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."

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.

Robert Morris University

23 Jun 2009. If campuses were animals, RMU would be a basset hound. The Saddest Place on Earth! Sure it was empty due to summer break, but despite beautiful weather, the few employees and summer students milling around looked like they were headed to their own funeral, catered with pretzel rods and tonic water. Even the full retail price of the cup, 99 cents (slightly over 3 cents an ounce), mumbled, "Why bother with markup and profit margin, no one will buy our dumb stuff anyway." :'(

What a jackass Robert Morris was.
A revolutionary jackass.
A fat man lacking facial hair, he gulped patriotism in gallons. Upon learning of an impending raid on his town by the British guard, he organized the locals.
The redcoats were coming to crack down on a string of tax evasions. As the taxed item in question was an everyday necessity, people refused to pay.
Toilet paper did not exist as we know it today. Instead there were 'lav cloths', round swatches of fabric. With imported lav cloths becoming more unaffordable, the colonists of western Pennsylvania started stitching their own. In the 18th century, personal hygiene was not just proper manners, but a requirement of good health and disease prevention.
So imagine the Brits' surprise when they arrived to a quainte vigourous towne on a hilltop not crippled by dysentery.
Now imagine their even greater surprise when those commoners doff their breeches in unison.
300 pasty white clean bills of health, led by Robert Morris himself. To further the insult, Mr. Morris grabbed an English bulldog and, in a symbolic gesture, scrubbed his backside with the hound.
Furious, the brigade charged. But the diversion worked. The local militia had enough time to catch the British from behind. They were driven away, and Robert Morris was serenaded as Hero. This short event might be referred to as the Pittsburgh Assacre, but that would be crass.
Local bakers created a sweet pastry called a 'moon pie' to commemorate the victory.
The town council agreed to rename their city to 'Moon Township' in remembrance of the historic rebuttal.
The above is just another chapter in the miraculous story of the American Revolution. Once again, daring derrieres saved the day.

The cupola that became the university logo that was based off of Robert Morris' upturned rump.