Study Abroad Changed My Life-Pt. 1

You always hear students returning from a semester trip to a foreign land saying it. I’m sure I said it after my five month drinking binge in London (that closed out my Junior year). Everyone always says, “Study abroad changed my life.”

It’s a great line. It’s deep, ambiguous, and makes parents feel justified in spending the amount of a small luxury car on your trip. It’s not like I’m saying the trip isn’t worth taking. For some people, it could be the greatest half-year of their life. Whether they spend it tirelessly visiting every city featured in the Rick Steves’ European video set (gift from grandparents) or tucked away in a Dutch opium den with a couple prostitutes who don’t speak English, neither may enjoy their lives more. They will both return home happy people. They’ll speak fondly about their trip and travels. And, as we know, when prodded about their study abroad experience, both will happily proclaim that study abroad, ‘changed their life.’

Although most people mean it, their lives change in more subtle ways than developing a drug habit or becoming a world travel aficionado. Aside from being broke, the most significant change for most people is in their perspective. To steal a line from John Travolta’s Vincent Vega in Pulp Fiction (in reference to his travels in Europe), “They got the same shit over there as we got over here. The differences are in the little things.” While the differences in the way hamburgers were named weren’t mind-blowing, the cavalier attitudes toward American taboos like alcohol and sex were eye opening.

I enjoyed being able to drink beer on the street and see naked women in the newspaper[1]. An interest in English Football (soccer) became a passion. I even developed quite an embarrassing affinity for house and techno music, falling victim to the European club scene. Living in London, like most of the major Western European cities, really didn’t provide too much culture shock. Other than not feeling like a bum if I paid for lunch entirely in change[2], London was about as foreign to me as if I had moved to New York City. Things like relying on public transportation and living in a tiny apartment (flat) with an enormously high rent was different for a kid from the Midwest but weren’t necessarily foreign concepts.

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[1] Page 3 of The Sun

[2] 2£ coin is worth approximately $4

Start Drinking in High School-Pt. 4

The next semester we roomed together with another one of our pledge brothers. As in most frat houses, the living quarters are pretty cramped. The three of us slept in what was essentially a triple-stacked bunk bed that went floor to ceiling. I climbed a ladder to my top bunk and Borgy literally crawled on the ground to get into his bottom bunk.

It was a Saturday night. We were having a house party. Cheap beer and ‘Jungle Juice[1]’ had attracted a nice crowd and the party raged on in several different areas of the house. Our room, in the back corner of the house wasn’t really in use that night. By 2 AM the party had begun to dwindle (free booze ran out) and a couple of my pledge bothers and I went to my room for some more beers. There we found Borgy passed out drunk, sitting up on the couch. As someone ran off to find a Sharpie, Borgy woke up. He was stumbling around the room, entertaining us with his incoherence, when he decided that he had better get into his bed. Luckily, it was on the ground. He crawled underneath his shack sheets[2] and toward his mattress. As he got into his bed, a voice cried out, ‘Borgy, NOOOOO!’ The voice belonged to our pledge bother, Chase, who was having sex with some chick in Borgy’s bed. Borgy was too drunk to comprehend what was going on and refused to move. Having witnessed this event first hand, I can’t remember a time I’ve laughed harder. Especially since Chase and his friend didn’t leave the bunk either and proceeded to finish what they’d started alongside Borgy’s semi-conscious body.

Chase & Co. emerged from the bunk a few minutes later and proceeded to sit on my couch and drink beers while we continued to rip on Borgy. At this point, I was much less concerned with my impaired roommate then I was with Chase’s lady friend’s utter lack of embarrassment. She had met Chase that night and was just ‘crawled in on’ by one of his fraternity brothers. She continued to have sex while several people were in the room and someone else in the bed. I realize that she really didn’t know any of us that well, but I was astonished that she would sit there and drink beers with us and laugh about how ridiculous the situation was.

The chick that Chase fucked in Borgy’s bed really solidified my belief that taking credit for your embarrassing moments is powerful and refreshing. I’m not sure if she was cognizant of her boldness or if she was just trashy, but her lack of drama about the situation was cool. On the other hand, all of Borgy’s stories are hilarious in their own right, but I love telling them because he hates them. (In fact, I’m sure he’ll never talk to me again if he ever reads this). But like I said before, you have to own your embarrassing moments, otherwise they’ll own you. The stupid shit you do during college years is going to serve as material for stories you’ll tell the rest of your life. I’m not saying that you should drink until you pass out every night, but being a drunken asshole every once in a while is necessary.

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[1] Concoction of grain alcohol, vodka and concentrated fruit juices. Usually served from a Gatorade cooler. Tastes like Hawaiian Punch.

[2] Dark sheets hung around your sleeping area to provide privacy for you and the young lady (shacker) in your bed

Start Drinking in High School-Pt. 3

One of my best friends in the world just doesn’t get that idea. Andrew, or as we called him, Borgy, has had some of the funniest drunken moments I’ve ever witnessed. Most of his exploits simply involve him passing out in a chair in the middle of one of our fraternity (I’ll explain later) parties and being drawn on with permanent markers. He usually ended up looking like an indigenous member of some native tribe I can’t pronounce in some country I’ll never visit.

