Seton Hall University

16 Nov 2009.  Look at this pirate.  It is the most subdued pirate I have seen.  He's not grinning or scowling or yelling or keelhauling.  A logo more fitting for beachside condos or an investment firm.

Pirate Annuities.  Mutiny your financial fears.

"Uncle Dan?  What are you doing down here from New York?"

Uncle Dan looked around as he approached the cashier's desk.  He peered at the various prices on the shelves.  After handling a few bottles of vodka, he pointed toward the young man behind the desk.  Uncle Dan was now in salesmanship mode.  As usual.

"Rag, have I got an opportunity for you!"  Uncle Dan beamed through his doughy face and shook Rag's hand.

"What...what are you thinking about?"  Rag took back his hand and wiped it on his stringy blond hair.

"As you know, I have a line of top selling wines to my name."

"Yes, we do not stock much wine though."

"I know, but liquors are in the back of my head.  Tremendous upside.  But that's later.  I'm talking about now.  Or, two months from now."

Rag verbally calculated.  "Two months from now..."

"That's February, Rag.  My winery is doing our biggest promotion yet and I need your experience."

"My experience...here?  Stock boy and cashier?"

"And business student, all in Newark, the liquor store capital of the world!  I need a stock boy and cashier like yourself to help with the whole operation.  I can't pay you but I'll cover the flight and incidentals and some event tickets."

"A flight?  Ohhhh, you need me to show you around Norway!"

"Norway?  Norway?  You are still stuck in your Norwaygian wees, uh, your Norwegian ways, Rag.  Don't you ever watch the news?  Do you know what's happening in February?"

Rag shrugged.

"Only the biggest Canadian celebration since Terry Fox won the Stanley Cup!"

Uncle Dan pulled a blue-and-green-swirled folder out and slapped it down on the counter.  On it read the label:

VANCOUVER 2010

CORPORATE CHAMPION PACKET

AYKROYD, DANIEL

Fairfield University

16 Nov 2009. The recognizable image and ubiquity of the deer in the U.S. make it popular on seals and coats of arms. But it is rarely a sports mascot despite its speed, strength, and knives on its head. A pro basketball team has taken 'Bucks' and Fairfield is trying hard with 'Stags' though even that sounds a bit shady. Limited, wussy synonyms are holding the deer back. Yet on the feline side we have panthers, tigers, lions, cougars, wildcats, tiger-cats, and bearcats (which is totally made-up, where are the beardogs, the eaglemoose, and the sharkdeer?).


*vomit*
"Gggghhhhh." Benny remained stooped over, one hand on the hefty planter of mountain laurel, the other over his stomach. Light snow started gathering on his back. He looked up and saw his neon green work.
"Frakking ABSINTHE. I will never, never, never, NEVER drink like that again."
Blue light flickered off the street sign ahead. Benny recognized the light pattern without having to turn.
"Please no cops. Please no cops. Don't want another drunk in public. I just want to sit here in this...what is this...bank parking lot for a little while more."
The blue lights mellowed to green. Benny rubbed his eyes and commanded them to
"See normal!"
but the lights stayed green. He finally turned around to face the law.
Sure enough, it was the cops. A green and white police cruiser with a green light bar and...green headlights? It momentarily mesmerized Benny.
"Never seen one of those."
The driver side door opened. The aviatored female cop asked her rhetorical questions quickly and authoritatively.
"Someone called in a report of alcohol renunciation at this location. Do you know anything about this, sir?"
"Uh, I don't have my phone. What is a renunciation?"
"Did you recently swear off drinking, sir?"
"I...I don't know. Maybe." Benny glanced at the side of the cruiser: GREEN FAIRY SHERIFF. Green Fairy?? Was that by Mystic? That was a good hour away!
The cop suddenly produced a clipboard from nowhere. "Take a listen: 'I will never, never, never, never drink like that again.' Sound familiar?"
"Are you going to arrest me or not?"
"You will be visited tonight by our cervine patrolmen. They'll handle it from here. Have a good night." The cop scribbled a few notes on her clipboard and drove off.

Benny stood, blinking. He didn't know where he was, or what happened that night. He did know he was not waiting for any other cops. Before he could start off in any non-face-first direction, a sharp pop made Benny jump. A light at the bank's entrance had burnt out with the piercing of...an antler. Its attached voice came straight from the frat house.
"Whoa! I'm still not used to these things. Got 'em last week, you know. My first renunciation. I guess I did pretty well." The deer admired his rack in the bank window.
"What's going on? What did I drink??"
"It's not what you drank, dude, it's what you promised not to drink. Do you have any idea what your life would be like without alcohol? How many good things have happened to you because of it?"
"Anybody see this? I'm getting lectures from TALKING DEER HERE!!"
"Relax, dude. Just go with it. Now climb on up, it's time for some show and tell."
The deer flicked his head. Benny's feet gave out from under him. Instead of bruising his tailbone, he flew up onto the deer's back. Benny grabbed onto the green-velveted antlers.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy on the sweet antlers. Hold the scruff, thanks."
Benny looped his arms around the deer's neck. The deer walked into the empty street. He started up into a gallop.
"Didn't our officer tell you I was coming, dude?"
"..She...I don't know...I'm not in my best mind right now."
"Yeah, but who ever is?"
The deer leaped over some shrubs. It didn't land, instead rising higher in the snowy sky. Benny wove his fingers together, putting a skinny-boy death grip on his ride.
"Jeezum crow, ghost deer! What is happening!?"
"I already said, show and tell. And my name's J.M." - the deer affected an over-the-top macabre voice - "your Spirit of Liquors Paaaast."

The deer and rider appeared in the middle of a cafeteria. The tables were lined with chafing dishes and young people, both reflecting the flood of fresh daylight.
"Recognize this?" asked J.M.
Benny answered, "Sure, it's the dining hall back at Fairfield."
"More specifically?"
An older student dressed in black walked past. "There's my old roommate, Trevor. Hey Trevor!"
"Don't worry about that, they can't see us. Pay attention, Benny. Look." J.M. nodded to the end of a long table. Trevor sat and started chatting with a blonde. The body language said they had just met.
"Cynthia! I think, hmm, I think this is - "
J.M. and Benny stepped back as the younger Benny walked past them. Young Benny was carrying a tray and sat next to Trevor. Young Benny waved hello and started in on his stack of waffles.
"Yes! This is where I first met Cynthia. Surprised she talked to me after this. Not my finest moment."
"Oh, no?"
"Look at me, still swaying, face first into my breakfast. Too much whatever from the night before."
"Jagermeister."
"Huh?"
"You had 7 Jagerbombs the night before. Pretty strong performance. Benny, if you hadn't had the urge to stifle your hangover with a super stack of dining hall waffles, you'd never have met your future wife. You follow yet?"
"Because of...Jagermeister, that's why you're here? Why not thank the waffles?"
"I don't see the ghost of Aunt Jemima parading you around. Waffles don't factor into the next one. Cassie will take over from here, dude."
"Who's Cassie?"
Benny looked over his shoulder. A golden stag motioned J.M. away. The floor dropped out from underneath. The people and plateware melted into wisps. The walls collapsed and the light shrank from view. Benny found himself atop his new friend.

"Cassie, huh."
"Mucho gusto." Benny was surprised to hear a feminine voice from a 12-point buck.
"I didn't think lady deers had antlers."
"No es realidad, Benny."
"Right."

