Our Funny Valentine

I love Valentine’s Day. Love it. What’s not to like? Chocolates. Flowers. Cards. Romantic Meals. Champagne. Sex. It’s all there. If given the opportunity, I’ll stuff myself to the point of sickness with See’s Candies or Ghirardelli squares. I’m secure enough to have my home littered with roses and tulips. They make a nice counterpoint to the piles of dirty dishes. And I grew up on Hallmark, even wanting to write for them at one point. There’s not a person out there who doesn’t at least smile at a card with a train on the front that says, “I choo…choo…choose you.” As for the elaborate dinners, I don’t even know where to begin. Everything is succulent and shaped like naughty parts. Which leads us to the bubbly. Nothing washes down a briny oyster like a glass of Veuve Clicquot. Marilyn Monroe used to bathe in champagne and the idea seems more appealing to me by the minute. Lastly, St. Valentine’s Day is about love, which makes girls amorous, which is a great thing for us boys.

Here’s just a little history on the subject (borrowed from another website):

For eight hundred years prior to the establishment of Valentine's Day, the Romans had practiced a pagan celebration in mid-February commemorating young men's rite of passage to the god Lupercus. The celebration featured a lottery in which young men would draw the names of teenage girls from a box. The girl assigned to each young man in that manner would be his sexual companion during the remaining year.

In an effort to do away with the pagan festival, Pope Gelasius ordered a slight change in the lottery. Instead of the names of young women, the box would contain the names of saints. Both men and women were allowed to draw from the box, and the game was to emulate the ways of the saint they drew during the rest of the year. Needless to say, many of the young Roman men were not too pleased with the rule changes.

Instead of the pagan god Lupercus, the Church looked for a suitable patron saint of love to take his place. They found an appropriate choice in Valentine, who, in AD 270 had been beheaded by Emperor Claudius.

Claudius had determined that married men made poor soldiers. So he banned marriage from his empire. But Valentine would secretly marry young men that came to him. When Claudius found out about Valentine, he first tried to convert him to paganism. But Valentine reversed the strategy, trying instead to convert Claudius. When he failed, he was stoned and beheaded.

During the days that Valentine was imprisoned, he fell in love with the blind daughter of his jailer. His love for her, and his great faith, managed to miraculously heal her from her blindness before his death. Before he was taken to his death, he signed a farewell message to her, "From your Valentine." The phrase has been used on his day ever since.

The other reason I love Valentine’s Day is that it is such an American holiday. We’ve turned the simplest message of love, “From your Valentine”, into the most commercial of occasions. Sure, people buy more presents and cards for Christmas, but at least they know why they’re doing it. Don’t get me wrong, the birth of Jesus is way too entwined with a fat guy sliding down your chimney, but Valentine’s Day is worse. I bet 99% of the population has no idea what the holiday was originally was about. And I bet more than half of the country if asked to describe St. Valentine would conjure up the image of Cupid. We’ve even exported our version of the holiday and now China and Japan have begun exchanging expensive chocolates on February 14th.

And yet I still have no desire to change it. Like I said, I love Valentine’s Day. Tonight I’m going to cook a romantic dinner. I’ve got a great bottle of sparkling pinot noir. I’ve got a bag full of gifts. Is it too commercial? Yes. But for one day a year, love rules. If you have to wrap up that sentiment in a card or bouquet, so be it. And it’s not just for couples. Tell your parents, siblings and friends what they mean to you. You can have more than one Valentine.

Back to Food

In my short lifetime, I have witnessed many ridiculous situations concerning our nation’s consumptive habits. There have been lawsuits against fast food giants claiming they are responsible for the fattening of America. On the other end of the spectrum are those who can’t open their mouths lest they proclaim the glory of Atkins or South Beach regiments. It is nearly impossible to go a day without hearing of this restaurant’s smash opening or that one’s closing. Amidst the crashing waves of epicurean speak, there is one encouraging undercurrent: the country is getting back to food.

I don’t mean to sound as if everyone had stopped eating and has merely broken their collective fast. No, people are taking back their kitchens. No longer do roaches rule the space between the dining room and the garage. Drawers of dusty graters, spatulas, whisks, garlic presses and measuring spoons are being polished to nearly newborn status. Days of tuna salad sandwiches and nights of dry meatloaf are being phased from memory, and at the forefront of our consciousness is filet mignon covered in béarnaise slowly oozing over a pile of roasted garlic mashed potatoes and delicately steamed baby carrots. Everything homemade; an every-pan-in-the-kitchen meal made more satisfying by not having to sport a suit and tie, sign a credit card slip, or fight traffic back to your driveway.