Actually, the first night I met Borgy, he managed to make a total drunken ass of himself. It was our first frat party as pledge brothers (yes, I know his middle name) and we were having a pretty wild time at local bar/nightclub/Italian restaurant in downtown Columbia[1]. Some seniors had thrown the pledges a little pre ‘semester of hell’ party at one of their apartments within walking distance of the venue. The pre-party was authentic, macho, male-bonding. We drank too much in an attempt to prove that we weren’t pussies and talked gratuitously about all the bitches were going to take home that night. I don’t know exactly how many of us ‘scored’ that night, but I do know that Borgy tried harder than anyone.

This place was a dive, but was known for its leniency toward minors. As we all drunkenly entered the bar, we showed our fake IDs, some guys even passing back the same ID to be used by two or three guys[2]. Borgy, who was eighteen at the time, fully intended to enjoy his first college party. He knocked back cocktail after cocktail and took shots with some of his new ‘brothers.’

Most drunk guys usually seek out two things: food or women.[3] Borgy was certainly hungry that evening, but not for something to eat. He was looking for some lovin’. Although I didn’t have a close eye on him the whole evening, I couldn’t miss Borgy on the dance floor. No one could. I’m not sure who found whom, but Borgy had managed to get hooked up with a whole lotta woman. Before I go any further, I need to explain that Borgy is a big guy. At 6’1”, 240lbs he was an all-conference offensive lineman for his high school football team. He’s a pretty big dude. She was bigger.

Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against big girls. I’m a fatty myself. The embarrassing thing

for Borgy was what he was doing to this young lady. The best way to describe it, if you can imagine, is a

cross between dry humping and the Heimlich maneuver. I can easily say that it was the funniest thing that I

would never want to see again. As they thrashed around, small crowds formed waiting for the inevitable:

he took her down, not once but twice. I had seen enough. Much like my friends in Memphis had picked

me up off Beale Street, I decided to get Borgy on the bus. Borgy had some rough nights his freshman year,

but the best was still to come.

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[1] In reference to Columbia, Missouri where I attended the University of Missouri (my 3^rd college). May be referred to as Mizzou.

[2] This establishment subsequently lost their liquor license in the coming months.

[3] I tend to just cry a lot.

Start Drinking in High School-Pt. 2

My first semester as a freshman, I went to a small liberal-arts school in Memphis, Tennessee[1]. I was recruited and joined the football team I’d quit (along with the school itself) by the end of the semester. One Saturday night in early September, the team and I were celebrating our first victory of the season. After enduring two weeks of training camp and the hardest physical tests of my life, I was ready to let loose. I started my evening playing one-on-one beer pong with the hilarious Cajun tight end we called ‘Boatride.’ Deciding to skip dinner, Boatride and I managed to put away a case of Budweiser in less than two hours. After those twelve beers apiece, we made our way to party at one of the fraternity houses across campus, where, if memory serves, we played more beer pong. From there, Boatride and I boarded a Transit Authority bus shuttling students to and from a sorority party on Memphis’ famous Beale Street. What I remember of the party was great. I knew a bunch of people; there were lots of hot chicks and plenty of drinks.

Tiring of beer, I moved on to cocktails and shots. As if I hadn’t made enough mistakes so far, my alcohol selection was terrible. From gin & tonics to shots of tequila and rum & cokes to Jaeger Bombs, I was getting fucked up[2]. What I remember of the end of the night is pretty hazy, but my last certifiable memory is sitting on the curb, trying to remain upright while waiting for the bus.

The next morning, I woke up in my dorm room, in my own bed. I cleared the sleep from my eyes and I could barely stand the awful taste in my mouth. The flavors were the nasty remnants of booze, more than a few cigarettes and probably some vomit. As I got up to find my toothbrush, something didn’t feel right. I looked down to inspect the only clothing I was wearing to find that my boxers were on backward. As I was dealing with my wardrobe malfunction, I suddenly realized that these boxers were not the underwear that I was wearing the night before.

At this point, I had two options: 1. Ask no questions and carry on without knowledge of my debauchery. 2. Find out what the fuck I did last night.

For the purposes of this story, I guess I’m glad that I chose option two. What I found out, in principle, is that community bathrooms have more disadvantages than I had originally thought. So here goes, I did make it on that bus I was waiting for and with the help of friends, got to my dorm. From here on, I have some facts that I’ve coupled with my own inferences that paint a pretty clear picture of my actions. As the after party raged on back in my dorm, I made my way into one of the two bathrooms shared by the 30 or so guys on my floor. Just had to pee, but ended up puking in the urinal. Some of the vomit ended up on my clothes too. Unfortunately for me, my drunken logic kicked in and the shower seemed like a convenient way to clean up my mess. So, that’s what I did. I took a shower with all my clothes on. The puke was cleaned up. YAY!

