Summer time, and the living is...

For the annual music festival at my school, an event called May Day, the headlining band was Eve 6. That's a joke in itself, I know. You should have seen the reaction of the Indie music hippies. I think they would have been happier with a show from Miley Circus, or whatever the fuck that girl's name is. Anyway, you may remember Eve 6 from the days of 5th grade, when their single "Inside Out" (I would swallow my pride/I would choke on the rinds...) was at the top of modern rock charts. They also remained in the spotlight at many an 8th grade graduation with their hit "Here's to the Night" (Here's to the niiights we felt alive/here's to the tears you knew you'd cry...) After those two classics, where did they go? They released their last popular song 8 years ago.

I wonder how it made Eve 6 feel, to play in front of (maybe) 100 college students. Most people, like myself, simply stood, arms crossed, tapping a foot to the beat. Those few who were really rocking out had been drinking since 11 AM. Surely the lead singer recognized all of this as he recounted the group's struggles between songs. They broke up in 2004 and two of the three original members reunited in 2007.

I had no idea Eve 6 ever broke up, nor got back together.

It was sort of like hearing about a distant relative that got divorced, and then remarried, one of those random family updates that may be interesting to your parents, but means nothing to you.

I thought Eve 6 just fell off the face of the earth. Yet, in reality, the band faced some tough challenges that led them out of the public sphere and into a split. During that time, they probably grew in a number of ways, both as musicians and friends.

I would like you, dear readers, to think of Shmuz Weekly in terms of Eve 6. Like that band, we took a long hiatus, but we never truly left, and now we're back to fill that nostalgic soft spot left in your heart. (One for my tender, heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion!)

I think that part of my problem is that I feel the need to come up with entries that only explore one subject or idea. This leads me to not write something until I'm sure I can write ENOUGH about it. I realize now that both focused and rambling pieces have their respective merit. Such a realization should enable me to produce more, and we can start with some random things that I've been pondering the last month or so:

How funny is the culture of youth sports? When I say "youth," I suppose that means ages 5-12. I'm talking about the glory days. Tee Ball, baby.



Remember suiting up in your officially sponsored uniform? I swear to God, none of those businesses actually existed. They were always so random. On the front of my Little League shirts, it said "Narberth Baseball." On the back, it said anything from "Bob's Stamps and Collectibles" to "Odd Jobs, Etc." There is more uniform advertising in youth Tee Ball and baseball than in Major League Baseball. Just imagine Jimmy Rollins wearing a jersey emblazoned with "John Kennedy Ford of Feasterville." Wait a minute...

Are these small, walking billboards really effective? Do businesses look to Little League to attract new customers? Have you ever filled out a survey that looked like this?:

"How did you hear about us?"

a. Through a friend.
b. Yellow pages.
c. I saw you on the back of some kid's Tee Ball uniform.

No. People don't go to a place as a result of its local playground exposure.

In addition to advertising on the backs of children, youth sports forces parents to become friends. Why? Parents need connections for the carpool. I would argue that the carpool creates unnecessary stress for young athletes, because I cannot be the only one who had trouble giving directions to his own house at age 9. Sometimes, after a game, I piled into a mini van full of teammates with one kid's mom at the wheel. We usually ran into this little roadblock:

"Hey Thomas, what street do you live on, honey?"
"Uh... the one with the really big stop sign?"

Goddamn that was embarrassing. It was a moment in which no one really knew what to do, similar to when the coach's fat son stepped up to the tee. I'm not sure you can say you truly experienced youth sports unless you played on a team with the coach's fat son. Coach would either treat this goofball like a prodigy, or critique him like a Celtics fan on Doc Rivers.

A Tee Ball at bat for the coach's fat son could go in two different directions. If the coach favored his kid, everyone just stood there waiting as he hacked at the plastic black tube. The ball fell off, he reached down a chubby hand, put it back on the tee, and it fell off again before he even took a swing. The frustration set in. Sweat pouring beneath a tightly buttoned cap turned hot tears into streaks on his round face. The other ballplayers knelt down and plucked grass. "Come on, boy!" Coach cheered. "Good cut! You got it!" As everyone wondered when it would end, the tee fell forward and the ball rolled a foot in front of home plate. Everyone agreed it was not a foul ball, but rather a solid hit, and watched gratefully as the coach's fat son waddled to first base.