Dining out is becoming more like it was decades ago when families patronized restaurants for birthdays and other special occasions. There will always be those empty masses that rely on the gifts of others to satisfy their hunger, and never know the true joy of cooking, but I fear nothing could convince them to pick up a shopping basket and fill their fruit and vegetable bins with the delicacies that compose Waldorf salad or spinach artichoke dip. No, I am focused on the home cook. The one removing the stained takeout menus from beneath the leaking packets of soy sauce and used chopsticks, ripping the submarine sandwich coupons from the tight grip of the “I love New York” refrigerator magnet, and erasing Papa Johns from the number one spot on speed dial. It is this dedicated group demanding prompt seating at the dinner table at six thirty who are making restaurants step up, their families eat a little better, and resurrecting those dog-eared cookbooks covered in mom’s tomato sauce thumb prints that are taking this country back to food.

In Los Angeles alone there are thousands of restaurants that serve everything from spicy tuna rolls to steak Diane. This city is built around dining out, but I’ve got a radical idea for those who eat 14 meals a week outside of their own abodes: drop by the grocery store and fend for yourself. Start simple. Fresh pasta with basil, olive oil and parmesan cheese. You don’t have to slave over a pot of duck sausage gumbo right out of the gate. Get familiar with ingredients and cooking techniques and build your confidence to the perfect hollandaise. I promise to be your lifeline if you’ll just put down the takeout menu. I’ll answer any culinary question under the sun and if I don’t know it, I’ll look it up so I learn something too. So dig out the recipe book that you got for graduation half a decade ago and let’s eat. But more importantly, let’s cook.

That New Car Smell

I don’t know the first thing about cars. When I open up the hood and look at the engine I pray nothing flies out and hits me in the eye. When a light on the dashboard comes on I treat it like a shooting pain down my left arm; I immediately take Bayer and lie down on the couch. Secretly I hope that I am having a heart attack because the medical bills would probably be less than the car repairs. I really wish my mechanic would just tell me what he wants to give his kids for their birthdays so I could buy it and skip the middle man. I’m working on some sort of conversion chart: A flat tire equals some new clothes, a busted belt equals a new bike and a gasket leak equals a new swing set.

I played that game with my car for the past two years. It started with a couple trips at $400 each. It hurt, but it felt like going to the dentist and only having one cavity. I knew it could be worse. A couple months ago, my fear was realized. My EGR valve was clogged and the corresponding sensor was broken, not to mention a few other incidentals. Although it was explained to me, I still have as much understanding of my EGR valve as I do the female body. This round of repairs set me back a cool $1100. With no dashboard lights on and a sizeable debt to Visa, I drove my ’99 Taurus around with confidence. Until a month later when smoke started coming out of the hood.

I’m a firm believer in the saying, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” In this case, where there’s smoke, there’s an oil pan and gasket leak. That, my friends, is a very large swing set with the optional clubhouse. A quick visit to www.kbb.com revealed that based on the blue book value of my car it was not worth fixing. I apologized to my mechanic and told him the family would have to get their spoils from someone else from now on. I was getting a new car. And by new I mean used.

The first part of buying a new car is taking a look at your finances and having a good cry. I was surprised to learn that even when you’re out of tears you can still “cry.” It’s like dry heaving through your eyes. A few days later you can attack the 5 stages of buying a car. One- selling your old car. Two- finding some financing options. Three- deciding what car you’d like, then actually finding a car in your price range. Four - negotiating, or what I like to call experiencing hell from a sales desk. Five - Signing on the dotted line.

Most of these stages require extensive work, research and follow through. Since none of those are my style, I read through a couple websites, grabbed my checkbook and hit the pavement. (Actually that’s not true. I spent three weeks learning everything I could, getting several financing quotes, researching the most reliable cars and their resale values, getting trade-in offers, and calculating out-the-door costs.) I decided on a Honda Civic because I’ve finally learned that American cars just don’t last. I looked at models from ‘02-‘04 and decided that an ’03 with some bells and whistles was what I wanted. After searching several dealerships, I found Honda World in Orange County about a mile from my studio.