Cassie and Benny landed on an open grassy area. Cement paths criss-crossed the lawn. Towering above them was a larger-than-life bronze sculpture of Fairfield's stag mascot. Benny dismounted and got his balance. He pointed to a building a couple hundred yards away.
"That's the dining hall there. Did we really need to travel through space and time? We could have just walked."
"Silencio. Mira."
Benny shut his mouth and looked. The moon and emergency blue lights illuminated two people walking toward the statue. Cassie and Benny backed off.
"Okay, okay, the dining hall thing was a stretch, but this - this definitely has alcohol to thank."
"¿Por qué?"
"You didn't have to bring me here, I remember this vividly. Maybe not clearly, but vividly. Does that make sense? I don't care. I had just returned from Spring Break in Cancun. I brought Cynthia back a souvenir, but the tequila was to help me with my courage as well."
"¿Tequila?"
"Yes, it was - " Benny smirked at Cassie. "Ha! It was Cazadores! Verrry clever."
"Aquí es donde usted pediste que Cynthia le casara."
"And she said yes."
"Tu recuerdas muy bien."
"Of course I remember it well. I've always liked this deer statue. Very classy. Classy for Cassie. Hey, you're a deer. What do you think of it? Is it anatomically correct?"
Cassie grunted a deer laugh. "Es muy grande."
"What's big? The statue, or the antlers, or...?"
Cassie winked.
"Ha! No es realidad, right??"
"Sí."
Young Benny slipped the ring on Cynthia's finger.
They kissed and embraced.
And faded from view.

"EVENIN' BENNY!"
"No need to yell!" Benny was now grasping a shaggy black mane. He tried to raise his head to see who was driving or where he was going.
"Keep ya head down now! I knob a lot of renunciations, I don't want to knob you!"
The thick coarse hair matched the thick coarse Scottish accent.
"And I'm shoutin' to warm up your ears, coz it's gonna get LOUD!"
The hairy deer sped across the night sky. He descended toward a sparkling rainbow of pinpoint lights. The lights grew bigger. Building outlines came into view.
Benny and deer #3 were not slowing down.
"Hey, deer, sir, hey. Hey, uh, my stomach's still not 100%. So, please watch - "
The new deer spastically dipped, spun around the now-visible hotel complex, and stopped on a dime in the loading dock. Benny was rocked off onto the concrete.
"Oof. You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
"Always do. Name's Glen, not that you'll be using it. You're on your own for this one."
Benny didn't respond. He was taking stock of Glen's mess of antlers.
"Wow, 64 points? I didn't know that was possible."
"How many talking deer do you have to meet to realize this isn't real? Now get to that night club!"
Glen turned tail and booted Benny in the backside. He fell into the waiting freight elevator. The doors closed and brought him down, down, down. When they opened, he wandered to the end of the hall. Scattered matchbooks on the ground told him he was in the Mohegan Sun casino. Cocktail waitresses were walking in and out a pair of double doors. He pushed his way in. Thumping house music assaulted his eardrums.
"The night club at the Mohegan Sun? What is this all about?"
A guy in a too-big sport coat wobbled past. He held the waist of a glammed-up blonde in one hand and a bottle of Glenfiddich in the other.
"Cynthia?"
Benny, finally getting used to his invisibility, defiantly followed his wife and her companion. All three stumbled into the men's bathroom.

The freight elevator dinged hello. Benny, in his 'borrowed' sport coat, and Cynthia, in her little black dress, staggered out under power of bouncers.
Glen watched, puffing on an Arturo Fuente.
The bouncers and the couple exchanged shouts. The couple finally ended up shuffling across the parking lot.
Ghost Benny took the next elevator up. He confronted Glen.
"Why would you show me that? That was the single most embarrassing thing I have done. What's worse, I don't even remember any of it!"
Glen dropped his cigar and stamped it out, staying silent.
"Let me understand this now: J.M. shows me when I meet Cynthia, Cassie shows me proposing to her, and you show me getting thrown out of an Indian casino for having sex in their night club bathroom? One of these things is not like the others, Glen!"
"This one is a little less clear." Glen cleared his throat, lowering the volume. "But you really aren't seeing the common thread here?"
"What common thread?"
"Hmm. We may have jumped the gun then. Thought you knew."
"Thought I knew what?"
"I'll let her tell you."
Glen disappeared in a puff of smoke. The Mohegan Sun followed.

Benny, back in Fairfield, blinked his eyes. He shivered. A light layer of snow had gathered on his hair and sweater. He slowly pulled himself up the fence of...his house. He couldn't remember leaving the bank parking lot. Making his way in the front door, he kicked off his shoes, trying to be quiet. He didn't try hard enough. They knocked against the bannister with a thunk.
He swished with mouthwash in the front bathroom before heading upstairs.
Cynthia headed him off.
"Benny? Is that you?"
"Cynthia?"
Cynthia came out of the bedroom. "What happened?"
"I lost my phone. I'm okay though. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine. I got some news for you."
"Uh oh, good news doesn't come in the middle of the night."
"It came earlier today. I tried to call and tell you!...I'm pregnant!"
"Pregnant?  Pregnant!  We're having a baby! That is good news! That's amazing! Ohh...."
"What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Hey, when were we at the Mohegan Sun last?"
"The casino? That was our anniversary, almost a year ago."
"Not quite a year. Nine months ago!"
"Nine months? You think that - "
"I know that."
"Great. We'll never be able to tell our kid his conception story."
"I'm sure he or she will be totally fine with that, Cynthia."
"Let's just stick to the stork story."
"Okay, the stork. Or the deer. Three wonderful, magical deer brought us our baby. One was green and talked with a surfer accent, one was a Mexican doe, and one was a 64-point Scottish buck."
"Uh, sure, why not. Benny, are you feeling well enough to celebrate? We still have some scotch left if you are."
Benny instinctively opened the upstairs liquor cabinet. His smile disappeared for a moment. He paused and looked closer at the bottle. He turned on the mini spotlight to examine the deer logo on the Glenfiddich bottle. He caught himself counting antler points again. He blinked and closed the cabinet door.
"Changed your mind, Benny?"
"Yeah, not now. I want to remember this celebration."
Benny clicked off the cabinet light and led Cynthia into the bedroom.

Outside, in the early morning snowfall, three deer grazed through Benny's front yard.
The bedroom light above them flickered on.  The deer took notice.
After a few minutes, the light faded away.
As did the deer.

Sacred Heart University

16 Nov 2009. Whoa! Caught in the lunch rush of a normal school day! Youthful pedestrians everywhere! Now this is the buzz, the pulse, the lifeblood, the soul, the spirit, the energy, the sacred heart of a campus.


"Hello?"
"Trevor?"
"Hello, Ishmael."
"Trevor! How's the priesthood!! Any hot nuns?"
"Ah, it's hard to tell. With the robes and all."
"Say hi to the hot nuns for me when you figure it out. Getting used to the northeast yet?"
"It's Fairfield, Connecticut. It's as exciting as it sounds. But I'm getting on all right. But you! I hear you're a TV star! Tell me all about that. I finally have some time."
Ish laughed. "TV star?? I spent a few weeks in BFE Iowa. It was fun but I'm no star."
"Iowa...what kind of show is this in Iowa? Nature show?"
"Reality show. You never heard of The Real World?"
Trevor lied. "Ah, the TV show? Yeah I think so. So...did you win?"
"There's not really a winner, but, yes I won. Wink wink. MTV can recruit some fine looking talent...not to rub it all in your face, Father van Ness. I still don't see how you can go without the women."
"You're not rubbing it in my face, you know, it's part of my commitment. But I'm not a 'Father' yet, so you can still call me Trevor until then. In fact, I'd prefer it."
"Good, that sounded weird the moment I said it. When you get promoted to Pope, then I'll call you Father. Or Padre. Yeah, I like Padre."
"Pope?? Hold on now - "
"But if I call you Trevor, can you stick with calling me Ish? Ishmael is too formal."
"Isn't that your name?"
"You're the last one that still calls me Ish!"