If the coach was an overbearing Dad trying to have an athletic career vicariously through his child, then the at bat went much quicker. After wincing at a few whiffs, the coach went up to his juicebox-guzzling boy, grabbed the bat, and "helped" him put the ball in play. No one challenged this practice. Sometimes it even seemed fair.

I'll tell you what's unfair though: the fact that I missed the boat on developing a signature. Yes, I switched topics just like that, and yes, I'm talking about a John Hancock. Will someone please explain to me at what age you simply make up the signature that you will use for the rest of your life? I know some people *COUGH steven yacobs END COUGH* who used to spend entire classes perfecting the unnecessary loops and swoops that indicated their seal of approval.



Given that I tragically overlooked this important stage of development, I now resort to an alternative method that makes me appear even more like a twelve year old. When I sign an important document, such as a Spring Garden I.D., I write my name in print, only sloppier. This takes longer than the average scribble, and prompts a raised eyebrow from any witnesses. Cashiers, for example, must wonder whether or not I can write in cursive. Let's just say I do that about as fast as I eat. Do schools even still force kids to learn that antiquated script? Do you still have to sign an honor code statement on the SAT using longhand? That section took me longer than the reading comprehension, and I almost asked the girl next to me if I could borrow a fucking quill.

I hope that by the time I'm 30, I have found an appropriate way to sign my name. I'm open to any and all suggestions in that department. In the mean time, I will leave you with a few conclusions:

- Happy Memorial Day. I hope you saw some amusing people get out of their cars in the standstill traffic on the way to the Shore.

- Digital clocks are replacing analog clocks faster than you think. The other day, I was in Blockbuster, and the only way I could find out the time was to ask an employee, who checked on the computer.

- My phone was M.I.A. that day, which made me realize that without my cell phone, I have no clue what time it is.

- New forms of media will not replace older forms because when you're taking a shit, a newspaper is easier to manage than a laptop.

- High gas prices currently enjoy official small talk status. Feel free to use them like you might use the weather.

- Learning a friend's middle name usually indicates a new level of closeness in your relationship with him or her.

- If you know mine, save some of that chuckle for next time.

Nick Renner's Favorite Clothing Store on the Tufts Campus

Blasphemy in its Highest Form

Jesus, the original shocker.

Apparently, an illicit Ancient Egyptian custom predated the oft-visited french landmark. In the language of heiroglyphs they called the act 'Quill-Hawk-Papyrus', which, loosely translated, means Eiffel Tower.

In case you can't see good, this is the gravestone of Slopenthal. Cause of death remains ambiguous.

I Believe You Have My Stapler.

You know this guy. He's in your class. Every time he walks in, you think to yourself "Oh Jesus, here we go again." He says something to the professor. Something corny. A little joke about the paper due today, complete with a smug, aren't-I-just-so-silly! smirk. You watch as he chooses his seat. Chooses a victim. He scans the room for that one person who will tolerate him, someone nicer than the rest of us. Someone who will at least try to match the enthusiasm of his over-the-top greeting. This guy doesn't get it. He doesn't know how annoying you find him, how annoying everyone finds him.

Let's call this guy Milton. Milton always appears eager, engaged, and ready to learn. In this class, he's always answering questions. Sometimes he's right. Sometimes he's wrong. It doesn't really matter. Because in his mind, Milton is the funniest guy you've ever met. He has no doubt that, were he not such an excellent and charming student, he would definitely be a stand up comedian. The classroom becomes his stage. Every Monday/Wednesday at 10 AM, it's Friday night on Comedy Central.