Over a couple weeks I test drove cars, did some casual negotiating and found the car for me: A black, 2003 Civic LX with 32,000 miles on it. I apologize to all my friends who drive Civics, especially black ones since it may appear that I’m ripping off their style. Because the car has so little mileage, it’s basically on ’05 and in pristine condition. And it’s shiny. Oh, so shiny. I ended up trading my car into the dealership for a reasonable price and got them to lower their APR because I had my own financing and they wanted to be the ones to loan me the money. I negotiated to about $2500 under blue book value which I feel was aided by the fact that the owner of the dealership is a huge fan of Jim Rome. (For those of you who don’t know, I work on Jim Rome is Burning on ESPN.) Long story short, I am now the proud owner of a new (read slightly used) car and no longer have to deal with flashing lights, smoke signals and oil leaks. Sure I’m on the hook for a substantial amount of money for the next half decade, but if you’re 26 and not five figures in debt, you’re just not living right.

American Idle

I’m not one of those water cooler evangelists who watches every show and has to talk about it at length the very next day with my coworkers. In fact, I’m usually a day behind everyone else since I have to go to bed so early. (I’m up at 5 because I have to be at the studio an hour away by 7.) Normally, I plug my ears and hum when someone comes running in to compare notes about the latest “Lost” episode. “Can you believe they killed Mr. Eko?” Fuck. Thanks a lot. Now, I don’t know what the etiquette is here. Is it my responsibility to steer clear of discussions about the shows I haven’t watched? Should people be required to give a spoiler alert? It’s a gray area. What I do know is that when it comes to reality shows it doesn’t matter. Nothing is being given away. Knowing what happens doesn’t detract from the overall entertainment value of the program. That’s why I have no problem discussing the first episode of American Idol 6 the morning after its premier.

Bottom line: It sucked. SUUUUUUUUUUUUCKED! For at least the past two years I’ve turned on A.I. with the intention of laughing at the tone-deaf insane masses who show up in droves. I plan on having a few chuckles at their expense and then tuning out when the group is pared down. The problem is that I usually get attached to someone. Last year there were two such contestants. I would’ve sold everything to move to Albemarle, North Carolina and marry Kellie Pickler. “Pick Pickler, Pick me!” I don’t care that she comes across as dumb or naïve. She was adorable. And hot. The other person was Bucky Covington. Bucky is from Rockingham, NC, just a few miles from Laurinburg where I went to college. I knew Bucky in passing. He dated a girl in my dorm and sold drugs to my friends. That was enough to give me a rooting interest.

There were no such characters from last night’s premier. Not a single memorable one in the two hours. Yes, the bad contestants were bad, but even they left something to be desired. For the first time the producers actually sent cameras out with contestants who didn’t make it. In the past if they showed footage of singers outside the auditions you knew they’d gotten through. This season they either wanted to trick the audience or there were just no interesting local stories of talented people. The first girl to audition took A.I. to the Mall of America where she worked at a Glamour Shots type place. Maybe she wanted a few more seconds of fame, but the piece gave the audience a sense of hope for her that was crushed moments later when we found out she clearly couldn’t sing, and that false hope was never reconciled by another story that ended with a golden ticket.

Because there weren’t enough feel good stories interspersed, the terrible singers were painful to watch. Where was the Elliot Yamin of Minneapolis? I can’t remember even the first name of anyone the judges put through to Hollywood. There was the Hispanic girl from Florida whose accent was so thick I couldn’t understand her. And there was the navy guy who sang Rascal Flats. Who else? There’s no way any one of those 17 people will win A.I. this season. Sadly, as bad as this episode was, it’s not enough to get me to stop watching. I’ll tune in for another two hours tonight for the 37 minutes of actual content. I’ll cringe for the bad singers and fast forward when Simon makes me uncomfortable. And I’ll be looking for someone to root for in Seattle.

Resolu-shuns

I’m not exactly sure how New Year’s resolutions work. Do you have to decide what they are before the ball drops? Do they go into effect on the first tick of the New Year? Is it okay to come up with your resolutions around mid-January and implement them then? Is there a certain number you should have or is one okay? I don’t know the answers to these questions. I’m trying to figure out two things. The first is am I doing this right?

What’s the etiquette of resolutions? If they’re just for yourself it makes sense that you could set your own rules. That being said, resolutions are usually the result of not being able to follow through. “This year I’m going to work out more.” “I’m going to eat better.” “I’m going to be more organized.” “I’m going to stop spending so much money.” It’s the inability of most people to police themselves that leads to these problems.

The second question is is it okay for your resolution to disrupt the lives of others? I’m not talking about someone resolving to play more practical jokes involving livestock and your personal possessions. I’m talking about resolutions that by their nature affect others. When two hundred people sign up for memberships at my gym, that affects me. Having used the same L.A. Fitness for three years I’m used to the cycle. From January to May you can’t find an open piece of equipment at a reasonable hour. Summer thins the herd and by late fall the gym returns to the regulars plus a committed 2% of the new signups.

