Warm Weather: Game Over

Friday afternoon I donned a pair of shorts and sandals for the first time this year. Well, not for the first time, but for the first time outside. In public. And I listened to Kenny Chesney. It's officially summer.

Every Spring I wait until the thermometer breaks 60. I stare at it like a kid trying to stay home from school, urging that mercury to creep over the Awesome line. For the kid its 98.7. For me it's 60.

Unfortunately for me, this is a boundary that once crossed cannot be uncrossed. Recrossed? Whatever. Next week it could be forty degrees. I'm still in shorts and flipflops.

Unfortunately for everyone else, come mid-October my minimal melanin retreats faster than your penis after seeing a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker and is replaced by anti-melanin, which makes me whiter. By the time the Summer Boundary is crossed, you can see the veins through my skin. On sunny days my skin glimmers like a vampire (dammit...that a Twilight reference. I blame my girlfriend), and you better wear sunglasses when you look at me. Last summer I didn't have a summer. I was in Iraq, and basically wore long sleeves the entire time. That means two years with no sunlight. I'm almost invisible.

The other side effect of crossing the Summer Boundary is an increased desire to achieve nothing and drink everything. These two I will have to fight, because I really need to be employed, and I'm kind of fond of my liver.

Short and Sweet

Check out this story on child obesity, told as only a Brit could tell. My favorite part:

Mr Duncan said: “This is different to someone just being overweight. These are firm female breasts, something that any woman would be proud of."

We love a tale with booze, rodeo girls and shotguns. Who says stereotypes are outdated?

It might be uncouth to say, but Japan is officially fuckin' bonkers.

The crack staff at The Morning Times is at it again. Jenn Magnussen attempts to write the Worst. Sports. Story. Ever.

Blue/White 2008

The sun rose early that morning, crowning over Mt. Nittany and washing the Sacred Ground in its light. Beaver Stadium responded in kind, redirecting the light off its windows, beams, and flagpoles. The Bryce Jordan Center tried to do the same, but realized only shitty teams play there. Somewhere between the two, the caravan arrived.

I haven’t been to the annual Blue and White Game at Penn State since 2005, a fact that I made sure everyone in attendance was well aware of. I wanted to make this a good tailgate, and had to make everyone aware that it had damn well better be.

Our tailgate area was in the grass next to the stadium, a lush section of turf that I credit to the Turfgrass Management majors. Within the first hour I had my sandals off and was prancing barefoot through the dark green shoots. That lasted until the dogs started peeing everywhere. Then I had another beer and the sandals came off again.

The Bloody Mary bar opened early, immediately followed by beer pong. Some of the guys we were tailgating with had the Drinko board going, with proceeds benefitting the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Proceeds from beer pong benefitted the Get Pennypacker Drunk society. Donations were large and tasty.

Everything went well. I saw some good friends, people I hadn’t seen in a while, and nothing got out of control. Even the mandatory flip cup game was mild, despite Steve’s glorious proclamations from on high. There were even only two high-lows doled out. But the one was AWESOME, we thought dude broke his neck. It was well executed by myself and Jason.

Don't interrupt him, just look how happy he is!

Towards the end of the day, the cars started to leave. Around this time, certain individuals decided to behave like their canine pals and piss in the open field. Since most Penn State tailgates bring in extra uniformed and undercover cops from outside State College, this probably wasn’t the best idea. Hell, a few years ago I got busted by undercovers for taking a slice of pizza from an unmanned tailgate.

Overall, a great time. I didn’t get too drunk (rare), I hung out with some good friends, and the next day my sandals smelled like piss. Dog or human, I’ll never be able to figure out.

It had to happen eventually

Pennypacker, that fink, will be out of pocket for a while. After a weekend hospitalization for exhaustion (read: a phenobarbital and Wild Turkey bender), he will be spending some time at Cirque Lodge to clear his head. I'll be picking up the slack in his absence. Get well soon, pal. I've got Canadian Club on ice for your return.

This poster no longer hangs in Pennypacker's office

Bar Golf '08 -- The Aftermath

I'll tell you about it within the next couple days. I was up all night sweating, shitting, and having nightmares. Literally. I'll have a write-up tomorrow, when I'm back to normal. Suffice it to say my cell phone was in three pieces Sunday morning, items were lost, and I told my girlfriend "I don't have fun anymore because you moved me out of the Muslim community." More to follow, when body and mind become one again.

Penn State Bar Golf '08

It's February again, and that means that once again the Nittany Lions that left then den years (3) ago return home to discuss their careers, financial successes, and current relationships. Or drink so much sorority girls are interesting.


That's right, it's Bar Golf '08 at Penn State! One drink per bar, one bar per hole, 18 holes for the round. One drink per hole gets you par, more gets you arrested. Then there's the specialty drinks, like a Long Island Iced Tea at the health inspector-watch listed Cafe 210. That's an easy eagle on a Par 5. That car bomb is worth an eagle at #6 The Phyrst. You won't feel it until #8.

Authored by Steve Tracy, Frb '08 - Penn State University

The back nine gets tricky, when the highly structured event (half hour per hole, one hour at #9 to eat--vital) turns to a goat screw. People wander away, get lost in alleys, are beaten by bouncers, and loudly renounce Michigan (fuck Michigan) to anyone willing to listen.

For some, the back nine means vomiting with all the power of Anthony Morelli's arm (a lot), and are left with all of his intelligence (not a lot). If you survive to the 18th Hole, you're one of the few. Luckily, there's a prize waiting for you.

No, it's not your closest friends and family with 'life saving advice' and 'a chance for you to get better,' unlike my 24th birthday. It's another drink!


And maybe bail.

Bonus prize: a hellish, hallucination-infused drive to D.C. the next day, complete with sweats, shakes, and nightmares.

Ah, yes. Another round complete.

Update on Monday, after the tourney.