Milton hasn't said anything for awhile, so you eye him with suspicion. He leans forward over his desk, waiting for the right moment to strike. It's coming, and you can feel it. Because right now, everything's too good to be true. The professor revels in the discussion, watching it unfold organically, like a Whole Foods grocery store. Each comment adds to the healthy-looking, overpriced stock, and each insight comes certified with a little sticker that declares "100% Not Bullshit." Something's gotta give. These contributions can't all be so fresh and so clean clean. Buried deep inside this basket of Red Delicious apples there's one that's spotted with questionable, dark patches. You know who that one is.

"So why is that significant, the fact that he's an archeologist? Okay... Milton?"

"Well, because his career's in ruins!"

You bury your face in your hands. Others react in different ways. A few people offer the courtesy laugh, but not enough. Milton craves the group laugh, which requires strength in numbers, requires at least half the class to courtesy laugh. His most recent knee-slapper doesn't make the cut. You look up. The professor winces, yet with a smile, as if he were on his way to the bathroom with explosive diarrhea when someone stopped him for a nice little chat. Heads shake. Eyes roll. People say things like "Oh, Milton" and "Are you kidding me?" And then there's always that one person who finds him genuinely funny. You can tell because that person actually cracks up while everyone else sighs and groans. Milton loves that person. He'd prefer the group laugh, but that person keeps the dream alive.

In twenty seconds, the commotion fades. The class moves on, and Milton's desperate attempt to garner a group laugh goes to Failed Joke Heaven, where it lives happily amongst the puns of Nick Renner. You couldn't ever discourage Milton, not even if you tried. He remains part of the greater balance in any academic setting. He is the ying to your yang, the Cheech to your Chong, and the KITT to your Michael Knight. He is the group laugh guy, one of many prototypical classroom characters that you've most likely encountered throughout your education. Here are some more:



The "Did you get my email?" Guy:

At the beginning of each class, this guy walks in and, bypassing any small talk, he asks the professor "Did you get my email?" This would not be so surprising, were it not for the fact that he does it literally every single class. It makes you wonder what the hell is so important. I mean, sure, if you wanted to, you could come up with a question to email your professor before each class. But that would be excessive, and probably annoying. Let's just hope there's no Mark Foley funny business going on, and the rest remains one of the world's great mysteries, like Big-foot, or why it's so damn hard to read away messages in iChat.






The Girl Who Talks to the Professor After Every Class:

While everyone else shuffles out the door, this girl always hangs back. She stands, watching impatiently as people leave, as if whatever she has to say must be said in private, and you're cutting into her quality time. Have you ever talked with the professor after class? Of course you have, but it's not a part of your afternoon routine, like watching the Steve Wilkos Show. I can see three possible scenarios that lead to this girl's behavior:

1. She actually needs additional help, on top of office hours, or a tutor.

2. She enjoys kissing ass, and thus talks with the professor about something like the random book she just finished reading, something that barely relates to the class, and is a stretch at that.

3. She's utterly paranoid and compulsive about all of her school work. Therefore, she feels the need to ask unnecessary questions for reassurance. All her fears would be put to rest if she just looked at the specific instructions in the syllabus. Instead, she goes directly to the professor, worrying about her 1,001 words for the 1,000 word paper.






The Guy Who's Always Late for No Apparent Reason:

This guy always makes a special entrance. Usually, it's the one where the professor is in mid-sentence when, slowly, the door creaks open and he pops into view. From that point, The Guy Who's Always Late for No Apparent Reason breaks down into a few different variations. Some will give an embarrassed, sheepish grin, while others may act as if they arrived just in time. Sometimes he seems to care, and sometimes he doesn't. Either way, he never offers a specific excuse. The real reason is probably not that exciting anyway. You know what's fun though? Try and picture this guy holding a career in which punctuality means everything. The Guy Who's Always Late for No Apparent Reason on a bomb squad? Driving an ambulance? Pushing the button that drops the ball on New Year's Eve?