A similar situation arose with all the New Year’s dieters a couple years ago. They all went no-carb and changed the landscape of grocery stores and restaurants across the nation. It was easier to get a hamburger wrapped in lettuce than a decent loaf of sourdough. I’m all for self-betterment, but if I can’t find a treadmill at four o’clock on a Tuesday and then go get a sandwich on actual bread, we have a problem.

I’ll be honest. I haven’t made any resolutions this year. I’m like everyone else. Sure I want to waste less money, eat healthier, work out more, and get my life organized, but it’s probably not going to happen. We’re ten days into 2007 and so far I’ve had a salad everyday, I haven’t purchased anything I didn’t need and I’ve been to the gym four times. (I also haven’t had anything alcoholic to drink, but that stems more from how I rung in the year than any plans to cut back on booze.) I’m going to try and stick with these things, but I know they’re not realistic. And since I’ve had such a late start, I’m not going to put any resolution pressure on myself until ’08.

Instead, my gift to 2007 is the definitive list of rules for making New Year’s resolutions. They are as follows:

• You must make your resolutions before the stroke of midnight. However, they don’t take effect until you wake up on January 1st. The first few hours of the New Year aren’t the time to turn over a new leaf and honestly, most of us aren’t sober enough at that time to do so anyway.
  
• You may only make one New Year’s resolution. Let’s face it, you’ve probably got a lot of things to work on, but unless you focus on one, you won’t change any of them. Pick one, make a plan and try not to screw it up before March. Since you probably will, just make the same resolution next year and try to make it to April.
  
• Your resolution may only disrupt the lives of others if you’re serious about what you’re doing. I don’t mind you taking up space at the gym, especially if you’re a girl. I want you to get in better shape because I never tire of looking at attractive women. (Please forward all sexist-themed hate mail to my hotmail account.)
  
• Finally, remember that you don’t have to make a New Year’s resolution. There’s a good chance that you’re perfect.
  
  
  
  

Happy New Year!

After a two week hiatus, I’m back. The holidays were good and I spent my first Christmas away from my family. It was different, but I actually enjoyed it. I celebrated Jesus’ birthday with a couple friends. We cooked a big meal including prime rib and all the trimmings, drank wine and watched “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” I changed into my red onesie and went to sleep. The next morning we opened presents, had mimosas and made brunch. It was a simple holiday, one made so much less stressful by not having to travel. I avoided all the planes, trains and automobiles that make getting home for Christmas exhausting. However, I did travel for New Year’s Eve and those few days were both the best and worst of my life.

A large group of friends and I rented a house in Palm Springs to ring in 2006. It was such a fantastic time that we decided to do it again this year. The place had everything we needed to welcome 2007 in style. Pool. Hot tub. Guest House. Fruit trees. Mountain views. What wasn’t provided, we purchased at CostCo: $700 worth of food and booze to sustain our four day odyssey.

Cocktail hour began as everyone trickled in Friday afternoon. Some people were old friends, while others were meeting for the first time. In some cases, faces were finally put to names. We made lasagna, salad and garlic bread for dinner. By the time the plates went into the sink it seemed like we’d been living at the house together for years. The drinking and camaraderie continued long into the night. And to celebrate the wonderful occasion, the last couple awake had sex in the hot tub.

Saturday was the drunkest day for many. Beer flowed early and water sports were the game of choice. There was a rousing tournament of pool volleyball. Burgers and dogs were grilled. The boozing kicked into high gear during the afternoon and evening. Everyone was building up to our annual dinner at Kobe, a Japanese steakhouse. I was pacing myself because I don’t remember much from the previous year’s trip. However, the rest of the group was getting sauced. By the time the cabs dropped us off for our 9:30 reservation, the collective BAC had to be hovering around point 2. Dinner was entertaining to say the least. My girlfriend reenacted a scene from Wedding Crashers. I’ll let you guess which one. We got home around midnight and everyone pretty much called it a day.

New Year’s Eve was set to be the biggest night of all. On top of the liquor, beer and wine, we had 6 bottles of champagne. The food plan was heavy appetizers. We made shrimp, spring rolls, mozzarella sticks, savory tarts, pizza poppers, etc. It was the best combination of shitty food a drunken person could ask for. Competition at the beer pong table was intense. The liquor flowed and midnight seemed to sneak up out of nowhere. We popped the bubbly, counted down and rang in 2007 with a frenzied dance party. I took a half empty bottle of champagne, filled it with red bull & vodka making a giant Absolut Shambles. Coincidentally, that’s the last thing I remember.