A call of distress interrupted the old friends.
"DEACOOOOOOOOOOON! Deacon, I need you!"

Ish asked, "Who's that? What's going on?"
"Ah, one of the nuns. Probably Sister Mary."
"Ha, nuns in trouble! Do your thing, Trevor. We'll catch up later."
"No, I keep putting you off and I feel bad about it. I'll call right back. Sorry, Ish."

Trevor stood up as a wizened old nun puttered in.
"Sister Mary, what seems to be the problem? You're screaming bloody murder while I'm on the phone."
"I'm sorry, Deacon, but this is an emergency! We've been robbed!"
"Well, hold on now. What was taken?"
"My sacred candy hearts!"
"...Your what now?"
"They were in a jar on the mantle! It's open and they're gone!"
"Wait...you think someone broke in to steal candy hearts? We can buy another bag at The Pantry."
The wizened old nun spit dust. "Buy...another...bag? Do you even know what the sacred candy hearts were? I was meticulously hand painting the psalms on these tiny hearts. It was hours and hours and hours of my time. I was almost finished! They were irreplaceable! I cannot just buy another bag!"
Sister Mary was red.
Trevor was pale.
Yes, these chalky candy hearts had tiny words on them, but don't they all? They were sitting in a candy dish above the fireplace for all to enjoy!
He was now very afraid of this wizened old nun.
"I...didn't know...there was anything special about them. I...offered them to our visitors...I'm sorry."
Trevor thought the wizened old nun's eyes were going to fall out of her head.
"You...gave...them...away!?"
"Not...not all of them! There's still some left, right?" He slowly circled around her.
"YOU GAVE THEM AWAY!"
"Let's go see right now!" Trevor ran down the hall to the living room.
The jar was mostly empty, one pink one lay at the bottom.
"Here's one right here!" He held it up as a vampire hunter would hold a cross. Part righteous-power, part please-don't-kill-me. Sister Mary was on his heels with fire in her eyes.
She still had the composure to ask, "Read it to me! I don't have my looking glass."
Trevor held his breath and silently said a half-second prayer.

Please don't let this be one of those psalms about smiting.

Trevor could not have picked a better psalm out of the Bible.
"Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered."
The wizened old nun's posture softened. She breathed and actively took control of herself. "Psalm 32. All right, Deacon, all right. We can just ask your visitors to give them back. It will be okay, I apologize for the outburst."
"Give them back? But they were candies. We...ah, we ate them."

******

"Trevor?"
"Ish."
"What's going on now? You sound out of breath. Everything okay?"
"Oh yeah. All good. Just a nun calling me a motherfucker."

Let It Ride!!!

NoBowls.com is letting me help out with an FBS/FCS college football "let it ride" contest. There isn't much online in way of I-AA contests, so I'm excited about it.

Finally...a college football pick'em for FCS fans!

The folks at NoBowls.com – The FCS Bracketology Website – are hosting a FREE College Football “Let It Ride" Contest. Pick one team from each conference, FBS and FCS (including independents), for a total of 27 teams. Once you submit your picks, you “let it ride” and stick with these teams for the entire regular season and postseason. Your teams will accumulate points as explained below, ending with one player being crowned the Season Champion! If it reaches 100 entrants, there will be also great prizes at stake! Get your entry in by Sept 2 at 5:00 PM EST, then check on the standings at NoBowls.com!

***Closed to new entries***

Regular Season Scoring
Win = 5 pts
Shutout Bonus = 5 pts
Blowout Bonus = 1 pt per 7 point margin of victory
Example: One of your teams wins 14-0. You earn 12 points (5 for winning, 5 for shutting out opponent, 2 for winning by 14).
Super Sweep Bonus = 50 pts
For any regular season week that your teams earn 100 pts using the first three rules, you get an extra 50 pts!

FCS team defeats FBS team = 100 pts
Finish with a .500 record or higher = 25 pts
Win 10+ games = 100 pts
Win conference = 100 pts

Postseason Scoring (FBS Teams Only)
Qualify for Non-BCS Bowl Game = 50 pts
Win Non-BCS Bowl Game = 100 pts
Qualify for BCS Bowl Game = 100 pts
Win BCS Bowl Game = 200 pts
Qualify for BCS Title Game = 250 pts
Win BCS National Title = 500 pts

Postseason Scoring (FCS Teams Only)
Qualify for 1st round game = 20 pts
Win 1st round game = 30 pts
Earn 1st round bye = 50 pts
Win 2nd round game = 75 pts
Win quarterfinal game = 100 pts
Win semifinal game = 250 pts
Win National Title = 500 pts

***Closed to new entries***

One entry per email address. Entries due Sept. 2, 2010, 5:00 PM EST. Prize availability based on minimum 100 entrants. For the purposes of the game, the following teams are listed as independent: Notre Dame, Navy, Army, Old Dominion, Georgia State, Lamar, Winston Salem State, Savannah State. Rules may be amended at any time without notice.

Yale University

16 Nov 2009. In my road atlas, Montana, our fourth largest state, takes up two pages. But so does Connecticut, our third smallest. So while the page of Bozeman to the border may take most of a day, blazing through the Connecticut centerfold barely takes two hours. Two hours, ideally. If only the state weren't chock full of universities, including the alma mater of George Bush I, Jodie Foster, George Bush II, and Joe College.


"What do you think it was like to lick a dinosaur?"
Otter again resists turning his head. "...What?"
"I think it would be like licking a damp radial tire."
"Let's get back on track here, please."
"It is not so off track if you think about it. Examining our handsome bulldog's throat, mouth, and tongue, I can't even begin to imagine the people and things he has licked through his years. And they are all gone! He may have even licked the dodo! So that got me thinking about other extinct animals."
"If we succeed here, he will be able to lick all the dodos he wants."
"That is if somebody, somewhere, has a dodo reasonably intact."
"Of course."

A steady rain fell outside, though Otter and Dr. Li wouldn't know. They were holed up in the sanitized fluorescent basement of West Campus Hall, wiring up a recently-thawed bulldog. Yale's Life Science department had this particular animal on indefinite loan from the Smithsonian Institution. It was rumored to be the 'Vocal Specimen' that dusty old fables had described as capable of primitive speech. The Smithsonian had no more room for a dead dog when Jerry Seinfeld donated various artifacts from his '90s sitcom. It proved to be a coup for the foot-traffic-starved tourist attraction.
Otter had choked, "They can't decide whether to be Ripley's or Access Hollywood. Idiotic museum is no longer an oxymoron; it's the sad reality."