The Expert:

From the very first class, he establishes himself as an authority on the subject. He's not really, but perhaps he's got some vague connection to the material that gives him a slightly broader perspective. For example, if you're taking a class on ancient Japanese literature, then The Expert is that kid who went to Japan three summers ago. Even though he stayed at the Tokyo Holiday Inn, and spent half the time playing video games, he believes that because he sat on a floor-mat and drank tea, he now fully understands all the nuances and complexities of Japanese culture. A major problem that often arises with The Expert is that the professor encourages his title. The professor defers to him throughout the semester, and says things like "Well, Mr. Expert, I'm not sure if you saw this when you were in Japan, but..." You know what that means? That means it's up to you to knock him off his high horse, even if the horse represents an inspirational story, like Seabiscut, or Smarty Jones (may they both rest in peace).






The Girl Who Always Repeats What Someone Else Just Said:

Though she's probably not aware of it, this girl has mastered the art of translating others' ideas into her own words. She "borrows" from fellow students like Vanilla Ice "borrowed" from Queen. She also agrees with just about everyone. Every comment from this girl begins like, "I agree with [Insert Name Here]." She's not dumb, she's just amiable. The Girl Who Always Repeats What Someone Else Just Said will live on forever more because she will never know of this tendency in her own participation. Think about it. After she agrees with/repeats something you said, are you going to jump in and point out "I just said that"? If you did, I'd laugh, but I'd still view it as an asshole move.





I trust that you recognize some of this lovable cast of characters; that you see them two or three days a week, in all kinds of different classes. Tell me though, what other class prototypes do you see? Surely, these can't be all of them. I should point out that I denoted some as "Guy" or "Girl" just so that I could use either "he" or "she" consistently in the descriptions. I believe that all of the types listed above can apply to both males and females. Here at Shmuz Weekly, we try to maintain an egalitarian view of gender, although some fools have gone so far as to call me a "F-e-m-n-a-z-i," which is not a real word, nor is it even accepted slang.

The point is this: if you don't recognize one of these class prototypes, then you may in fact be that guy or that girl. Don't worry. A-be happy. Remember that you play an important role in the college circle of life. Without you, the class would be missing something. Something that we all find openly annoying, yet secretly endearing, like the songs from iPod commercials (1,2,3,4, tell me that you love me more...). Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to being that Reading Way Too Much Into Things (Like The People In My Classes) Guy.

Kbye.

Words Are a Sawed Off Shotgun

First things first:

I must apologize for the leniency we have been exercising in terms of our blog's title. I realize that of late it has not exactly been "weekly." We are a little short on staff, considering Nick never writes and Jake is off negotiating nuclear arms treaties. In fact, we considered changing the name to Shmuz Bi-Weekly, but each of us is mutually exclusive in terms of the gender to which we are attracted. (Can you guess who only likes guys though?)

As for my appeal to all of you wonderful readers for your own made up lyrics, well, let's just say it did not garner quite as much attention as Tom Brady's right foot. And I completely understand. In speaking directly with people about their experiences on the subject, I agreed with them that in general, we often do not remember our own made up lyrics after they have graced the airwaves. People either must be listening to the song, or they simply make it up on the spot, like the spontaneous tears of our nation's first cyborgian candidate for president, Hilary Clinton.

So where do we go from here? I must officially begin this first post of the New Year by relating to you an experience I not only had twenty minutes ago, but also one that happens all the time:

I was walking across the frigid tundra of my college to a friend's abode, when I passed by two gentleman having a bouge. I did not know them, and they did not know me, but I decided to be bold and give them a friendly greeting. The exchange went like this:

Me: What's up?
Guy: Oh, not too bad.

Now obviously, "Not too bad" does not make too much sense as an answer to the question "What's up?" I suppose it's good nothing bad is up for that guy right now. But can we really fault him? Think of all the responses you have pre-programmed into your head for the conversational exchanges you engage in every single day. It's not that this guy was blackout drunk, nor was he the dullest colored crayon in the proverbial box. His brain simply referenced the wrong file. It pulled out the response for "How's it goin'?" instead of "What's up?" and I realized that we all allow for that because it's understandable. Inevitable. Here's another example*:

*Ding dong*
[I open the door.]
Pizza Delivery Guy: Hey there. Half pepperoni, half barbecue chicken?
Me: Yep.
Pizza Delivery Guy: Okay, that'll be 15.
[I hand him the money.]
Pizza Delivery Guy: Thanks.
Me: Thanks.
Pizza Delivery Guy: Enjoy.
Me: You too.

