Happy Saint Patrick's Day (Part the Third)

In case you missed the previous two parts in this scintillating series, here is Part the First and Part the Second.

Saints and begorrah! Is it Saint Patrick's Day already? Hard to believe that this is the first time I've dipped into the hagiography this year, but maybe it just means that I'm actually putting thought and foresight into my posts and not just "Let's see what obscure Catholic saint I can poke fun at today". I might as well confess (see what I did there?): The Saints post are to me what Jay and Silent Bob are to Kevin Smith.

However, I would argue that, after Jesus' parents, Saint Patrick is the most famous Saint "recognized" in America. And he's only recognized because he's a convenient excuse to drink, which is silly because Saint Arnold is considered the patron saint of brewers (his patronage is on July 8, just so you know). Saint Martin (feast day November 11) is considered the Patron Saint of "drunks", in that he's the Saint you invoke in an attempt to sober your friends up.

Let's not let facts get in the way of a little celebration! We're here to talk about Patrick!

As I mentioned Monday, Saint Patrick was born in the province of Brittania, some time around A.D. 387. This would make him a Roman citizen. He grew up on the western shores of Great Britain, probably in the modern county of Cumbria. Around sixteen, he was captured by those nefarious raiding neighbors to the west, the Irish (or, the Hibernii, as they would have been called in Roman lands). This started his life as a slave.

One of the major occurrences that happened prior to Patrick being born was Emperor Constantine's edict that Christians were no longer to be lion food in any of the great hippodromes around the empire. This began making Christianity not only tolerable in the empire, but also a bit of a fad. If it's good for the Emperor, it's good for us, too. Constantine himself didn't convert to Christianity until he was lying on his deathbed, which would have been sometime in spring of 337--putting it off, it seems, to maximize that whole "one baptism for the forgiveness of sins" deal.

This is important because the citizenry of the empire were, for the most part, Christian by the time Patricius (his given, Roman name) was born, whereas the dastardly Hibernians still worships the Badb and the Dagda. So, while Patricius was tending his captors' flocks as a shepherd, he prayed, because if you're a slave sitting alone on the hillside with a bunch of sheep, might as well talk to God. Am I right, folks?

After six or seven years as a slave, Patricius decided it was enough of this sterco and ran away. Somehow, he talked his way onto a merchant ship bound for the mainland (some say it was divine intervention) and then went to Rouen (which was known as Rotomagus under Roman rule, or roughly "magic turn"), which had a monastery. Here, Patrick studied the Gospel before returning home to his family in western Britain.

However, when he got home, he didn't feel at home. Bah, kids! So, he decided to go back to Ireland in order to spread the Word of God. As you might have heard, he did just that, making him, possibly, one of the very first Christian missionaries in the world. At the time, there wasn't much call for the people of the church to go out and try and convert the pagans...probably because the pagans were more interested in destroying what was left of the Roman Empire, raping and pillaging along the way.

So, what drove Patrick to return to the island where he was a slave for so many years, where one would think he would not want to be? We might be able to figure out just why he went back to Ireland, if we read his Confession (or Confessio): women.

Saints be praised! Patricius had him a soft spot (or a hard one) for the fine lasses of Ireland. We know this because, in his Confession, Patrick references the beauty of several of the women that he baptizes...which we can also assume was done by means of full immersion. Oh, Patrick, you devil! And while there's no record that Patrick ever took a wife (aside from his writings--saved by the Irish while they were rescuing civilization!--there's really not much record of Patrick at all), there's no reason why he couldn't have been married. From what we can tease out of his writings, Patrick had quite an eye for the ladies.

Now, this cat T.F. O'Rahilly postulated back in the 40s that Patrick was really another saint, Saint Palladius, who was the first bishop of Ireland. Palladius might have been the first bishop of Ireland, but in order for there to be Christians there, someone would have had to have brought the word of Christ to the Irish. As most bishops and priests were more worried about lying upon their horde of gold stashed in the back of their churches, this someone was most likely Patrick.

Eventually, all good things must end, and as such, so did Patrick. He died, reportedly, on March 17th (hey! that's today!) in 460 A.D., though some accounts have him dying as late as 533. This, you might deduce, was probably a different Patrick, or maybe a different saint altogether.

Therefore, while you're out enjoying your green beer today, think of Ireland's most famous Patron Saint, who wasn't Irish at all (unlike Brigid and Comcille, who are both Patron Saints of Ireland and who were actually Irish). This makes complete sense, as most people who celebrate St Patrick's Day aren't Irish, either!

So, let's tip our glasses to St. Patrick today as we don our green, head out to the bars, and wait for that first drunk asshole to stumble up to us and, in his worst, sloppy drunken accent ask "Pardon me, lass, but do you have any Irish in you?" And then, before you can answer, he screams "Would you like some?"

Also...I can't drink beer anymore. So, please, if you're headed out to the bar tonight, drink one down for your old buddy Jenks, who is there with you in spirit. And, if you really want to feel like I'm out drinking with you, grope yourself clumsily and then offer up apologies for the rest of the evening.

