I smoke. YOU. On the basketball court, home boy!

Do you Swear: Only in court, and only on the Good Book. And only right before I commit perjury. Hey justice system, ZING!

Do you Sing: Dooby dooby dooo

Do you Shower Daily: Define "daily"

Have you Been in Love: If by "been" you mean "am right now," then yes.

Do you want to go to College: Considering I just got out... wait, is this survey for young kids? Shoot, I'm old and dumb.

Do you want to get Married: Yeah, but my my college skills are telling me that you should not have capitalized the word married.

Do you belive in yourself: Yes, usually two or three times a week. Wait, what does "belive" mean?

Do you get Motion Sickness: Yeah all the time! Like on Tuesday morning, when I was spinning around in circles furiously while eating limburger cheese, watching a show about people puking, and drinking heavily. Is that like motion sickness?

Do you think you are Attractive: It's not so much me as everyone else thinks that.

Are you a Health Freak: Haha, sounds like some sort of villian. Oh no, kids, run! It's the hideously deformed HEALTH FREAK!!! WHAT A FREAK! HE'S SO FREAKISHLY DEFORMED!!!

Do you get along with your Parents: As long as I am a good boy and eat my greens.

Do you like Thunderstorms: As long as lightning doesn't strike me in the eye, again.

Do you play an Instrument: Drums, piano, and vocal cords. I mean I literally pluck my vocal cords and sound comes out.

In the past month have you Drank Alcohol: It's pretty sweet. It's like playing the guitar only with more twang.

In the past month have you Smoked: TWANG!!!

In the past month have you been on Drugs: I have been clean and sober for twelve SECONDS

In the past month have you gone on a Date: have you seen my girlfriend?! She's real hot so you better believe I've been going on dates.

In the past month have you gone to a Mall: Yes aNd I ALso CAPitALizEd MaNY letTerS inApproPRIAteLY. Stop messing up the capitalization!

In the past month have you eaten a box of Oreos: Yes. I took them out of the plastic package they come in, put them in a box (?), and then ate the whole box-full.

In the past month have you eaten Sushi: I grabbed a carp out of a pond with my bare hands and bit off its gills.

In the past month have you been on Stage: In a recurring bad dream I have about high school theater, yes. Or did you mean like in reality?

In the past month have you been Dumped: Never have I

In the past month have you gone Skinny Dipping: Never have I

In the past month have you Stolen Anything: I stole away in the night... after PILFERING THE BLACK PEARL OF ISTANBUL!

Ever been Drunk: yes but we call it "dreeze to the meez, because it sounds better"

Ever been called a Tease: You must mean a "Teeze to the Meeze." And yes I have. To the meeze!

Ever been Beaten up: I have been hit.... on... by YO MOMMA!

Ever Shoplifted: Never have I

How do you want to Die: Fall out of a helicopter and land on the Empire State Building ON MY EYE

What do you want to be when you Grow Up: I wanted to be a pro soccer player or lawyer. So much for that. Thanks a lot, Life.

What country would you most like to Visit: The Confederate States of America

In a Boy/Girl..

Favourite Eye Color: Blue or gray, or possibly brown. Red? I hate being colorblind.

Favourite Hair Color: blonde (see previous)

Short or Long Hair: long, with bangs that take forever to grow out, but when they do they look spectacular

Height: 5' 3 3/4" exactly. If a girl isn't five-three-and-three-quarters precisely, she better hit the bricks because, honey, Poppa Joely ain't got no time fo dat (I really hope now that that is Tara's height....)

Weight: light for me to toss around

Best Clothing Style: College prep with an Asian flare

Number of Drugs I have taken: One hundred billion

Number of CDs I own: Eleventy Billion

Number of Piercings: Quintuplety Jillion

Number of Tattoos: Ten Cotillion Smillion Rillion Dillion Chillion Centillion Googolplex

Number of things in my Past I Regret: At least three

Guest Spot Announced!

2006-06-02T15:49:00.000-05:00

Attention, minions (friends?)! In a groundbreaking (inconsequential) move, I have recently (three days ago) put my creative (overrated) skills to good use (for a change). "Keith and Andrew Strike Back" now features a guest article by Yours Truely, Poppa Joely himself. So check it out. It's about semi trucks, and let me tell you, this guest-author thing is going to be HUGE!!!

It's going to be HUGE!!!

fin

(Author's note: if any of you reading this have weblogs which you think could use a little extra flare, pizzazz, or possibly pinanche, just let me know and we can talk about me adding a supplemental article to your weblog. You name the topic! Yes, I'm whoring myself out, it's true.)

Hell is a Harrisburg Highway, Part II: Chubby Rain

2006-06-02T15:07:00.000-05:00

Alright, the title of this one has nothing to do with the next part of the story, but if you have seen "Bowfinger" you will appreciate the reference. What a great movie.

And now: the thrilling conclusion!

I cleared my throat and we began the interview. Lisa, my interviewer, fired at me a series of questions. The room shook with thunder as I whipped back with lightning-quick answers that lit up her mind and blew her back in her chair. It was as if a sudden flash of inspiration had struck me. I felt completely at ease, as if I was sitting calmly in the eye of a storm.

She asked, I answered. She questioned, I was confident. I joked, she laughed. It was brilliant! Finally, it came down to crunch time. We had been talking for a good half hour, and then we arrived at the moment of truth. "Joel," she said, "if we offered you a job, when could you start?" My mind whirled. I thought about my broken car, my graduation party, my trip to the house of Young Tara Wagner, and a hundred other things I had coming up. I opened my mouth and said boldly: "Whenever you need me." Actually, I think I said, "Um, maybe mid-June?" She looked nonplussed (I think I am using that word correctly). However, she told me that the woman who had given me my first interview had put in such a good word for me, she was confident I would be a good fit. Then it happened: I was offered a job.