You see what I mean? The delivery guy tells me to enjoy my pizza, and my response is that he should enjoy my pizza too. Now while I probably wouldn't mind sharing a slice with the delivery guy, both he and I know that, at this point, the reality is he will gain no enjoyment from the pizza he just handed me. I wasn't trying to be a dick. I wasn't trying to gloat. I just gave him the wrong automatic response.

This raises the question of what would happen if all these automatic responses were somehow scrambled. What if a malfunction caused us to use them for answering questions other than those which normally prompt them? Imagine:

"Do these pants make me look fat?"
"Oh, not too much."

"On the night of the murder, where were you between the hours of 7 and 9 PM?"
"Just chillin."

"Will you marry me?"
"Fine, thanks."

I would say that the best solution is to consider any of the automated responses acceptable answers to any of the usual greetings, but it seems to me that we already do. I think that as long as people's tone and facial expression fit with the nature of a casual conversation, we are willing to overlook the actual substance of what they say. I'm not suggesting that the next time someone says "How's it goin?" you respond by saying "Fuck you!" with a big ole grin. But if someone asks you "How's it going" and you find yourself saying "Nothing much" ... don't think twice about it.

*Thanks to my friend Will for the idea behind this dialogue.

Shameless Plug

Hey y'all. I am very sorry for not being a more active participant in Shmuz Weekly this term, and I am also sorry for saying y'all. But please check out my blog jakeinthemiddleeast.blogspot.com and communicate with me via facebook cause I miss all of you dearly. Keepin' the peace, here in the East,

Huams

Doe rae me fa so la te DOH!

Salutations, Shmuzzes.

I do hope your New Years resolutions remain intact, though I know that's wishful. Perhaps you were going to quit smoking, for example, and then you lit up a bouge thirty seconds after the ball dropping, most random hook up you've ever had.

Anywayz, I have an idea and I need your help. You know when your in the car, rocking out to a song by yourself, and you're really belting it out, completely not self-conscious about the person in the car next to you wondering if you're mentally handicapped? And the words you're singing are NOT the real words. Because you made them up. You're not really sure what the song actually says, so, in order to sing along, you decide to go with a rough estimation.

At Shmuz Weekly, WE WANT YOUR LYRICS. Why? Because made up lyrics are hilarious and instead of keeping them between yourself and your rubber ducky, we think sharing them with our massive audience is your best option.

Take the song Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana, for example. I've been singing this puppy wrong since I was in fourth grade, when I looked exactly the same as I do now. Below, I've put my lyrics in capital letters and the real lyrics to the song in parentheses.

WHEN THE LIGHT'S OUT, IT'S CONTAGIOUS
(When the light's out, it's less dangerous)
AND WE DON'T KNOW, IT'S CONTAGIOUS
(Here we are now, entertain us)
I WAS STUPID, AND CONTAGIOUS
(I feel stupid, and contagious)
I'M A LIGHTHOUSE
(A mulatto)
I'M A WINE-O
(An albino)
I'M A SKATA
(A mosquito)
AND A FEEDER
(My libido)
YEAH
(Yeah)

Now I know Kurt Cobain had his issues, but certainly he did not imagine himself to be a lighthouse and a wine-o, as my own lyrics to this song suggest. And this, my friends, is just the tip of the ice berg, for lack of a slezzier phrase. I know you've got some classics of your own. Please send them to us by replying to this message. You can put your own lyrics in the same format that I used for Smells Like Teen Spirit, or you can just tell us the name and artist of the song and write in your lyrics, and we'll look up the actual lyrics. You could also post them on the facebook group wall. Or on the comments for this post. Or you could tell us in person, although then we will ask that you sing your version out on the street. SEND US YOUR MADE UP LYRICS. Seriously. This could be the greatest thing since Kettle Cooked chips.