Back in New Haven, Dr. Li studied an MRI scan of the canine's skull.
"It really does have a highly-developed Broca, responsible for..." Li trailed off. His gut suddenly tightened. He felt nauseous. A sudden emotional urge flew up from his stomach, up his torso, and out his mouth. He had to introduce the gorilla in the room.
"Otter, this is playing God. I cannot attempt this. I am sorry."
Otter put down the mini-electrodes and stood straight. "You say that like it is completely horrible. Your friend Professor Lee - the other Professor Lee - didn't have a problem with it. We're just playing God. We're not actually being God. I agree no human could handle that. If there is a God, he gave us these gifts, this opportunity, this mummified bulldog. We are this close! It might not even work."
"But if it does work..."
"If it does work? Longevity treatments, medical breakthroughs, threatened species no longer threatened, not to mention massive academic endowments and the most luxurious tenure ever. Let's make this specimen vocal again."
"But - "
Otter dropped the lighthearted tone. "No more buts."
He made a quick injection into the dog's sternum, re-aligned the electrodes on its chest, and tapped out a few commands on the nearby workstation's inlaid keyboard. The generator beneath the stainless steel dissection table hummed to life. Four small lights on the generator lit up in succession.
Red. Red. Red. Green.
The hum crescendoed into a harsh buzz. The generator emitted a frightening pop. Otter and Li jumped back. The dog had been shocked onto its side. Its cute squat legs dangled over the edge. They began to twitch.
Li whispered, "The specimen is moving!"
Otter whispered back, "I see. Watch."
Li and Otter were facing the dog's golden hindquarters. They could not witness the blinking eyelids or the emerging tongue.
But they heard the cough.
The revived dog coughed weakly at first, then with more vigor. The last cough definitely had an unsettling human quality to it. Otter and Li exchanged looks, each with the same question on their faces. They clearly had spent too much time discussing the urban legends of the Vocal Specimen. The stories had finally got to them.
Dogs cannot speak.
Dogs cannot speak English.
And most certainly, dogs cannot speak English with a New Jersey accent.
Yet here was Jethro.

"PLAAAAGKH! I'm gettin' reeeal sick of the taste of formaldehyde."

A Special FIFA World Cup Message

Over a month ago (one month already??), Mexico said ‘kiss my aztec’ to all the haters, beat hosts South Africa, and bleu out the cocky French. Even Bafana Bafana would springbok from a loss to Uruguay to beat the French.

Coached by that pampas windbag Maradona, Argentina turned a potentially messi situation into a dominating first place finish in Group B. The Greeks scored their first ever Big Fat World Cup Goal in defeating Nigeria, for whom things fell apart. South Korea had some Seoul searching to do after a tough loss in round 2.

Though England had an arsenal of stars, the US yanked away a tie and eventually first place in the group. Algeria was algiers and no cheers. And the Slovenians went home in shame and put their heads in the wood stove, a common practice that lent its name to the country: slow oven +YAHHHHH (the screams of one’s hair catching on fire).

In a big upset, the Germans GOT SERBED 1-0. But Serbia as a new soccer power in Europe? I wouldn’t kosovar as to say that. The fans of the Black Stars knew their team was Ghana win in round 2 and send the US home. Argh. Donovan ask about it. Poor Australia, sure they were underdingos…but I Canberra to watch a 4-0 loss. Socceroo fans are outback chundering.

Is this finally the year for the Netherlands? Dutch you think that’s exciting?? Every Holland van Goghs wild at the idea! Honda was revving up for Japan, but then his brakes failed and his team hit a wall called Paraguay. Denmark took their one win thanks to FIFA not letting a replay Cameroon the beautiful game. But their overall finish dane impress anyone.

Paraguay’s official mascot is the Night Monkey, but their unofficial mascots are the paraguayt bweasts in the picture below. Pardon me, did you just call Slovakia slow…fock ya! The Kiwis polished off an undefeated World Cup, scoring their first ever points in the tournament. New Zealand also left the Italians feeling auckward and sicily depressed after a 1-1 tie.

North Korea had a Brazilian to one chance in their opener, but at least they scored. Photos of a jubilant Kim Jong-Il dancing with three underage drag queens later appeared on DMZ.com. Just another Korea defining moment for great leader. Without Drogba, Cote D’Ivoire proved to be a white elephant. Although Ronaldo scored a touchdown for the Portuguese, in round 2 the Lusophones were lusers. (Lusophonies also accepted.)

The Five Stars showed Hondurance but it would be a Chile day in Hell before they could compete with Humberto Suazo’s squad. Spain was madridful than anything in losing to Switzerland. The Spaniards were the ones with Swiss Miss in their shorts that day. OOH, BERN!

If uruthinking that only Brazil would be the lone hope for South America, Uruguaaaay’s off. Nether speak of that again. Germany has bavaria active in developing their young players. But Spain…que golazo Spain. You’re tapas in the world today. Congratulations. El primero is always the best.

Quinnipiac University

16 Nov 2009. Quinnipiac! Small New England college par excellence!
Hiding behind Mt. Carmel and the Sleeping Giant, one student center, one quad from which you can see the whole campus in a Maria von Trapp twirl*, and one security guard checking his watch and eying my overstuffed German-designed, Mexican-built car with suspicion as I blatantly disregarded the 10 Minute Visitor Parking sign.

Ken Becker skated into the penalty box. The one-person wooden bench creaked under the weight of Ken in his full pads. The referee had accused him of hooking, a lame offense even when committed on purpose. Both Ken and his tripping victim looked surprised that it was even called at all.
Club ice hockey was populated with strong, talented players who lacked the time or discipline to play full varsity at their school. Fouls and violations were off the charts, but if the refs stopped play to call them all, a game would take twice as long. At regional tournaments like this one at Thornton Wilder Arena in Hamden, Connecticut, moving the games along was especially important.
Many players took advantage of this leniency.

Like Nick Cassavetes.

Nick, a young man whose body was immune to deodorant, greased his way from goal line to goal line. He trailed a delightful mixture of sweat, Gatorade, and protein gel.
"This scash is for you, K-Becker!"
Ken watched his University of Dayton teammate grin his way down the rink. Nick didn't follow the puck; he homed in an unlucky Quinnipiac defenseman. When he was a few feet from the boards, Nick turned his head to the side, lining up the side of his helmet with the back of his slower opponent's head.
The Plexiglas panels on hockey sideboards are built to be flexible and show some give. Under normal circumstances, that is. If a force is continually pushing on you, your body will absorb the full impact. If the force is a Nick Cassavetes, the impact is most definitely full-bodied.
The two players slammed into the boards. The bolts held, but the few spectators in the first rows still jumped back. Nick and his new buddy lost their balance, ending up on the ice. Nick got up quickly, ready for his timeout. The ref whistled him and gave him the expected full five minute duty in the sin bin. And, well, the other guy was woozy. He had to be helped off the ice by his fuming goalie.


Ken and Nick shared a glove bump.
"Welcome to the box, Nick."
"Sup, K-Becker." Nick gasped as he pulled his mouthguard through his black goatee.
"What were you yelling to me?"
"The scash is for you. Brothers in arms, man."
"Ah, right, scash. Scalp crash. You scashed him good."
"He'll live. Scash only dazes 'em. Haknotch takes 'em down."
Ken thought, For someone so open about committing penalties, Nick sure loves to use his secret code words. Ken couldn't recall hearing haknotch before.
"Haknotch, what's that one again...half kill on my watch?"
"Hard knee to the crotch, K-Becker! Hard knee to the crotch. Gotta be careful with that one though. Might get you tossed from the game for good if they see it."
"Then when would you even use it?"
"I'm always prepared to use it. But now..."
Nick and Ken looked up at the scoreboard: UD 0, QU 3.
"...I think I just might have to sacrifice myself to give us a chance."
Nick peered unblinkingly at the opposing goaltender, #50.
Ken said, "Nick, the goalie?? Why don't you stay away from the goalie, it's not even their first stringer."
"Exactly! We can't score against some replacement? I need to make them bring in the third stringer."
Ken's penalty time ticked down to zero. "You do what you do, Nick. Watch yourself." He popped out of the box and back on the ice.
For the last few minutes of Nick's time on the pine, he studied the home team's goalie. #50 wasn't on the roster; he came in when the starter was still vomiting from a Tabasco chugging contest the night before. The new guy was smaller but alert. He and Nick exchanged malicious looks several times. When Nick mouthed 'Go **** yourself', #50 blinked casually and turned his attention back to the rink.