Outside, a flash, a roar, and the rain came a-pouring down. All of nature seemed to soak in the glory of my triumphant moment in the sun. Speaking of the sun, the clouds exhausted their tanks and ran dry. They evaporated and revealed a dazzling blue expanse (yes that's right, kids, you can say dazzling and not even like dudes).

"Thank you, Lisa," I grinned and shook her hand. Then, something incredible happened. Not only did the rain clear up, but everything else seemed to clear up as well. The rest of that day, I...
1. Got free sandwiches, cake, chips, and pop from the model home kitchen

2. Spun a prize wheel and won a huge Boyd's teddy bear (which I naturally used to procure smooches from the Pretty Miss Tara Lynn later in the week)

3. Got to visit Chocolate World in Hershey, PA--a place where they literally give away FREE CANDY. Poppa Joely likey.

4. Watched as clouds actually parted above our heads as we drove home in Phillips' car

5. And this was the kicker: caught money as it rained down from the sky. You read that right. We were walking up to the entrance of Target, when I looked up and saw three dollar bills (or as I like to call them, "Cash Money Dollas") floating in the air. One wafted right above my head, and I reached up and grabbed it. Yeah, you know it's a good day when God sends you money from heaven (Note: I didn't get the other two; greedy cart-pusher boys greedily snagged those with much greed). It was incredible.

So, the moral of this tale is three-fold. First off, don't buy a car for less than $900 if you want to not get stuck in a foreign state for a week. Secondly, il faut qu'on croyer que Dieu a les choses bonnes pour ses enfants, pendent en particulier les temps dificile. That's French for, "I just got TREATED!!!"

fin

Semi Truck Rant

2006-06-01T15:29:00.000-05:00

I try to avoid blantant ranting on my own weblog, but every once in a while, duty compels me to go against my beliefs. And when Keith and Andrew asked me to do a guest spot for theirs, I had to man up, strap on a pair, and get mah RANT on, mutha truckas.

So in the spirit of fighting back, here we go, and just remember the number one rule about reading an article from Poppa Joely: YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT! Ha! Get it? Because that is the name of my weblog. It's the title, and I was using it as a tag...line... ha... okay.

Semi trucks are great. That is, they are great if you like enormous, awkward, lumbering box-things that cannot make a turn, veer into your lane around a curve, spray jets of water at your windshield, blinding you when it rains, and could literally roll over your Satneovalier (or in my case a 1995 Pontiac Grand Am with a leaky heater core) and not even think twice about it—or even realize it! So yes, semi trucks are wonderful, if you are into that sort of thing.

Personally, I am not. Now, we have all seen the slogan, “Without trucks, America stops.” Of course you have probably never seen this slogan anywhere else than on a sticker on the back of a semi truck itself. I take issue with the slogan, myself. I prefer this version: “Without trucks, America doesn’t have to awkwardly back up to make way and then crash into cars behind and around it.” Please, let me explain.

The other day/week/month/whatev, I was driving a fraternity brother’s pickup truck to the bank in town (not National City—I loath National City). For those of you who are familiar with the G.C.C. area, you know the stop sign down by the police station on the way into town. And you also know that it is a pretty wide intersection. Plenty of room. But you also would probably agree that that is no place for any vehicle bigger than maybe a pickup truck or possibly a hummer. Maybe a tank, even. But seriously, no bigger than a tank, or you’re pushing it. Well, one unfortunate truck driver did not seem to get the memo that semis belong on the highway, not barreling through the narrow streets of small Pennsylvania villages.

Here is what happened: I was stopped at the red octagon, like any law-abiding driver, when, from the right, a huge semi truck comes chugging along. Quickly I realize that the driver intends to make a left turn. No problem, I thought, he wouldn’t even attempt that turn if he didn’t know he could make it with me sitting here. Wrong! Without so much as slowing down, this truck starts going at it. Um, dude, I said nervously. Dude, what are you doing… I’m sitting right here…. No dice, the driver must not have noticed my worried expression—or my fifteen hundred pound bright red and purple vehicle either. Understandable how he could miss that (?!). I realized quickly that I was going to have to back up fast or literally get run over.

I started to drive in reverse slowly, because there was another pickup right behind me, also stopped. He began backing up, and I sped up. I looked back the the front, and this truck was seriously inches from hitting me. At this point, it was either bump the guy behind me or get rolled over by an eighteen-wheeler. I hit the gas. Skreeeee—THUMP!!! That is what it sounds like to narrowly avoid death by semi truck. Flustered, embarrassed, and breathing heavily, I got out of Dave’s truck and walked over to survey the damage. The other driver was really nice about it. After we agreed that there was no harm done, we got in our trucks and continued our day. But the fact that there was “no harm done” is not the point here. The point is that semi trucks are rude, too big, clumsy, and inconsiderate. Their drivers seem to have concern neither for other people, nor human life in general. This is not the first time something like this has happened!

So, you get my point. I have long said that semi trucks are like fat guys in a crowd. Think about the metaphor, you’ll see what I mean. And you will agree, or I am going to get in a big rig right now and run over your house.

Let us stop the madness now, before it’s too late and people start to die. Horrible, grisly, semi truck-related deaths.

