I Wish I Had a Picture of This Sweater

Several years ago, cleaning out Mrs. Ureckis's garage, I found her old Arkansas sweater. It's knitted grey wool, with several red A's on the front and an anthropomorphic razorback on the back, leaning on an oversized basketball. The buttons are plastic footballs, and the sleeves fit a woman roughly 5'3". I knew what I discovered was more precious than gold, even if I can sell it for cash.

I don't bring the sweater out often. It an attention grabber, and it's quite greedy. It grabs attention out of the hands of children and non-sentient infants as well as adults. Distracting, it is. But tonight was my last Arkansas game. Home game. To sit in the student section. As a student. I realize there are a lot of qualifying details present, but it was still significant, I believe. Actually, I'm not sure; I tried to skip it, and my pledges made me come, citing these reasons.

Wearing this sweater at the game, I reconnected with many resident mates from my freshman dorm. I hadn't spoken with these people in three years, but suddenly they had to know where my sweater came from. It was as if there was a grossly sized millstone tied to their heart, pulling it down, putting a great strain upon it, and the only way the alleviate that strain was to know OH MY GOODNESS CASS WHERE DID YOU GET THAT SWEATER?

Oh, hello, Tori. It's great to see you again, too, after three years. Don't worry - I've completely gotten over that debilitating crush I had on you for several months spring semester of our freshman year, the hope created by which you crushed when you visibly became disgusted with me after I suggested we watch Battlestar Galatica sometime as a means to hang out. Are you graduating on time?

I had to leave at halftime in order to arrive on time to an engagement party for a fraternity brother. As I walked away from the stadium, I fell into step with two girls, one of which had not only drank a few beers, but had drank all the beers the other had ordered, as well. We began to talk about my sweater. They wanted to know where it came from, and I told them. They asked if a grandmother had crafted it, and I answered that I thought it most likely that robots made it, in a factory somewhere underground. After a moment of confusion, they asked where I was going, and I told them - an engagement party for a friend. But don't tell anyone, because it's supposed to be a secret.

The drunk girl, upon hearing this, began to shout, "Two people are getting engaged tonight! This guy with the sweater is going to their party!" I like to think that when this girl is sober, she's very clever. She would probably have been able to internalize that comment and come up with something much more sharp and funny to say. However, drunk as she was, this was the best she could come up with. I tried to play along, though, and became mock angry, and told her I'd never trust her with any secret ever again. I smiled after saying this, and kept walking, but she stopped and grabbed my arm. I could tell, in about ten seconds, she was going to cry. "I didn't mean it, I swear. I didn't know."

In this moment, I had a very odd feeling, like laughter mixed with the sort of sobs that make your chest heave. The sweater brings out very intense emotions.

These Pancakes Have No Regard For the Law

Last night my fraternity, Beta Upsilon Chi (BYX, bucks) threw it's fifth annual Uncle BYX pancake dinner. The event is a fundraiser for our philanthropy, Life Source, which is a food bank and resource center for the impoverished section of Fayetteville. There were over six hundred people, and we ran out of pancakes.

With eighty pledges, we didn't have enough jobs for everyone; when I pledged, each one of us had to serve pancakes, then stay afterwards till one in the morning cleaning up. Last night, they finished all the work by 11:30. We divided the group in half, where half served pancakes, while the other half was on 'dance duty.' Pledges on dance duty had to be dancing with a girl at all times. They were more resistant to this than I expected.

There were other jobs: ticket taker, t-shirt table, coffee captain, teddy bear peddler (I'm not sure where the bears came from, but dog gone it, we had a pledge selling them). All the cooks were members; that job is almost a Tom Sawyer thing. We tell all the pledges they're not allowed to cook until they're members, then when they become members, all they want to do is make pancakes. On the upside, if you're a cook, fraternal tradition holds that on the night of Uncle BYX only, you can give pledges any nickname you wish, and they have to respond. Four years after my pledgeship, Dirty Mike and the Grizz still go by the nicknames that they were given by then senior Blake Area.