When Nick was let loose, he called to Ken.
"K-Becker! I need a mess in the crease!"
Ken nodded, lazily skating toward their opponent's goal, drawing in QU's defensemen and UD's other wings. He flung a wrister which #50 easily handled. Nick let his momentum carry him into the back of two players, who then piled into the goal crease. Two UD players and another QU player joined the mix, jabbing at each other. The refs whistled a stoppage in play and moved to separate the two sides. Underneath the hubbub, Nick found #50.
"You're unstoppable for a new guy. Have a haknotch."
Nick set his left skate and pushed his right knee up into #50's groin. There was a little more space than usual. #50 didn't groan and collapse like all the others. Instead, he dropped his stick and gloves, pulled out the front of Nick's jersey, and ran his tiny hands inside and up to Nick's chest.
"What in hell you doin', you queer napsa-"
Nick felt a pinch, a severe twist, a fist to the gut. He tried to gulp air, but he could not breathe. He didn't even know he was on his back until #50 looked down on him, pulling up his massive goalie mask.
Make that her mask.
"Haknotch. Cute. How do you like my quinipac?"
"Guhhhhh." Nick's chest was on fire. #50 went back to minding her net. Without her mask, Nick could now see her long sandy hair.
Ken took Nick's arm and pulled him up and off the ice.
"What happened to the haknotch, Nick?"
"She...quinipacked me, K-Becker."
"Quinipacked you?"
"Quick nipple attack...Can't believe it...a quinipac from Quinnipiac...just beautiful."
"Wow. So you're all right then."
"Ha. All right? I'm in love."

*To counter this Broadway musical reference, I submit for your approval: Megan Fox in a wet t-shirt contest holding six mugs of Miller Lite and a Husqvarna.

Rider University

13 Nov 2009. Does that horse's eye look right to you? It's kind of rolling back in its head. Is this out of pleasure, fear, pain, sarcasm, hallucinogens - what is it?? I'll stay on my high horse and won't accept that it's just bad art.


THE PRESIDENT REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE AT CITY HALL LAWRENCEVILLE NEW JERSEY SATURDAY NINE A.M. ~ STOP ~ TO BE FOLLOWED BY A PUBLIC APPEARANCE ~ STOP ~ R.S.V.P. AT EARLIEST CONVENIENCE ~ STOP ~ SINCERELY MR. AND MRS. WOODROW WILSON

"Mr. Riis, take a look at this telegram. What do you suppose that minister's boy means by this?" Theodore Roosevelt passed the paper over to Jacob Riis, his mousy journalist friend.
"It means you'll be taking a trip to the haberdasher before long. You're not one to resist a public appearance, TR!"
Roosevelt laughed. "Indeed I am not. But does he intend to draw me into a public debate? That would be quite uncharacteristic of the ol' Virginia gentleman. Just in case, I will need to dress for both formality and aggression. The blackest of black top hats and tailcoat. Oh, I will be ready for you, Wilson!"

******

Wilson checked his pocketwatch in between sentences. Roosevelt had replied with an affirmative response to the invitation but had not yet shown up. He was nowhere to be found for the pre-announcement briefing, and Wilson could not delay speaking to the impatient press much longer. He had no choice but to begin and hope against hope.
So there he stood, on the stage decorated with maroon and white bunting, sweating it out and talking in circles. It began well enough. Wilson dove into his signature 'Three Points' program governing foreign policy. He stretched his words, fearing that he would repeat himself, outlining his views on free trade and open diplomacy.
When the time came to introduce Roosevelt and the issue at hand, he was still on his own. Wilson adjusted his glasses, laughed nervously, and pretended to shuffle his notes. Improvisation was not his strength.
He glanced back to Edith, who held up three fingers on one hand. She then firmly shot up her little finger, then her thumb, then all five fingers on her other hand. Wilson blinked.
Time to get specific.
"But to aid in achieving these Three Points, there are certain measures we can take as a nation to assure their coming into being.
So, fourthly, the American government will require that adequate guarantees are given and taken that national armaments will be reduced to the lowest points consistent with domestic safety."
Wilson's mind shot back to his drafts of the Three Points. There were too many details to include in that broad agenda. But now that he had time and an audience, they came surging back to his brainfront.
As he continued, the original number of issues had now tripled.
"Ninth, the frontiers of Italy ought to be readjusted clearly along recognizable lines of nationality."
His shoulders fell back, his vest seemed tighter around his chest, and his lively hand gestures complemented his now expanded Fourteen Points.
"Fourteenth, a general association of nations must be assembled with the purpose of guaranteeing political independence and territorial integrity!"
With this last declaration, Wilson pumped his fist in the air as his voice crescendoed skyward. The crowd ate it up and cheered wildly. At this point they weren't paying attention to the words but to the man. Wilson was not one to let emotions get control of him, and they were massively enjoying it almost as much as he was.
He would not go any further. A man sitting head and shoulders above the rest bobbed his way toward the stage. Theodore Roosevelt, in dusty formalwear, jumped from his horse and onto the stage.
"Fifteenth, my rump is numb!"
The crowd laughed. A mob of photographers, including Jacob Riis, stormed the stage to get a shot of Wilson and Roosevelt together. Both men were beaming. They exchanged hearty two-handed handshakes and quick words. Roosevelt sat next to Edith. Wilson took back the podium.
"I am honored to share the stage with President Roosevelt. Here is a man who never breaks his word, even when a malfunctioning motorcar forces him to commandeer a farmer's horse and ride the remaining miles!" Wilson pauses and allows the crowd to calm down.
"And that is why we are here today. Lawrenceville State College has been gracious to stage this event for us today. But after we are finished here, it will no longer be referred to by that name. In honor of our esteemed guest, President Roosevelt, the Dakota Bronc, The Colonel, The Rough Rider..."
Applause.
"...the school will be appointing him to the Board of Trustees..."
Roosevelt looked shocked.
"...under its first year with a new name. May I present...Rough Rider College!"
Two huge white curtains were pulled apart to reveal a maroon and white painting of the new school seal. Roosevelt turned to admire the giant banner. He stood up and ran his hands across the canvas. When he turned back to the crowd, his eyes were shining. Wilson gave the 'by-all-means' arm sweep. Roosevelt stepped to the microphone.
"After all the unkind things I have said about President Wilson, I truly don't deserve this. But it is this brand of generosity that makes him a great leader of our great country, no matter what this upcoming November has in store. With this new responsibility, I vow to make this school a place of vigorous learning in the spirit of our Founding Fathers. It will be a bully good university!"
Roosevelt doffed his top hat. The brass band drowned out the cheers with Hail to the Chief. The crowd dispersed. The executive and former executive made their way offstage.
"I cannot believe you turned three points into fourteen!"
"I had no choice, did I? You need to rid yourself of that bucket of bolts Ford, and upgrade to a Pierce-Arrow. Rides like no other."
"A new motorcoach is not in the cards right now."
"Oh, no?"
"The Amazon calls, Mr. Wilson!"