Obligatory disclaimer: I was talking to my dad about how I hated semis at a baseball game the other day, and he informed me that the man standing behind me was a truck driver. Of course, I felt like a huge chomp. So let me just say that I’m sure not all trucks are bad. I am sure there are many drivers out there who are courteous, kind, and considerate. To those men and women I would like to say, WHERE THE HECK HAVE YOU BEEN! PLEASE START DRIVING ON I-80 LIKE RIGHT NOW! BECAUSE YOU SURE AS HECK HAVEN’T BEEN THERE THE LAST FOUR YEARS OF MY LIFE!!!!1!11

Thank you.

fin

Hell is a Harrisburg Highway, Part I: The Leak

2006-06-01T14:09:00.000-05:00

Recently, I had the opportunity to visit lovely Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I had just graduated from G.C.C., and I planned on spending the next two days, Sunday and Monday, on the road. I was going to drive out to Harrisburg with Phillips, a pseudo-fraternity brother (long story), crash at his house, interview the next day, then drive back and spend a day with my g-to-the-f in scenic Akron, Ohio. Apparently, God had other plans. DUN-DUN-DUUUUUNNNN!

Here is the story of how the worst twenty-four hours of my life transformed into the most ludicrously great day ever:

Saturday, May 20, 2006:
10:00AM

I graduated from college. The commencement ceremony was pretty long, and afterward, I did the usual picture taking and celebration with my fraternity brothers, our families, girlfriends, et cetera (that's Latin for "keep reading this article"). Well, I could not really get too excited, because I knew that there was still a big job to be done: the packing up of my dorm room. For those of you who do not know me, I am not always the most organized person when it comes to my room. That combined with the fact that I have like nine trillion articles of clothing (not to be confused with Articles of Confederation) made for one very daunting task. Well, you would think that the day of one's graduation from college would be one for, perhaps, dining out with one's family and friends, perhaps getting one's self crunk (just kidding), or whatever (or as the kids say, "whatev"). Not so for me. My dad and brother helped out for a while, then they all left. My brother, sister, and mother drove back home, and my dad and grandma left to go look at gravesites in Pittsburgh (long story). I stayed and cleaned my room. The day was off to a great start.

4:30PM

I left Grove City College for the last time just before five o'clock, and made my way to Cranberry, PA which is an hour (along death-inspiring curves and perilously curving PA roads) away from Grove City (or as I like to call it, "the Grove"). Phillips and Deech (fraternity brother) met me in a Lowe's parking lot. We made the exchange, and Phillips and I started driving for Harrisburg. I briefly took notice of the fact that the puddles of rainwater on the floor of my vehicle had not evaporated yet, even though it hadn't rained in a few days. I accidentally dropped my cell phone in the puddle. Oh well, what harm could water do?

8:30PM

My stomach sank as I saw the flashing of red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. I opened my door, since my driver's-side window won't roll up or down (it is permanently one inch open--hence the rainwater), and greeted him. Long story short, he slapped me with a fine. "How much is this going to cost me, officer?" I asked. "Well, it's going to be one-five-eight." One five eight? Is that some sort of super trooper slang for "nothing" or possibly "five bucks?" Apparently, cops use the same numbering system as normal people, and it meant one hundred fifty-eight big ones (or as I like to call them, "clams")

8:32PM

My stomach sank as I saw the flashing of red and blue lights in my rear view--again. The same cop was pulling me over again. Oh come on!!!11!1 He pulled me over and told me that, while I was stopped last time, a puddle of anti-freeze had collected under my car. I mumbled a thank you, took a second look at the puddles on my floor and drove away.

10:00PM

Phillips and I arrived at his house after a lovely dinner at a greasy spoon restaurant, where I spoke French with some people from Benin. This part was not so bad.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

8:30AM

I woke up and realized I did not have the phone number of the woman who would be interviewing me. So we looked up the number for a neighboring development and got in our cars. We had only gone about a quarter mile when it hit me that I did not know where my really nice shoes were. I signaled to Phillips, who had been driving ahead of me, and we pulled over. As I rooted around in the back seat, Phillips came over and turned off my engine. I swung around and was about to punch his lights out with a mighty blow when I stopped, centimeters (or as I call them, "inches") from his cranium. "Why did you do that?" I asked. He told me that he saw smoke coming from under the hood of my car. Oh come on!!!11!1!1!!! No time to think. We piled in Phillips' car, stopped by his house so I could borrow his dad's shoes, and hit the road again. By this time it was 10:30, and my interview was in thirty minutes.

10:35AM

We drove to the development. It was the wrong one. In fact, it was not even a development by the right builder. So we called. Wrong number. We tried another one. The woman who answered knew my interviewer, and she put me through. Unfortunately, my phone died mid-conversation. Twice! I guess when you drop your phone in a PUDDLE OF ANTI-FREEZE it is not good for your phone (yeah that's right, I later discovered that leaked anti-freeze was pretending to be harmless rainwater for like three weeks. Sick, huh? Well, we finally got directions and headed for the highway. My interview was in like five minutes.

11:00AM

We took the wrong road. Apparently, the prodigies behind Harrisburg's highway planning designed two roads called 83. One of these goes south into York County and the promise of a better life. The other one veers off to the east, turns into another route, and then dies. There is no sign to tell this to drivers. Well, guess which one we took!

12:00AM

Already an hour late for my interview, we found the correct 83 and got crackin' for York.