The most coveted jobs, though, were the pancake costumes. We made two pancake costumes to promote Uncle BYX; pledges wore these throughout the week in the busiest intersections on campus. I considered it a blunt force type of marketing - a pancake rapidly approaches you, yelling about philanthropy, and grabs you by the collar. That's not a fictional situation. We sold several tickets this way.

Last night, we put two pledges in those costumes and posted them on Dickson Street, which ran in front of our venue. The two couldn't have been more happy with their assignment, and I left them dancing the the song of car horns. An hour later, I got a call from a friend who said policemen were outside Uncle BYX talking to pancakes. Were those my pancakes?

From the policemen, I gathered this: the pancakes had been running one side of the street to the other, like Frogger, dodging cars. Also, at one point, the pancakes got into the bed of someone's truck and drove down and up Dickson Street promoting our event. We promised they would stick to our side of the curb, and the police left the pancakes in peace.

The item my mind keeps returning to is the tip the police receieved. They said they got a call about the activities of the pancakes, and responded. But who would make that call?

911: 911, what's your emergency?

Caller: P-p-pan-pancakes! There are pancakes in the road!

911: Please, slow down. Tell me what's happening.

Caller: There are two pancakes who are terrorizing Dickson Street. It's like Road Warrior.

911: You say pancakes?

Caller: That's right. Rogue pancakes. They're showing a complete disregard for the law.

911: Can you tell me where you are on Dickson?

Caller: I-I - no, I can't. I think they can hear me.

911: Excuse me?

Caller: They're looking at me. Oh, no. God no.

911: Stay calm, we're sending help.

Caller: No - Please no! THIS WAS FORETOLD! THIS IS HOW IT ENDS!

That's probably how it sounded.

My Nightmare is Banished

I posted earlier a story about my high school nemesis, who was appointed Kappa Kappa Gamma house chef and subsequently my boss. This is the A+ Number One nightmare of geeks: that those who abused them in high school really will be cooler than them in twenty years.

Will was chef for two months, and during his reign of terror we had such dishes as cous cous, brie and apple sandwiches, and no desserts. He also managed to take away the traditional, weekly Chicken Finger Friday, where the house lunch is open to the campus, and styrofoam cups. You'd be surprised by which of those caused more grief; sororities love their styrofoam. It's a girl's best friend. If she's making napalm. That may have been a pledge mission.

Will replaced the beloved Chef John, who cooked very regular meals and made a cheesecake that I actually died for, immediately before it brought me back to life. He also is a sculptor, and was in the process of creating a series of 300 tribal masks. I went to one of his art shows last year. There was cheesecake.

On Friday, one of the Kappa's texted me, saying, "chief william has been fried!" My initial response was, that's a hate crime. Then I realized he was neither a minority nor was he a victim, but someone who just didn't make any desserts. NO DESSERTS! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH!

Chef John is contracted to return on December 1st. Until then, the campus food service Chartwells will be handling the cooking. Today there were chocolate chip cookies.

A Real Life Video Game Character

Until last week's Halloween game against Eastern Michigan, I hadn't attended an Arkansas football game in over a year. This is due in part to listlessness, in part to the small amount of homework that I put in the upper cabinets of free time, and in part because I simply forgot to buy tickets. I can't force pledges to give me their ticket vouchers every week, can I? (I actually can, but the listless part of me always makes it seem like too much work to make them do so.)

However, I count my attendance at the Eastern Michigan game a miracle no degrees short of a dove descending from heaven and a loud voice saying, "Behold my servant Cass, on whose account I have mixed feelings." Because that day, I saw Garrus Vakarian in person.

I've known Garrus for about two years now; we met initially during the first Pankration, when I played Mass Effect. I was playing it, he was in it. From there, we met off and on, mostly during holidays, when I would pick up saved games which were in the middle of exciting plot developments. Garrus and I would spend hours killing the dastardly robotic geth, hunting down mischievous mad scientists, and tracking the rogue spectre Sarren using our powers of deduction. We were a great team. Some nights, when it got really dark, I would forget that Garrus was a graphic summoned off of a storage disk, and think that, for the first time, I had met someone with whom I could share my hatred of robots.