Princeton University

13 Nov 2009. You know how every campus has that one 'centerpiece' building? The building designed by a famous architect, or resembles a Gothic cathedral, or is cut from expensive rock? The picture postcard, bulk mail brochure, website banner building?
Every building on Princeton's campus is like that.

Technically, Rider was added to the collection an hour or so before Princeton, but it fits the story to have Princeton go first. Sorry, Rider. You're second banana here too.


Theodore Roosevelt's face reddened. His voice boomed throughout his Long Island estate, Sagamore Hill.
"That bird-beaked, four-eyed bookworm!"
He slammed a fist down on his fully stocked bookcase. The force shook the pince-nez from his nose.
"We are in a crisis! And in a crisis, the worst thing to do is nothing!"
A small, alert man sat in the corner, scribbling furiously. The man was Jacob Riis, Roosevelt's longtime mouthpiece to the press. The two had met while Roosevelt was Police Commissioner of New York City. Riis' crusade for justice through writing and photography instantly caught Roosevelt's attention. Now, after years of political climbing, ex-President Roosevelt trusted Riis to instinctively know what tirades were for his ears only.

This was not one of those tirades.

The war in Europe was escalating. It was the top issue in the presidential campaign of 1916. The incumbent, Woodrow "He Kept Us Out Of War" Wilson, was leaning on his isolationist platform. The poll numbers showed this to be a wise strategy. But the constant public attacks by Roosevelt, always popular with the American people, were threatening Wilson's reelection bid.

In the White House, Wilson looked out over the south lawn. With hands clasped behind his back, he watched horse-drawn carriages and state-of-the-art Pierce-Arrows jockey for the road. Wilson finally turned to his wife, Edith, and posed a rhetorical question: "What to do about Roosevelt?"
Edith, never one to leave any question unanswered, replied, "Idle hands are the devil's playthings, Woody. Give him something else to do. What, to Roosevelt, would take priority over his vicious ramblings?"
"He craves action. But he is advancing in age. Though it would appeal to his ego, I cannot allow him to take to the battlefields in Europe."
"Well then, maybe not physical action, but..."
Edith didn't have to finish. She adjusted the velvet drape ties while Wilson's brain silently worked its magic.

******

"Egad! Wilson! The Almighty save us from your lily-livered policies! 'He Kept Us Out Of War'? Codswallop! Codswallop I say! You led an entire University at Princeton, so you know our citizenry is capable of rational thought. Yet you assume them to be invalid flea-bitten mules with such an ignorant statement. The writing is on the wall, Mr. President. We cannot allow Germany to advance unabated. Allow me to lead a regiment if you are ill-inclined to do so. The time to act is now. ...Are you getting all of this, Mr. Riis?"
"Yes, Colonel. Though what is the spelling of 'codswallop'?"
"Hmm. Let's simplify it to k-o-d-s-w-o-l-o-p, shall we?"
"'Kodswolop'?? Is that right? Maybe I should double check..." Riis pulled from his pocket a copy of the Princeton Collegiate Dictionary. He had barely flipped to the C's when Roosevelt grabbed the book and hurled it across the room.
"Nothing from Princeton will be allotted any repute here, Mr. Riis. Least of all Wilson himself. Is that understood?"
"Why don't I just replace codswallop with poppycock then."
"Take care with the blue language, Mr. Riis. Now consider this a gift from me to you."
Roosevelt hefted a volume from the bookcase underneath and dropped it onto his desk, scattering the dust from the pages of the New Harvard English Dictionary.
"This is a wonderful resource. Unfortunately the editor did not take to my suggestion to affix Wilson's photograph beside the entry for 'spineless'."

******

Meanwhile, Wilson was busy pulling strings that only an ex-Governor of New Jersey could.

Behind these aged, storied doors lie the traditional Ivy League institutions of Quiznos and Pizza Hut.

March Madness! April, May at No Extra Charge!

College Cup Project will be temporarily suspended to make time for quiz show preparations.

Theodore Roosevelt, Persephone, Brookings, The Surfin' Mennonites, Pope Urban, Trevor and Ish, Otter, Jethro the Bulldog, Mario the Dragon, and Lewis & Clark will return shortly.

La Salle University

13 Nov 2009. Schools like La Salle make me glad I switched the focus of this blog from campus description to fakelore. This religious university - I'm thinking Jesuit? - on the outskirts of Philly was tough to find and tougher to find interesting. Yes, there were unique touches like the 12-foot medieval wooden doors leading to the bookstore, and the serene grotto pictured below.
And love that man-and-spyglass logo.


We find a newly appointed college president assigned to renaming his institution. Rewriting the school's mission to serve intellectual exploration and personal discovery, he cannot tear himself away from the 'explorer' theme. He discusses this with his assistant, Brookings.

"Brookings, you have the finalists?"
Brookings holds up a manila folder and nods.
"Good. This whole renaming business has just been torturous. Let's get it done today. Go."
"Christopher Columbus - "
"Our front runner. Columbus University just rings right. Oh, sorry, go on."
"Christopher Columbus. An Italian who sailed under the Spanish flag on ships named after beans. Made a poor first impression on the natives by committing genocide. Today is honored continentwide for his expensive accident."
"Okay, Brookings, I see your point. But overly cynical wording won't fly if you are seeking a future in higher education."
"Yes, sir. I apologize."
"Now Columbus, sailing under another country's banner. Did he prefer tapas over pasta? And naming his ships Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria - was his crew excessively flatulent? Also you say his discovery of the American continent was an accident. Perhaps Columbus himself was an accident. Should we honor his irresponsible parents with a day off as well? Too many skeletons in the closet. Cross him off the list. Next."
"Juan Ponce de Leon. Knew the fountain of youth was a legend yet searched for it in Florida anyway."
"Ponce de Leon University. PDLU. I like the fountain of youth angle. Could be used to promote continuing education for adults. And I admire the man's determination. Did he find it?"
"...The fountain of youth does not exist. So, no."
"Next."
"Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. Traversed Mexico and was the first European to lead an overland expedition to the Pacific. Name means 'cow's head' in Spanish."
"Caboose-a-who? Hard to pronounce, hard to spell, not well known enough."
"To you or the general public?"
"Both. Next."
"Alexander Mackenzie. In searching for the fabled northwest passage, became the second European to cross the American continent. National hero in Scotland and Canada."
"A Canadian hero? You finish the 4th grade, you're a Canadian hero. So here we have another who failed to find what he was looking for. Too bad because 'Alexander Mackenzie' is a strong name. I don't know, I just can't do it."
"Because of not finding the northwest passage?"
"There's that, plus my ex-wife's lapdog was named Mackenzie. Doesn't sit well with me. Next."
"Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. Accompanied by the 29 soldiers in the Corps of Discovery, Sacagawea, York, and Seaman, they - "
"Hold on. And who?"
"Lewis' dog was a Newfie named Seaman."
"Poor dog. Continue."
"Seeking an all-water route across the continent, they became the first Americans to reach the Pacific by land. Potential confusion with Lewis & Clark College in Oregon."
"Okay, okay, solid story. Great recognition. We can just be Lewis and Clark University, LCU. Problem solved. But I'm worried about the homoerotic undertones."
"The what??"
"The most famous pair in American History. One is rarely mentioned without the other."
"Pardon my speaking out, sir, but there is no evidence of anything illicit between the two captains."
"Tell me, Brookings, what happened to the other members of the Corps of Discovery after their return?"
"Nothing much. Most of them died soon thereafter."
"And what did them in?"
"Venereal diseases. Contracted among the natives...no. Surely that can't be proof enough for you."
"Surely it is. I can research as well. Why did Lewis and Clark live long lives free of VD when every other soldier quickly died? Friendly buggery. And that dog's name doesn't help."
"I can assure you there were no sexual relations between Lewis and Clark!"
"LCU is on the short list, at best. Moving on."
Brookings took a few breaths to calm himself.
"Vasco de Gama of Portugal. First man to sail from Europe to India. Was castrated by hostile Malagasy. His name lends itself to the terms vas deferens and vasectomy."
"Ugh, gruesome. How did he make the final finalist list? These things make a vas deferens to me."
"..."
"It was a joke. Next."
"Henry Hudson. He sailed for the Dutch around what is now Canada. His crew cast him off his ship never to be found. His dates of birth and death are a mystery."
"It makes for a sexy story. But his crew mutinying? Not a leader. Next."
"Ferdinand Magellan. Portuguese circumnavigator. He was killed in the Phillippines by a poison dart. His crewmate finished the voyage for him."
"Our school needs to inspire people to finish what they start. Next."
"Edmund Hillary. He and his sherpa Tenzing Norgay were the first to scale - "
"Hillary is a woman's name. We are not a woman's school. Next."
"Alexander von Humboldt. A German who - "
"Next."
"Shall we take a break, sir?"
"No, no. When I hear it, I will know it. Go on."
"Very well. This is the last on the list anyway. Robert de La Salle. He claimed the Mississippi River area for France."
"A possibility. I like the name La Salle. Sounds learned but not snobby. Any embarrassing peccadilloes?"
"No."
"Any children out of wedlock? Mass slaughterings? Scandals or bribery?"
"Not that I could find."
"Hmm. I'm liking this one more and more. The least pathetic name on the list."
"Sir, is it wise to honor someone - in quite a permanent way - for being the least pathetic?"
"I think it makes us seem accessible. Don't worry, Brookings, I'll change the wording."