January 1, 2007 was one of the worst days of my life. My hangover definitely falls somewhere in my top 3 all-time. The drive back to L.A. from Palm Springs was brutal. We stopped at In & Out burger at the halfway point. The food was amazing, but nothing was going to make me feel better but time. The total drive was only about two hours and I would’ve cried when I made it to my house had there been any water inside me. I choked down some Gatorade and tried not to shake too badly while watching the Rose Bowl. It took two days to fully recover and I still have no desire for alcohol. Regrets: A few. Resolutions: None. Happy Holidays! Here’s to a great 2007.

Treat yourself to a little T.I.T.C. this holiday season

There are now officially 5 days until Christmas, which means it’s time to recall my favorite holiday memory. I’ve been racking my brain for the past week, but there isn’t a competition for number one. No party, gift or even meal can challenge the one memory that sticks out in my mind. It was exactly one year ago when a friend introduced me to the phenomenon that has consumed my waking life. In a mere forty minutes my world was turned upside down. Tears streamed down my face and I shook with side-splitting laughter. When it was over, I immediately began going through withdrawal. I wanted more, but there wasn’t any. Then I was angry that I had lived so long without it. I’m speaking of course of the hip-hopera by R. Kelly, “Trapped in the Closet.”

For those of you unfamiliar with this masterpiece, it is 12 chapters that detail the story of one man’s affair. Each chapter is its own song that is roughly 3 minutes long. Together they tell the tale of Sylvester (R. Kelly) and the events that take place after he cheats on his wife. The soon-to-be classic involves a cast of characters that you have to see to believe. There’s Twan, Sylvester’s brother-in-law, who just got out of prison. (I falsely believed for a while that his name was actually “Tron” which is way funnier.) There’s Bridget, who is cheating on her husband with a very unlikely stripper. And there’s James, a cop who sleeps with Sylvester’s wife, Gwendolyn. (James is played by Michael K. Williams who you may recognize as Omar Little from “The Wire.”) I’ll only mention Rosy the Nosy neighbor in passing.

I don’t want to spoil the plot for those of you who haven’t seen T.I.T.C., but I’d like to give you a few examples of why it’s so close to my heart. As a fan of rap music I’m accustomed to slant rhyme and understand its place in the hip hop community. However, no artist takes the twisting of words to the level that R. Kelly does. In one of his best moments, he rhymes “dresser” with “berretta.” In other instances he rhymes a word with itself. The brilliance of each chapter is that he ends it with a cliff-hanger line. For example, “The midget faints again...While Twan and Sylvester is trippin'...The midget's the baby's daddy; woo.” If that line alone doesn’t make you want to see it, I don’t know what will.

I’m doing my best to spread the word of “Trapped in the Closet.” I’ve introduced countless individuals to the magic and in turn they’ve passed it on to family and friends. Even those skeptical of R. Kelly because of his affinity for urinating on underage women have come around and seen the light. Don’t let any pre-conceived notions stop you from fully immersing yourself in this Hip-Hopera. If you buy yourself one thing this Christmas make it the “Trapped in the Closet” DVD. Skip the Egg Nogg. Avoid the Mistletoe. Don’t even hang the stockings. It will be the best $18 you’ve ever spent.

Clear and Presents Danger

There is one aspect of Christmas that is by far everyone’s favorite. Decorated trees are nice. Snow is an added bonus. The food is plentiful and delicious. However, no mug of spiked egg nogg or string of flashing lights can hold a candle to getting presents. We’re told from a young age that it is better to give than receive, but that’s not true. Sure it’s fun to pick out the perfect present for your friend or loved one and see their expression when they open it, but the next step is finding out what they got you in return. If it was truly better to give than receive it wouldn’t be awkward when a person who you’ve bought nothing for gives you a present. That’s why Christmas shopping can be so stressful. You have to buy a gift for not only your loved ones, but anyone who you think might get you something.

There are ways to avoid the inevitable awkwardness of a one-sided gift exchange. If someone gives you a present while you’re out and about you can just tell them their gift is at home. That will buy you a day or so to actually get them something. Or you can be proactive and buy a generic gift that will work for just about anyone and keep it with you at all times. Leave it in the trunk of your car or in your book bag and claim the tag must’ve fallen off when you hand it to them. If you’re faced with a surprise gift giver at your house, the only recourse is to tell them you ordered their present online and it hasn’t arrived yet. No matter how you’re presented with an unexpected gift, the important thing is not to panic. Anyone who gets you something for Christmas considers your friendship stronger than it actually is, so they’ll want to believe whatever excuse you come up with.