At halftime during the Arkansas - Eastern Michigan game, with a score of rock to scissors (there was no way Eastern Michigan was getting out of that one, even if it was best two out of three), the Arkansas Alumni Association honored a group of graduates who had ventured out into the world and made their fortune. Among them was Brandon Keener, who they announced as an actor from Fort Smith. Intrigued, I went to the library (I don't have the internet at my house; this way they'll never find me) and Googled him. And God said, "Behold Brandon Keener, who voiced your best friend Garrus Vakarian in Mass Effect."

Garrus Vakarian! I saw him, from a distance of around a hundred yards. Plus a significant elevation change. I invented the Pankration just to be with him. And he walked out of my life without me knowing it.

The whole situation reminded me of an ancient Greek myth. One day, Apollo was walking through the fields at Delphi when he heard the wind carrying a beautifully melody. He immediately fell in love with the voice an flew off in search of the singer, knowing that when he met her, he would make her his bride (or rape her and then she would bear his bastard offspring - this is how Greek myths actually worked). He flew over forests and mountains, past mortals and gods, in search of his beloved, who he could not find. Eventually, exhausted, he stopped in a grove of olive trees. There, washing clothes at the water's edge, was a beautiful maiden. He asked her, "Do you know of a girl who sings a most beautiful melody? I am in love, and I will make her my bride/rape her and she will bear my bastard offspring." She sheepishly looked away and said, "I know this girl." Apollo asked, "Is she close by?" "Ay," the maiden said, "she is here in this grove." Then the maiden began to sing, and Apollo realized that Garrus Vakarian was his only true friend, and he was ashamed that he didn't recognize Brandon Keener when the man was a hundred yards away from him.

Do not fear: Garrus has been announced as one of the characters in Mass Effect 2, out at the end of January. Announced. As if the video game designers could keep best friends apart.

I Would Have Gotten Away With It, If It Wasn't For Daylight Savings Time!

Yesterday, my alarm went off at six forty five and I got dressed. I brushed my teeth, put in my contacts, and ate some ice cream. Then I drove to Rick's Bakery, to meet with a couple tenth graders that I mentor.

When I arrived, not only did I realize that there was no one in the Rick's parking lot, or that Rick's itself was locked, but that the sky was uncharacteristically pitch black for seven in the morning. As I sat in my car, I tried to rationalize this with the explanation of Daylight Savings Time, but I'm still not exactly sure how that works (I know I'm supposed to move my clock, but the past two years I've put it under my bed and it's done nothing). It may have taken sixty long seconds for me to look at my phone and realize it was actually five in the morning.

For Christmas my senior year of high school, my parents bought me a semester spanning series of sessions with a personal trainer. Worst Christmas present ever, outside of the Batman shirt our foreign exchange student's parents sent me in the sixth grade. At the time, I was considering collegiate football, and so it made sense to train. But not like that. Not like that.

My trainer was Jessica, the only woman ever to throw the shot put and discus in the same Olympics. She would laugh when I threw up, and the only conversation we ever ventured into outside of weight lifting was Gatorade flavors. I hated going there. Our sessions were at five in the morning, but I was so conflicted about attending that some mornings, I would wake up in a daze, dress, and drive to the Fayetteville Atheletic Club, only to realize it was three o'clock. Then I'd drive home, get back in bed with my shoes on and watch the clock travel from three to five.

At that time in the morning, reactions are sluggish enough that the obvious signs that it is not the time you think it is are hard to catch, like your favorite morning show isn't playing, or your car radio clock says three a.m. (mine actually said three a.m. yesterday. Like I said, I'm not exactly sure how Daylight Savings Time works). I think this may be what hangovers are like. You can stare at your hand for thirty seconds and not be able to tell if its the left or right hand of someone else, or yourself.

Save the Pankration!

I'll admit - I have never posted about the Pankration before. I promise to explain it in full, but I'm assuming if you're reading this blog, I've probably told you in person, so anything I write on this website I'll just embellish. But that's why you read it. Because when I write, I turn my brain off and write ridiculous things like this.