La Salle University
Not The Most Pathetic

University of Pennsylvania

13 Nov 2009. The first Ivy League entrant. Looking to go classy, I was aiming for a cocktail/martini glass, intending to save the wine goblets for the Napa schools, such as UC Davis and...hmm...just UC Davis then. Penn had a nice bookstore stocked with beanbag Quaker men but no martini glassware. The university seal is etched on the glass I'm telling you. Why won't you believe me??
Next door at Cosi bakery, a nervous manager was being meticulously evaluated by a humorless district supervisor. Was it the wrong time to squeal in horror about a fruit fly in my orange-pom juice?


"There's some hot Livin' On A Prayer action. Thank you, Percy-fone."
"It's Per-SEFFA-nee!" calls out the curly haired blonde making her way back to her plastic chair.
The MC moves on. "Next we have Mario. Mario, you're up for rooftop karaoke tonight. Step on up to the stage mic and - where's my stage mic?"
"I have it." answers a deep mellifluous voice. "Ms. Persephone stole my Bon Jovi thunder. But I made an alternate selection. I'm ready to go, if you could switch to song 5428, please."
The MC's eyes dart from seat to seat. Who was messing with him?
"Come on up to the stage, Mario, and I'd be happy to."
"I said I was ready to go."
"...You got it." The MC taps out a couple keystrokes and leaps offstage.
Mario, nowhere in sight, gets off to a rocky start. He rushes the first words of his selection to catch up.
"AndnowtheendisnearandsoIfacethefinalcurtain, my friend, I'll state it clear..."
The MC motions to the bartenders to round up security.
Mario continues, hesitant to flex his pipes. The uneasiness clearly comes through in his voice.
"...Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention..."
The two bartenders return with a tight shirted bouncer brandishing a few hefty maglites. The four of them split up, searching the roof. They scan the neighboring buildings' windows and fire escapes.
Mario's disembodied voice, strong but subdued, still does not exhibit the confidence laid out in the lyrics.
"...When there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out..."
The customers look around in confusion. No one seems to be paying attention to the song.
Except for Persephone.
The search party elbows her aside.
How obnoxious. Just let the guy sing.
The final verse approaches. She cups her hands over her mouth for amplification, never necessary for ol' Limber Lungs Persephone.
"Belt it out, Mario!"
Mario's voice suddenly loosens. The words are relaxed and powerful. Vibrating baritone bravado transfixes everyone within earshot, even the employees on the hunt.
"For what is a man
what has he got
if not himself
then he has naught
to say the things
he truly feels
and not the words
of one who kneels?
The record shows
I took the blows
and did it m- "

BSHHMMMMMMM

The last two words of Sinatra's classic are drowned out by an explosion. A hole is blown open in the old brick building next door. Smoke pours out. Masonry and glass shoots onto the rooftop club. The customers, caught frozen, are pelted with stone debris. Fallen light posts, scattered chairs, and broken wine glasses and beer bottles complicate any attempt at a quick exit. Students in the crowd cry out.
"Help me! I go to Penn!"
The employees and some of the customers tend to the injured.
Persephone emerges from underneath a patio umbrella. She peers into the smoky crater. As her view clears up, she locks on a pair of large golden eyes. They are the size of regulation baseballs, ten feet off the ground. The pupils thin when Persephone catches sight of them. Before she could blink to get a better view, they disappear.
The stage mic, melted mouthpiece and all, flies through the air and lands at her feet. She picks it up but quickly drops it. Still hot.
Mario.
It was at this moment, surrounded by brickwork and liquor, that Persephone first experiences - and understands - her parents' seemingly contradictory blend of concern and anger. She does not have time to contemplate this unsettling new emotion. It makes her move. She runs over to the edge of the four story nightclub. The fire exit is rusty. She carefully shuffles over the brick wall onto the platform. She looks down.
A puff of smoke shoots through the second story window of the next building.
Persephone jumps back onto the roof and finds a rain gutter. She launches over the wall and grasps the pipe between her hands and knees.
Just like a playground pole.
She shimmies down, and, within seconds, she is down on the ground near the service exit. The double doors fly open in front of her.
If she has no plan for stopping anyone, which she doesn't, she definitely has no plan for stopping a dragon.
He - Persephone instantly knows this is Mario - has deep blue scales, golden claws, teeth, wings, and spines to match his eyes. He is showing signs of high adrenaline aggression: wide eyes, flared nostrils, arched back. She feels stupidly defenseless; any one of those teeth could slice her to lunchmeat.
If he's going to gut me, nothing I can do now.
"Mario, you hurt a lot of people up there."
Mario averts his gaze. He says nothing for an eternal beat.
"You urged me on." Miniature flames spurt from his throat as he speaks.
"To sing louder? Like I knew you were a fire breathing dragon!"
Mario pauses to economize his words.
"Those last two notes. I should have known."
"Why were you hiding?"
Mario doesn't have to ponder this one. "Why do you think?"
Now it was Persephone's time to consider a response.
"You have a world class voice. You shouldn't have to hide it."
Mario just glares at her. She winces at her comment.
"Oh. You already...know that."
"Indoor karaoke, a disaster. Outdoor, the same. Singing to my mate in our grotto, unfulfilling."
"There's the problem! You can do so much better than karaoke."
"Suggestions?"
"I don't know. I'm sure we can think of something to keep it safe for others. Fireproof mics?"
"Very low fidelity."
"I'm just brainstorming. And you can speak in full sentences, Mario. I'll just stand to your side away from the sparks. I'm not afraid." Persephone moves to Mario's right side. He leans left.
"I am."
She puts her hand on his back knee. The scales are like cold, hard, tea saucers.
Persephone's face goes vertical. She smacks her head and points to Mario.
"I know who can help."