1:00AM

Two hours late, I got to my interview. We pulled up to the model home, I brushed off my jacket, and I walked toward the door. A local radio station was camped out front, as part of a promotion. The two men working the table seemed to leer at me. Although it was only one in the afternoon, the sky above me was dark and ominous. Inside, I was slightly cringing. What was going to happen? Would she still even want to see me? Did I have any future with this builder? Would the Cubs sweep Cincinatti? All these questions raced through my mind as I took three hesitant steps up to the door....

to be continued

Hell is a Harrisburg Highway - THE NOTES!!1

2006-05-25T15:57:00.000-05:00

Okay, because I love you guys so much, and it has been a little while since I wrote an article on here, I thought I would let you know what I have been up to. Only I am not going to do it yet. As I write this, I am at the home of one Young Tara Wagner, in Ohio. I am the only one in the house, save her cat Trixie, to whom I have grown so attached, my tear ducts are beginning to well with emotion (read: I am allergic to cats). Right now, I have to go and take a shower and buy a toothbrush, so when Tara and her dad come home, it looks like I haven't wasted the entire day watching season one of Arrested Development (read: what a great day). Therefore, I do not have time to write a complete article, so I am going to do the unprecedented. In the history of "blogging," nobody has ever done this. And by nobody, I mean the only writer you need to worry about, me.

I present to you, my notes. Yes that's right, obsessive (mildly interested?) readers. Poppa Joely is going to give you a little behind-the-scenes look into how a weblog article is put together. Do not worry, soon these notes will make their way into a coherent story. However, that will have to happen another time, and possibly in another place (not really, it will be the same place. Don't you worry.)

So without further ado, in the words of that great Chi-Town Crooner...

"Now, usually I don't do this, but, go ahead on give 'em a li'l previews of the remix..."

Good-day/Bad-day

Day 1: Pick up Phillips in Cranberry. Drop phone in liquid puddle. What could possibly go wrong?

Speeding Ticket, pulled over twice, car leaking antifreeze, lost her number, looked up developments online

Day 2: Running Late, Phillips says he thinks he knows where it is

No shoes! Pull over. Phillips turns engine off. Smoke. Problem. Leave car. Head back to house. Get dad's shoes. Drive to development.

Wrong place! Head to office. Nobody home. Call development I thought it was. Play phone tag. Phone dies. call back, she contacts right lady. Phone dies again.

Get directions and hit the road, half hour late.

There are TWO 83s? Take a looping run. Call because we are lost. One hour late.

Two hours late... get there.

THINGS TURN AROUND.

Nice lady. Use upstairs office. Kicked out and moved downstairs, a guy environment. I like it, she knows it. Lynn put in such a good word for me, that Lisa thinks I will be a "good fit"

When can I let her know? ASAP! Go back outside. Radio station giveaways. I spin the wheel and win a teddy bear for Tara. Go to the supermarket. Money is FALLING FROM THE SKY!!!
go to CHOCOLATE WORLD

Spend two extra days in Harrisburg, thanks to crappy mechanic back home. Visit Gettysburg, play pool, visit with Chad.

Have a great time. Visit Tara for two days. All in all, a great trip (provided I can make it home safely now)...

The "No Big Deal"

2006-05-14T18:27:00.000-05:00

Once again, this is an assignment for my writing class. Am I copping out? Maybe. Juuust maybe. But enjoy it anyway.

“Hey, man, what does this look like to you?” I asked Justin with just a hint of nervousness in my voice. I was holding up my elbow for him to examine. He leaned back from the front seat and replied with a squint, “Dude, that looks like—” “No, don’t say it,” I cut him off. But he said it. “Ringworm.” Then, as if to rub salt in my wound, he added, “Sick, dude! You have a disease! Ha, ha!” Justin thought he was hilarious. “Mom,” he said, “We need to turn around and go back to the store to buy some Lamisil. Why? Because Joel just found out he has ringworm.” We were driving up a slight hill through Iowa City, about a quarter mile from the entrance to the University of Iowa. Justin and I had just gotten back from a ten-day trip to Europe with our high school choir, and now we were going to wrestling camp together. If this really was ringworm, would I still be able to wrestle this week?

Justin’s mom acted a little nicer about my predicament. She turned the mini-van around and we drove to the supermarket we had passed on the way there. “You know,” I said to nobody in particular, “ringworm is really not that big of a deal. Most wrestlers get it at least once.” Justin must have been enjoying my misery a little too much to hear me, because he never responded. My calm words could not hide the fact that I was growing nervous. Ringworm was not a big deal, but it was big enough for the camp registrar to say I couldn’t wrestle. And there was no way it would heal up in less than a day, much less a couple hours!

I sheepishly made my way to the pharmaceuticals and identified the little white tube that contained the antidote. I fought the urge to explain myself to the cashier. What could I have said, anyway? “It’s okay; a lot of people get ringworm. Here, want to see? No big deal!” She would have probably quit her job. I quietly paid for the cream and left.

The door jingled as we walked out, and we walked back out to the van. It was still a half hour till registration; we would have some time to check into our dorm rooms, unpack, and get ready for the physical. The ride back to campus was a quick one. Justin’s mother dropped us off, kissed Justin good-bye and drove away. I started to get worried. With her gone, that meant that I had no way back to civilization (read: Iowa does not count as civilization). If the powers that be did not let me wrestle, I would be stranded in Iowa for a whole week. The Lamisil flowed like wine.

At three o’clock, it was time to register. Part of the registration was a physical, to make sure that none of the wrestlers had any major health problems (read: contagious skin diseases). I slapped an adhesive bandage strip over the spot on my elbow and said a quick prayer. Justin and I made our way out onto the grass of the quadrangle, where a number of tables were set up. I headed for the one marked “S-Z” and got in the queue.