However, you must act quickly to save the Pankration from wikiocide! That's right, I wasn't thinking, I just turned my brain off and the word "wikiocide" came out. If you're curious how I come up with posts, that's a perfect example. Rechecking Wikipedia this morning to calm the fears which I had hoped were unfounded, fears that told me the article I wrote concerning the video game holiday I made up called the Pankration had been deleted, I found this:

"It has been proposed that this article be deleted because of the following concern:

Not notable. See WP:ONEDAY."

My first reaction was elation. For someone to post this, that meant that they had to have actually read my article, and now they have knowledge of the Pankration. And knowledge of the Pankration is like a virus: once you have it, you can never fully get rid of it. You can only hide it, until it surfaces every ten years like syphilis and you are publicly shamed.

I followed the link to WP:ONEDAY (with the help of technology, you can too!) and I was so surprised by what I found that I killed a man by putting a butter knife up through his jaw all the way into his brain. Never sneak up on me again, Wikipedia.

"Wikipedia is not for things you or your friends made up. If you have invented something novel in your school, your garage, or the pub, but it has not yet become known to the rest of the world, please do not write about it on Wikipedia. Write about it on your own website or blog instead."

First off, I cannot start a retort until pointing out the aristocratic insult that insinuates that I might have invented the Pankration in a school building, a garage, or a bar. The Pankration was born in my head like Athena, and spilled out of my ears like a rainbow waterfall in the land ruled by koala bears. It is not novel - it is revolutionary (but only if you're playing a video game that involves you taking part in a revolution).

But listen closely, Wikipeedmypants, because I know you read my blog - just like you read my article on the video game holiday known as the Pankration. Wikipedia is only for things taht I or my friends have made up. Each word on that site has been made up by someone sitting at a keyboard, and each of those typists is someone's friend (except you). I consider your website the only valid option for posting false information, stae secrets, and lies that I've had to stop telling children because they called me out on them. Furthermore, you don't work for Wikipedia. You are not getting paid to delete my article. By deleting my article, you are only depriving millions of Eastern European children the chance to enjoy video games from sunset to sunrise. That's millions of sunsets that you've just stolen. You are the main villian in the next dream that I have.

I will never give up! You may be able to delete my article on a holiday that I invented, but you cannot delete my soul, and that's what counts. The only ones who can delete my soul are the Master Friends, who watch over the computer program that we're all hooked up to that simulates life while simeltaneously using our brains as billions of organic computers that power their starship as it works to stop what we know as Alpha Centauri from going super nova and destroying the life force that binds the universe together.

Did you see what I did there? I just started typing, and I had no idea where I was going.

November 1st

Stick Stickly said once that if the first words out of your mouth on the first of the month were, "Rabbit Rabbit," you would have good luck. Stick Stickly was also a tongue depressant which googlie eyes Elmer's glued on, so I'm not sure why I gave him such credence. Maybe because he reminded me of popsicles, and at eleven, popsicles are the reason you dream about a shopping spree in a grocery store.

I have never managed to say this. Every first of the month I fail, saying all sorts of things, from, "What time is it?" to "Where is the captain?" and "Never again!" On probability alone, given all the first of the months between the age of eleven and twenty one, I think I should have said it by now, even if I didn't mean to. I mean, I've said, "Who are you?" multiple times.

Last night I said it walking home from Common Grounds after midnight. I don't believe it worked. It makes since that you would have to say it as you woke up to the new month; also, with all the evil spirits, called Trevor, roaming around between midnight and midnight fifteen, it's logical to assume they intercepted my appeal to the benevolent spirits, called Master Friend, for good luck. This all comes from a belief system called Solar Inferno I invented when I was eleven to account for the existence of Stick Stickly and all the other puppets on Nick in the Afternoon, among other things.

Also, it could be that it was Daylight Savings Time, and what I thought was after midnight was only after eleven. All the clocks were set back (and I was still late to church). However, after some intensive internet research, I've found a hypothesis that if you say, "Tabbir, Tabbir" before falling asleep on the first of the month, you will secure yourself good fortune. O Master Friend, hear my prayer.