I was very proud of myself, but was dissatisfied with my wet clothes and decided to strip down and leave them in bathroom for later retrieval. Now that I had disrobed, I was cold and wet and lacked the foresight to bring a towel due to the impromptu nature of this shower. Throwing caution to the wind, I staggered back to my room stark fucking naked. My door was unlocked, by some miracle. I found a towel (probably) and passed out (on my roommate’s bed).

I can barely stand to imagine the awkwardness of the sight he walked in on. As a fellow member of the football team, Mark was at the party on Beale Street too. In better form than I was, but definitely drunk himself. So, my polite, conservative, Southern roomie had to peel my naked, wet, drunk ass off his bed, dress me and tuck me in. Fuck.

Although this story is totally embarrassing, I’m weirdly proud of it. I don’t hide from it. I own it.

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[1] Rhodes College

[2] Mixing and switching alcohols can be a disaster, you’ll see.

Start Drinking in High School-Pt. 1

The first week of college for any freshman, at any school is the same. I know this because my first three semesters were spent at three different schools. (I told you I was a quitter.) Anyway, the first week of school is all about partying. While there are those who find it necessary to prove their drinking prowess by binging the entire week, the funnier sight is of the kids drinking for the first time. As anyone who drinks knows, alcohol is an extremely important social lubricant and will certainly remain so for the rest of our lives. Everyone who drinks also knows that the first time you get drunk, you get sick. In between heaves, you swear to God that you’ll never drink again. Whatever made you sick will forever be impossible to drink. Even the smell of that liquor will be unbearable.

Everyone has getting wasted and puking stories. They’re usually hilarious. Just tell your own, don’t let others steal your drunken glory. It’s amazing the power that you gain from making yourself the butt of your own joke. Your admission of error makes you seem like much less of an asshole than if someone else were to tell the story about you.

Drinking when you’re young isn’t a strictly social endeavor. Learning how to drink in high school is just as important to your success in college as any of your academic courses. No one is a born drinker[1]. It takes time to acquire a taste and tolerance for alcohol. Remember, you don’t have to like every kind of booze. I hated beer when I first tried it, a lot of people do, but I tried again and again and now I rarely drink anything else. To this day, though, I won’t drink whiskey. I never really enjoyed the taste, but my persistence in the matter was not worthwhile. After I ended up on the wrong end of an empty bottle of Jack Daniels one night, my senior year in high school, I spent the late evening/early morning projectile vomiting from my bed. I haven’t touched it since.

The issue of tolerance, though, is more important than taste. For the most part, drinking when you’re young involves two things: cheap beer and cheap liquor. It’s what is most readily available and easy to get in mass quantities. Whether you are a sophomore in high school or a sophomore in college, you should expect high volumes of vodka in plastic bottles[2], red Solo cups, drinking games and cans of beer that people will refer to as ‘Nattys or Stones.’ Although the drinks won’t be glamorous, you won’t have many better times drinking than when you’re underage. There’s something to be said for committing a crime. I realize underage drinking isn’t exactly a felony, but every teenager with a cocktail feels like a badass. College is called higher education for a reason. When you get there, you’re already supposed to know something. You wouldn’t enroll in a class in which you hadn’t fulfilled the prerequisites, so you shouldn’t even consider going to college parties without some ‘keggers’ under your belt. Coming from someone who partied a fair amount in high school, I have to warn you that you’re never as experienced as you think you are.

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[1] Except the Irish.

[2] Favorites Include: Popov, Karkov, Country Club, and Aristocrat

The Manifesto

What you are about to read is a personal manifesto, a declaration of beliefs based on nearly two decades of astute observation and analysis of the human kind. What I’ve written depicts a harsh reality that too few recognize. Although some may say that my criticisms are pretentious and harsh, I assure you that I am only verbalizing what the others that share my level of awareness are thinking to themselves or worse, whispering to their friends.

Having re-read the previous paragraph, even I think I’m a jerk. Actually, most of my good friends call me a jerk on a regular basis. Either way, I’d like to establish a bit of credibility. I don’t consider myself perfect in any way. In fact I probably have more problems than most of the people reading this book.

I suppose I’ll start with some words that capture me: underachiever, liar, addict, and quitter. For the purposes of this book, I’ll do my best to be truthful, but if I say that my looks are slightly above average, I’d be pushing it. I’m 24 years old and I’ll probably have a full head of hair for the next six months or so. As I’m sure you’ll infer from the book, I have brutally high standards for women (well, people in general), which, if fulfilled, makes said ladies completely out of my league. If by some miracle this blog where ever to be (read) published, it would most likely be classified as self-help, which would be totally ironic considering I would benefit from almost every other book in that section. Basically, all I want you to understand are the following points:

1. I have no right to criticize anyone.

2. I don’t always follow my own ‘expert’ advice.

3. I think I’m really smart, but deep down, I’m smart enough to know that I’m not really that smart.

4. I don’t care about my imperfections; yours are more fun to point out.