Another one of my favorite forced giving situations is the Secret Santa or White Elephant party. These can be amazing fun and I’m not knocking them, but they can also be torture. The worst example of this is the company or corporate version. Buying scented lotion for the girl three cubicles down is about as fun as receiving McDonald’s dollars from the guy in the mailroom. Essentially the Secret Santa office party is trading $25 cash for something equivalent in value, but of no desire to anyone. And why do people insist on telling everyone who they had. It’s Secret Santa! Secret. Trust me, no one wants to know that you bought the Legos because you thought it’d be funny. Gag gifts usually don’t elicit much of a laugh outside of bachelor parties. Jesus wasn’t birthed into a mound of dirty hay so you could give me an oversize talking Budweiser mug the Friday before Christmas.

Speaking of inappropriate presents, I’d like to clear up a common misconception. Many people consider gift certificates to be in poor taste. They seem to indicate that the giver is lazy and thoughtless. I disagree. Sure you may have some lazy and thoughtless people in your life, but gift certificates are a great option. Cash is insensitive, but money designated to one store is a great idea. A gift card to Blockbuster says, “Hey, I know how much you like movies.” So this Christmas, stop by Target and Best Buy and stock up on gift certificates. They’re great for last minute lop-sided gift exchanges, office Secret Santa parties and friends/relatives who might live on the other side of the country. It’s certainly better to receive a gift card than a latex can coozie shaped like a condom.

‘Tis the Beginning of the Season

Even before the last bits of turkey had been piled on slices of white bread and smothered in the final spoonfuls of gravy, city workers everywhere were busy stringing festive lights across our great nation. Christmas no longer waits for December 25th; it begins in November and doesn’t end until the last dried evergreen is dragged to the curb well after the New Year. People everywhere repeat the mantra “‘Tis the Season” because Christmas is so much bigger than one single day. In honor of the build up to the big occasion, I’m going to wax poetic about the holiday from now until January 1st. I’ve decided to begin with one of my favorite winter memories from college: the time I thought I was paralyzed.

December in Laurinburg, N.C. can be particularly cold, especially when juxtaposed with the ungodly heat and humidity of the summer. The winter of my freshman year stands out as one of the more frigid of my life, but not necessarily due to the actual temperature. It was no doubt chilly, but I didn’t have any of the warming elements of the season I was accustomed to while living at home. After class I couldn’t return to a toasty living room and enjoy hot chocolate, instead I spent those gray afternoons in a cold dorm room with cinderblock walls. The pine roping and poinsettia-lined hearth of my childhood was replaced by a desk from the 60’s and a thick stack of exam review materials.

The winter of ’98 was completely foreign to me. For the first time in my life, I was on my own and responsible for myself. Unfortunately, I’m sometimes irresponsible and that’s how I woke up one morning with the belief that I couldn’t move my legs. My philosophy was work hard during the week and play hard on the weekend. I rarely missed a class and always got good grades. In return, I participated in the most hallowed of college traditions: drinking. Aside from some questionable Sunday afternoon hangovers, life was good.

If I had a complaint, it was that the winters around campus were boring. Laurinburg isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. Couple that with the cold, overcast days and the only answer was drinking games. In fact, we had our own suite devoted to beer pong with malt liquor. One memorable evening, I consumed several 40’s and retired early. In the middle of the night I had to get up to use the bathroom. I entered the stall and leaned against the door. The combination of alcohol and standing up too fast caused me to pass out. I hit the floor next to the toilet and would later find out that I’d been asleep for an hour.

When I woke, I was disoriented to say the least. I tried to push myself up off the floor, but my legs wouldn’t move. I laid face down next to the toilet struggling with every ounce of strength when it occurred to me that I must be paralyzed. I screamed, “Help! Help!” as loud as I could, but no one could hear me. I decided that if I could just roll over I could pull myself out of the stall and maybe back to my room. That’s when I realized I wasn’t paralyzed, I was retarded. It seems that when I blacked out the stall door had closed over top of me, pinning my legs to the floor. So this Christmas season I urge you all to be safe. Whether it’s Colt 45 or Egg Nog drink responsibly and remember that if you wake up and can’t move it doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve handicapped yourself.