Saint Joseph's University

13 Nov 2009. I feel bloated just remembering all the pink and orange road signs along the PhilBo corridor. So many Dunkin' Donuts, so little tolerance for half a dozen jam filled crullers.


"This is my dream!"
I take a sniff.
"My dream smells like feet."
"Oh, you get used to it." Angela assures me. She's the head of gameday staff at the Palestra, our big-game court in downtown Philly.
Our regular mascot was hurt in a freak nightclub accident, so I, the mascot reserve, was called up to take his place. And what a day to be called up! Our St. Joe's Hawks (named for our Welsh first coach and some kind of priest - I think Jesuit? - Lloyd 'The Hawk' Hwcau) are taking on the hated Richmond Spiders for the A10 basketball title. The winner gets to taste March Madness in the NCAA championship!
Angela snaps me out of my awe. "Look alive, it's game time!"
I put on the hawk head, completing the ensemble, grab my two bottles of Pomegranate Per4mance, and hit the sidelines behind the SJU bench.
The atmosphere is about to blow off the roof! I have never seen SJU fans like this, what a rush! I can only imagine what the players feel like. So I do. And it's much the same, only with 40 fewer pounds of feathered body suit.

The first half was a blur. Did twenty minutes really go by that fast?
We are up by three thanks to a half court circus shot from Arthur 'Big Bala' Cynwyd as time expires.
I'm steaming in my bird suit, so before halftime is over, I drink the rest of my Pomegranate Per4mance. I head back to the locker room for a refill.
OUCH. OUCH OUCH OUCH OUCH.
I make an unexpected and urgent change in priorities.
I've been stung by bees before, and that's the closest sensation I can compare this to. But this, this is ten times worse. I let go of the bottles.
But they don't fall to the ground.
I look at my hands. My thumbs, which I stuck inside the mouths of the bottles to carry them, have swollen so big that I can't pull them out. Can't shake them off.
I see a small brown spider in each bottle. When did they get in? Why? They must have been attracted to the juice. Who knows now. Now - now I want the bottles off, the spiders dead or at least unable to bite, and my thumbs in cold water, milk, lotion, something, ANYTHING.
I spot Angela's jet black hair and wave her over. When I tell her what's up, she leads me back to the locker room to saw off the bottles with some medical scissors. We are blocked by the teams coming back onto the court. Meanwhile, I am swinging my arms, using centrifugal - or is it centripetal? - force to keep the spiders off my thumbs, stuck on the bottom of the bottles.
So I'm standing there, swinging away like a crazy man, my screams of pain being drowned out by the crowd. The well groomed coaches exit the locker room, giving me looks. I don't blame them.
Some of the students above the portal imitate my flapping. Maybe they're mocking, or a little drunk, or both. Everyone is finally out of the locker room now and the staff moves the metal barriers.
Angela leads me forward. She stops quick. She asks, "How bad are you?"
"Huh??"
"Are you sure you want to leave now?" She turns my feathered cranium so I can see the video screen above center court.
That's me on the big screen!
When I see myself, the Palestra erupts. Everyone starts their own awkward flailing.
I say, "Wow."
Big Bala Cynwyd, running out of bounds on a warmup drill, jogs past me and smiles, flapping all the way. "Yeah, Hawk Man! You better not be leaving!" he yells.
Angela, human Ritalin, brings me back into focus. "Well? How do you feel?"
I have a noseful of moldy foam and two thumbs throbbing with arachnid venom. But if I keep moving my arms, it won't get any worse.
"Unflappable."

I guess I did a good job that game. We won, sure, and made a nice showing in the NCAAs, but I hear the SJU Hawk mascot still flaps like a bug bitten maniac. All game long, in fact. It's become its trademark! And, yes, I still hate spiders.

Go, Hawk Man, Go! The Hawk Will Never Die!

Purdue University

7 Aug 2009. Purdue is perfectly innocuous, like Canada or bread. (Who could hate Canada or bread? asks Matt Harding at the 5 minute mark.) So, of course, no better place for some mild kleptomania and sociopathy.


In an office in now-deserted Lilly Hall, where academic flyers fluttered along the tile floor, Otter looked at Professor J.B. Lee. The Professor was looking down, explaining his fundraising project. Otter was uninterested, supremely more so after a day of politely touring other people’s exhibits. He turned his attention to Prof. Lee himself, who promised not to waste too much of his time. Looking down from his natural born bird’s-eye view, Otter sniffed and got a noseful of pomade perfume.
Poor guy. He would have a wife by now if he got rid of the coke-bottle glasses and the two quarts of industrial sludge in his hair.
“Prof. Lee, where’s Chelsea? Isn’t she one of your students assisting with this project?”
“Oh, yes, one of my best. I suppose she is out with her friends, like young people will do. You know undergraduates.”
Yeah, I know them. I know plenty. And I could be knowing another one right now.
“All right, so how can I help you specifically?”
“Your trek across Montana was so inspiring. It set off a fire in my brain, like BOOM! I would like to ask about your best methods for getting out the word. Publicity and such is not my specialty.”
“It’s easy! Step one is tell all your friends.”
Prof. Lee blanked out then looked at the ground.
“Ah, yes, of course. Of course.”
Otter recognized the downcast gaze of a friendless man. But he didn’t feel like crushing spirits of a nonalcoholic variety right now.
“After that, talk to all of your faculty mates. All of them. Not just the ones in genetic engineering. Not just biology. The whole building.” Otter started outlining his ideas in a rough timeline.
“The whole building? Okay…” Prof. Lee was listening better now, still a little hesitant.
“And since this is an official university event, the most important asset in spreading the word to other media is the Office of Public Relations. They will take to your idea much quicker if you’ve already drafted a press release.”
“I have never written a press release.”
“Neither had I! That doesn’t matter! I had never driven a tractor sober either! There’s plenty of examples online, maybe even in your word processor. Don’t worry about it, when you’re done, I’ll spread the word back to the bio department in Bozeman. We’re not the biggest fish in the tank but every bit helps. You’ll do fine, Professor. Good luck!”
Otter slapped Prof. Lee on the back and got up to put on his coat. Next to Prof. Lee’s computer speaker were several decorative shotglasses. In one quick seamless motion, Otter stretched one arm through his jacket and grabbed one with a giant gold P and one with a beefy cartoon railworker and dropped them silently into his inner left pocket.
One for Chelsea, one for a backup girl.
Otter put his hand on the door handle to let himself out, but Prof. Lee called out. “Wait, Mr. Otterberg, a final issue. What about the God problem? I have encountered that many times.”
“…God problem?”
“You are aware there is a lot of resistance to the genetic engineering field. People say we are playing God.”
“Playing God, huh?” Otter removed his hand from the handle and turned back as the Professor continued.
“I try to inform them of the many merits of our work. That we save lives and increase food production! Some will not hear of it. It is very discouraging.”
Otter sat back down. “Prof. Lee, you cannot please everyone. So many people are kneejerk and shortsighted. Tell me, is there something wrong with striving to be better, more Godlike? Now, please, lay it on me about this whole ‘playing God’.”

Purdue: The Birthplace of Evil, Since 1874.