In line for the physical, I talked to a couple of other guys and began to develop my story. Soon, it was my turn. Beads of sweat appeared on my forehead as I approached the table. I took off my shirt, and maybe my pants. I don’t remember (high school wrestlers do not have a whole lot of shame). Maybe I was wearing a swimsuit. That could have been it.

The examiner looked me over, and asked me to check off a list of health problems, in case I had any. I did not. “Okay,” he said, “looks like you are good to go—wait a minute.” I had turned to leave hastily (after putting my clothes back on) and now froze in my tracks. My heart started to thump inside my chest. “Yes?” Slowly I turned. The man narrowed his eyes and said, “What is that?” He pointed at my left elbow. “W-w-what do you mean?” I asked, my voice shaking. “What’s under that Band-Aid?” he asked darkly. “Oh, this old thing,” my heart was pounding under my t-shirt. “That’s no big deal,” I said. Sweat condensed on my forehead. “I used to have ringworm, and it’s just about completely gone now.” The man leaned forward and pursed his lips. He said, “Let’s see.” I reached my shaking fingers to the bandage and slowly peeled it back. He leaned forward even further. His eyes were now dark slits below his brow, as he scrutinized my elbow. I held my breath. “Oh,” he said. “Okay. Yeah that looks fine. Hardly anything there at all.” Whoosh, I let out my breath. “Well then, I guess I can go?” The man was already fumbling through some papers on the table. I did not stick around to ask him a second time.

The moral of this story is this: life’s problems may seem too daunting to overcome. Sometimes we face trials that are challenging, significant, and threatening. And sometimes they are pink, itchy, and circular. But sometimes the best way to fix our problems is the easiest; slap on a Band-Aid quick fix and lie your way to freedom. I’m just kidding. I actually don’t have a moral for this story. Why do you always demand a lesson from me?! Who am I, Confucius? Get out of here! Oh I’m sorry reader baby, I didn’t mean it. Come on back reader baby, you know you’re my world….

fin

The A&F Part Deux: The A-Word

2006-05-12T14:54:00.000-05:00

And now, the thrilling conclusion.

A couple more years passed. I went to college. As they say, out of sight is out of mind, and Abercrombie and Fitch started to fade from my memory. One day I read an article that they had changed their advertising back to a more wholesome, all-American motif. Hmm, I thought to myself. Abercrombie, eh? That name sounds familiar. I will have to look into that. I took a job working for Sears during the summer of my senior year of college. It was the same mall in which I had had my enlightening experience six years earlier. Strange things started happening. When I would take a break for lunch, I would find myself mysteriously drawn toward the other end of the mall. Every now and then, I would follow the urge and go for a stroll down by the higher-end clothing shops. Sometimes I walked past the A&F. Sometimes I even went in.

On one such occasion, it was a sweltering day in early August. Thoughts of my return to Pennsylvania and a certain blonde filled my mind. I had just enjoyed a mouth-watering Chicago-style dog from the small stand that stood outside Sears, and I thought I would cool off inside the first store I came to—or maybe the 37th. The store’s black wood-and-glass doors stood open at a sharp ninety-degree angle. The thick, strong fragrance of Fierce brand cologne hit my nostrils like a cool, citrus wave. I entered.

Three minutes into my—yes, my pilgrimage, I was approached by a twenty-something, spiky haired guy in a blue button-down shirt. “Hey man, how’s it going?” he said. I told him I was fine.(1) Then he said the words I never thought I would hear: “Do you need any part-time hours, maybe at a new job?” My eyes lit up. My ears perked up. My hair stood up on end. This guy was trying to recruit me to work at Abercrombie. I looked skyward and thanked the good Lord. I had just recently been complaining that Sears was not giving me enough hours each week. There were only two weeks left in my summer, but sure I would love to fill out the online application right there in the store and come in Friday for a group interview which was purely a technicality anyway because the job was already mine if I wanted it! Oh man, I was in like Flint.

This is the way that Abercrombie worked. The seeds were planted many years ago, when I first became interested in the company. I knew the clothes were of a higher quality than the competitors’, and there was certainly an allure about employment with the company. How could I pass up an opportunity to get as much as fifty percent off of their fine merchandise?

The answer is that I could not pass it up. Before long, I was a hard-working Brand Representative for Abercrombie and Fitch. I greeted customers enthusiastically and guided them through their shopping experience. I mingled with good-looking girls and popular guys outside of work. Most importantly, I purchased a truck-load of Abercrombie clothing. I only had two weeks before I went back to college, and the goal was to take advantage of my discount as much as possible.

Now that I am about to graduate from college, a chapter of my life is ending. I have lately found myself looking at A&F clothes differently. Yes, I know about their quality. Of course I recognize that the brand is on the cusp of front-runner fashion. Naturally, I enjoy the fact that wearing a long sleeve knit with the A-word across my chest makes me look rugged, classy, and seductive.

However, as I enter the business world, I feel it might be time for me to move on to more sophisticated apparel. Perhaps I should look into a more mature line—one that does not stitch its logo all over everything it makes. Yes, that is it. I will find something more sophisticated. What’s that you say? Abercrombie has a new line of adult apparel called Ruehl? Now this I have got to see.

fin

Footnotes:

1. It is possible that I said, "Chillin'." Details here are a little hazy.

The A&F, Part 1: The Irresistible Call of the Moose

2006-05-08T23:07:00.000-05:00

I will never forget the first time I encountered my destiny.

Every detail of the red-hot, iron brand that is that moment has been seared into the fatty, sinewy hindquarters of my memory and makes me moo with delight at the sensation I get whenever I recall it. I was a wee high school freshman at the time. It was 1998, or maybe 1999. I was with my mother. No, I was definitely with my father. Pops, I called him. Or maybe I just called him Dad. But I call him Pops now, and that is really not important to the story anyway. So Pops and I pulled up to the front of the store--that place of dreams--in the family's cherry red, 1994 Toyota Previa. I remember hearing the metallic rumble as my brother rolled open the sliding side door, but I never heard him close it; all sounds faded away as I became entranced by the marquis, which bore the words of a place I would one day call my home (or at least my workplace--though I did not know it then. The words still blaze in my mind like the flashing bulbs of an open-all-night casino, pulsating and flashing there, quickening my heart rate and pumping endorphins into my veins at the mere memory of the first time I ever saw that name before me: Abercrombie and Fitch. Oh, I had heard of the clothing store before. My friends were wearing it and it had been in the headlines lately (more on that later). Yet I had never been inside.

My brother and I skittered up the parking lot row, maneuvering between cars--some slowly rolling and some parked--to be the first to pass through the store's grand entrance.

Once inside, we gazed around us in awe at the black and white, vintage-looking photographs which hung on the walls like portraits of old friends. I distinctly recall seeing pictures of wrestles, shirtless (as all Abercrombie male models--and at that time, female ones too--love to be), with the caption below them: "Wrestling: what men do during boys basketball season." Yes that's right, faithful reader. Wrestling was the company's theme that season. To a new wrestler who had just joined the Glenbard East team, this was very heartening. Within the store, customers were being arrogantly ignored by young, attractive college students fully-decked in A&F clothing. Was it true that one had to be recruited in order to work there?

After about twenty minutes(1) of perusing the finely crafted clothing on display, Pops purchased a burgundy sweatshirt with the number seven inexplicably sewn on it, and we continued on to the rest of the outdoor mall.

Well, years passed, and with them so did my fascination with Abercrombie and Fitch. Multiple factors contributed to this development. For one, Abercrombie began to really push the envelope in their advertising. Indeed, the A&F Quarterly, as their "magalog" was called, began to feature images of nearly-nude buxom coeds and swarthy (yes that's right, swarthy) males in provocative poses. Little by little, those old family friends on the wall changed into scantily clad nymphs, beckoning to shoppers with sultry looks that seemed to call out an ethereal song, "If you buy these clothes you will definitely be able to get it on with meeeee!"

My parents did not buy it, and soon my dad joined the ranks of upstanding Americans who were boycotting the immoral company. Affirming his decision with a strong show of solidarity, I decided to boycott Abercrombie as well (read: the ads did not really bother me per se(2), but without access to the Bank of Dad I was pretty much cut off from anything over ten, maybe fifteen bucks). Ainsi, as they say in la France I stopped wearing A&F sophomore year of high school and entered into the affordably priced, if less fashionable, world of American Eagle Outfitters apparel.

Let me interject here to say that I am not, by any stretch, a clothes horse, nor do I have too much respect for guys that are. It is a good thing I am not though, because American Eagle clothing is basically garbage. The jeans fell apart after a few short months of wear (and I do not mean in a cool, vintage way). The popo shirts got holes in them; the t-shirts either stretched or shrank in the wash. Now I am not the easiest on my clothes, but this was a little ridiculous. Certainly, I (read: my parents) saved money per item I (they) bought. And yet I ask was it really worth it to have to go back and get new vestments every few weeks when the old stuff fell apart? That is not even to mention the cost of a young man's dignity as he ashamedly displays "AE" on his chest instead of the coveted "AF" worn by all of his friends. The humanity! Oh, how I missed those days of wearing durable, overpriced goods from my one-time favorite retailer. Would those days ever return? Only time would tell...

To be continued in Part II: The A-Word

Footnotes:

1. Author's note: while 20 minutes may not seem like a very long time to shop (ahem, ladies), a third of an hour is more than enough time to get done whatever you have to. It is also the maximum any male can stay inside a store before his brain begins to melt. Seriously, one time I went grocery shopping for a whole hour, and when I left Cub Foods I could not walk or see straight. Men are not built for shopping.

2. The ads did not bother me because, although I am a moral person with high standards similar to those of my parents, I am first and foremost a product of the Mtv generation. To people of my age group, nudity and promiscuity are practically seen as virtues. You get my drift.

A Declaration of the Purpose of Fraternities and Sororities

2006-04-27T05:04:00.000-05:00

Author's Note: The following is the unassisted work of Joel Settecase solely, and has not yet been approved or consented to by any other party whatsoever, affiliated Grove City College student or otherwise.

As well, the following is in its preliminary, and unfinished form. Consider it a first draft of an address of grievances.

Of course, if you would like to voice your approval of this document, please feel free to do so by commenting here on my weblog or contacting me personally.

A Declaration of Fraternity and Sorority Purpose

April 28, 2006 – Drafted and authored by Joel Settecase; inspired by A Declaration of Indian Purpose from the Chicago Conference, 1961

This is not special pleading, though Greek organizations on campus have been told often enough by members of the college administration that the College has the plenary power to wipe out our community living privileges at will. Administrations, even those in control of free organizations such as Grove City College, when powerful enough, can act in this arbitrary and immoral manner.

Still we insist that we are not pleading for special treatment at the hands of the college administrators. When we ask that our rights as organizations be respected, we are mindful of the opinion of some on campus on the nature of fraternities and sororities—that they have a negative effect on student life and are a smudge on the College’s reputation.

Vice President of Student Life and Learning, Jean-Noel Thompson, has declared that he wants to help fraternities and sororities. He has also stated that the College’s policy is to encourage responsibility and adult behavior from students. Is it essential, therefore that the organizations which will be affected by the administration’s policies possess the same attributes of sovereignty as the administrators, when discussing future regulations? This will not be pretended, for on this ground, very little could get done at the College, as there would be no hierarchy of command. The only requisite is, that each of the contracting parties shall possess a sense of self-determination, and the power to have some control over the regulations, toward the goal of creating a college environment which benefits students as much as possible, while maintaining an orderly and productive atmosphere for learning and social development.

As was brought up in the spring conference between fraternities, sororities, and male housing groups on April 27, 2006, each organization has a missions statement toward whose principles the members of the group strive. Do these manifestos constitute binding agreements, or promises, on behalf of the group members, made without condition to the college community? This is, of course, not the case. By publishing the goals of each organization, have not the members bound themselves only to a pursuit of values which, because committed to internally, are therefore sought internally and free of external pressure or regulation? Surely this was the intent of those members who drafted each respective declaration. Wherefore, then, comes the administrator’s power to impose obligations on us?

The right of self-government, a right which Greek organizations have possessed at Grove City College since the first such group was officially recognized in 1913, has never been extinguished; indeed, it has been repeatedly sustained and promoted by the decisions of previous college administrations. In turn, Greek organizations responded by serving the campus community through charitable, philanthropic, social, and religious programs and events. And the College stood with the fraternities and sororities in accepting these obligations.

A regulation, in the minds of the Greek student, is a commitment. Events often make it seem expedient to change commitments and depart from previous, pro-Greek regulations, but we are conscious that the first departure creates a logic for the second departure, until there is nothing left of the Greek-friendly setting which once prevailed.

We recognize that our view of these matters differs at times from the prevailing view of the administrators.

When our rights are taken, especially in the name of aiding us, scattering our members throughout campus and threatening our continued existence, it grieves us to be told that a money payment, this time in the form of a reward for meeting the stipulations of the new regulations, is the equivalent of all things we surrender. Our predecessors could be generous when the majority of the student population was Greek. They could cast away their off-campus housing and individuality as Greek-lettered organizations, as they did by allowing housing groups to use and display such symbols, and ask for nothing in return but the good will of the College. To be sure, some of the regulations in the past were justified, due to the disrespectful behavior and Greek climate in the 1970s and ‘80s.But in our day, each remaining privilege is a promise that we will still be here tomorrow. Were we paid a thousand times the current offerings, still the payment would not suffice. Money never factored into our decision to go Greek, as the community spirit of brother- and sisterhood factored, nor have any people become more closely attached to each other, in fraternalism that means more than the Greek symbols or words we wear on our clothing.

To complete our Declaration, we point out that in the history of Grove City College, Greeks were possessed of a special status and a way of life. In the course of many lifetimes, Greek organizations had adjusted to every climate and condition of the College, forming niches for every student type and interest, from athletics to music to academic areas of study. In their livelihood and fraternal relationships, their ceremonial observances, they reflected the diversity of the educational establishment they occupied.

The condition in which the Greek system stands today reflects a college in which every basic aspect of life has been transformed. Even such physical elements such as living on a certain hall or in a certain dormitory, once mainstays of Greek life, are no longer the controlling factors in determining how Greeks attract new members and exist. This is an example of Greek organizations’ struggle to maintain survival amidst increasingly harmful governance on the part of decision makers at the College. In group after group, a dissatisfaction has set in which eats at members until counter-action seems to be our only option. The changes of policy since the 1980s were followed by major shifts in the internal life and operations of both individual groups and the Greek system as a whole.

The time came when Greek students were no longer the masters of their situation. Their ways of life survived subject to the will of a dominant sovereign power. This is said, not in a spirit of complaint; we understand that in the lives of all groups of people, there are times of plenty and times of hardship. But we do speak out in a plea for understanding.

When we go before the administrators of the College, as we do in this Declaration, and as for assistance in rebuilding our organizations and developing our opportunities, we pose a moral problem which cannot be left unanswered. For the problem we raise affects the standing which our System sustains before campus opinion.

Our situation cannot be relieved by more restrictive regulations, though it is equally obvious that without some change, solutions will be delayed. Nor will the passage of time lessen the complexities which beset a Greek system moving toward new meaning and purpose.

The answers we seek are not to be found in monetary rewards and “Community Living Privilege” mandates, neither are they evolved automatically through the passing of time.

The effort to place organization adjustment on a time interval scale, which characterizes the current administration’s methodology, results in unwanted pressure and frustration. One year is not enough time to deal with the situation faced by Greek groups or rebuild from failing numbers.

When Greek students speak of the greater privilege they once yielded, they are not referring only to the loss of many rights and public favor. They have in mind that the college community at that time supported an environment of things they knew, valued, and loved.

With that former situation gone, except for the few remnants they still retain, the basis of Greek life is precariously held, but they mean to hold the scraps and parcels as earnestly as any group was ever determined to hold to identity and survival.

What we ask of the Grove City College administrators is not charity, not paternalism, even when benevolent. We ask only that the nature of our situation be recognized and made the basis of policy and action.

In short, the Greeks ask for relief, both from harsh regulations and fatal requirements, for the time needed, however long that may be, to regain in the Grove City College of present day some measure of the adjustment they enjoyed as the longest-running tradition at the College.

This Document has been inspired by, and in many places quoted verbatim, A Declaration of Indian Purpose from the Chicago Conference, 1961.

[fom Major Problems in American Indian History, edited by Albert L. Hurtado and Peter Iverson. D.C. Heath, 1994, pp. 520-522]

Item is in the public domain.

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The Revolution Begins

2006-04-27T03:15:00.000-05:00

To any and all Grove City College students who were in attendance at the mandatory meeting called by Student Life and Learning yesterday evening:

I was unable to attend the meeting, but I have been briefed as to the content of S.L.&.L's plans for the Greek system here at G.C.C.

Needless to say, I am more than a little outraged at recent developments. I would like to open up my weblog as a forum for discussion on our planned course of action against these blatantly anti-Greek policies being put into place.

Following soon will be my take on specific tenets of the new policy, based on notes taken by a concerned student and (hopefully) discussion with both college administrators and you, my fellow students. I hope I can raise the same level of awareness on this issue as I did when I wrote my article on that certain fraternity last semester.

Don't just read it, respond and participate! The future of Greek life at Grove City College depends on us.

Developing...

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The Dump

2006-04-26T22:40:00.000-05:00

Because of my extreme exasperation with this website (see previous post), I am not going to finish the D.O.G. story. At least, not yet. Because, in my mind I already finished it (of course, in my mind I am also a super hero, but that is neither here nor there). Now, I realize that I have been very lax in writing articles for the past month or so, and I do not want to keep you eager beavers from getting your weekly fix, so to tide you over I am going to start dumping previously-written documents on you. If you like them, sweet. If you don't, I'm sorry.

The first one:
This is the second part of a paper I wrote when the Grove City College administration had banned me from playing rugby. Because of the paper you are about to read, they relented (bless their hearts) and allowed me to play.

Some of you may have heard how I was allowed to have my sentence (disciplinary probation, etc.) commuted--I wrote an 11-page thesis (more like a legal document) which outlined all the reasons why they should let me off). This is the last three pages of said petition.

Now without further ado, here it is, the original Treatise On the Importance of Rugby, by Joel Settecase.

This is an exciting time for Grove City College. In the past twenty years, our small campus has been a witness to a lot of growth. This growth has been physical as well as intellectual and spiritual. New additions such as the field house and score box on lower campus, a new Rainbow Bridge, the Hall of Arts and Letters, and the Student Activities Center have expanded the college in territory and capability. Alongside the architectural and technological growth has been a developmental growth on the part of Grove City College’s students. Such development has manifested itself in the form of student-led organizations, increased student involvement in outreach trips, and expanded athletic opportunities. In 1994, the college’s sports realm welcomed in a new team which has changed the lives of hundreds of men, the Grove City College Men’s Rugby Football Club. Until December of 2005, I was proud to be a member of that Club.

Called Grove Rugby for short, the Grove City College Men’s Rugby Football Club was chartered as a non-varsity club team for students with the common interest of participating in the internationally-renowned sport of rugby. Throughout the past twelve years, the Club has seen its share of victories, culminating in the 2003 achievement of the third place title in Division II. At a small, Division III school like Grove City College, where academics are rigorous and much more emphasis is put on textbooks and lectures than cleats and balls, the rugby club has served as both a chance to enjoy physical competition as well as an outlet for the many pressures students of the college face. Grove Rugby is not a large team. Both the players and the number of participants on the team are smaller than average. Yet the team has excelled over the years. This is because of the spirit of camaraderie which rugby engenders in those who play the sport.

In my four years at Grove City College, there have been two constants: Bon Appetit cafeteria food and Grove Rugby. Everything else has shifted and transformed—even my major has changed three times—but rugby has been the one element of college life that has remained unaltered since the first semester of my freshman year.

I am a leader on the rugby team. In 2005, I was appointed to be assistant coach for the forwards. I helped teach green freshman the rules and techniques of a sport with around a century and a half of tradition. I was elected “Man of the Match” in a game against rival Franciscan, played in front of hundreds of spectators. I helped lead the 2003 team to the best record and standings the Club had ever seen. My achievements did not come from any greatness on my own, however. Every accomplishment I made with the rugby team was a direct result of those who served as leaders for me, when I was young and inexperienced. Thanks to the examples of the seniors each year, but especially when I was a freshman, I had the chance of observing how the game was played and learning especially the little nuances which cannot be taught in playbooks. When these seniors left or sometimes stopped playing their last semesters, the team demonstrably suffered. I do not want this team to have to go through what teams in the past went through when seniors stopped playing in the spring.

Currently, there are only two four-year seniors on the rugby team. I am one of those seniors. The other is Chad Hartzell. By prohibiting me from playing and practicing with the team this spring, you would be depriving the new players on the team of a leader, and the other senior, Chad, of a compatriot.

At first, I must admit that it was a little bit tempting to blow off the assignment to write this petition. I can assure you it would have saved me from many grueling practices and training sessions with the team if I did not write it. However, the Club means too much to me for me to have done that. I want to play, and I am willing to go to great lengths to accomplish that goal.

Participation in a team sport, especially one with such a close knit team, is a positive good. Athletics teach discipline, work ethic, and a play-by-the-rules mentality which are essential to personal growth. Dr. Thompson, for three-and-one-half years Grove Rugby is a wonderful, corporate experience for me, a proven laboratory for personal growth, and an excellent chance to accumulate and exercise leadership skills. It is my petition that you will allow me to continue this experience for just one more semester before I graduate. Thank you.

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CRAP!

2006-04-24T14:40:00.000-05:00

I just spent an hour and a half writing Part II of the series, and it did not save. Thanks, Blogger.

The End.