Saints and begorrah, indeed.

Oh, Thank God, It's the Irish!

Look over just to the right of the main body of my blog. No, lower. Yeah, right in there, in the section where I've listed the books I've read in 2010. Notice anything?

Yeah, I finally finished reading How the Irish Saved Civilization! And, well...yeah.

I honestly don't know why it took me so long to read this book, other than the fact that it fell behind my bed and I didn't think about it for six months and then it got shuffled down in my pile of stuff to read. Apparently, in my world, Neil Gaiman & Shakespeare > Irish. And, well, probably pretty much every one else's world, too.

Being that it's the Monday before St. Patrick's day, I thought I'd write up a little review of the book right here.

So, I think this book would have been better titled How the Irish Saved Western Civilization's Writings from the Ravages of Bands of Barbarians Hellbent on Sacking and Destroying the Roman Empire Mostly by Being on the Fringes and the Forgotten Edges of Europe. However, that doesn't flow so well, or it would just be really difficult to get onto the cover of a book and still be eye-catching.

Anyway, that alternate title pretty much sums it up.

Thomas Cahill, the author, starts out by painting a picture of the final days of the Roman Empire. Because Rome had been the sterling standard for civilization for eleven centuries, everyone wanted in because, once in Rome, it was easier to become a citizen than it was to be evicted (unless you count death as an eviction). There were lots of other problems cropping up in Rome that led to the ultimate downfall of the empire, but when the Germans began pouring over the Rhine in the early parts of the fifth century, it pretty much spelled the end for Rome's power.

Along about this time, some kid named Patricius, who lived on the western shores of Britannia, found himself kidnapped and forced into slavery by Irish raiders. This was also about the same time that Constantine was having his crisis of faith and made the conversion to Christianity--basically on his deathbed--despite having become a tad more lenient upon the Christians than some of his predecessors--Diocletian, to name one--for a number of decades. And, well, if Christianity was good enough for the Emperor, then, by golly, it was good enough for the rest of the Roman citizenry.

Because, you know, when in Rome, do as the Emperor does in order to curry favor with him and help keep your guts on the inside of your body or your head firmly attached to your shoulders.

So, Christianity spread through the noble classes because they wanted to be like Mike the Emperor and then it began catching on with the slaves because, when you've got nothing else to look forward to than a life of servitude, Christianity's promise of reward in the afterlife looks pretty good.

This is the world that Patricius lives in. And, since he's now a slave, he begins to pray to this Christian God and eventually he makes the big conversion shortly after being captured and living in Ireland. After about seven years, he escapes, hops a ship to the mainland, studies to become a man of God, and returns to the Ireland, wherein he goes about spreading the word to the Irish. Being that the Irish don't have much in the way of a nobility or a social hierarchy, they latch onto Christianity fast. And, as people are being converted, more and more folks are giving themselves over to the ministry and monasteries are being erected right and left.

In a bit of cultural switcheroo, the mainland, which had thrived under Pax Romana for over a thousand years, now was a war-torn mess, with roving bands of barbarians, bandits and even the last vestiges of the Roman legions fighting all over the place. On Ireland, where the Romans refused to go because of the mad, untamed, war-like people inhabiting the island, a widespread peace spread across the land (Pax Hibernia?) as Patricius did his work. So, as shit was going crazy on the continent, people were unassing the joint right-and-left, but where to go? Why, hell, let's go to this lovely little green island with all it's quaint little people, it's monasteries and it's sexy red-headed bitches.

As people continued to show up on Ireland, seeking refuge from the insanity going on on the mainland, they brought with them their possessions, which included books. And, what do monasteries have in spades? Scribes who love copying shit down from one page to the next! As such, once they were finished copying scriptural texts, they began copying some of the writings from the old Roman Empire and from the Golden Age of Greece and lots of other places. Wherever people showed up, they brought with them books, and those books got copied down and thusly the Irish monks saved countless texts that would have otherwise been burnt or destroyed or sacked during the battles on the mainland.

Eventually, there were enough monasteries and monks that they had to start finding new places to live. So, the monks--with all their writings--began moving into Great Britain, and then into France and eventually made their way down through Switzerland and into Italy--a kind of full-circle for the writings of Rome.

Aaaaaaaand...that's it. That's how the Irish "saved" civilization. Even though the whole thing was started off by a Briton who was a citizen of the Roman Empire who eventually considered himself Irish. Don't get me wrong; Cahill does a great job of writing the book, and the text itself is pretty easy to read. One other thing that Cahill does a good job of is linking these things together, one after another, in a way that's reminiscent of one of my favorite human beings, James Burke. While it's easy to read and the text isn't bogged down by being too full of itself or anything, the premise is pretty thin, though I understand what Cahill was trying to say and all. Without the Irish copying all this stuff down, we wouldn't have copies of the Iliad or the Odyssey. And if we didn't have any of those things, what would Hollywood have to ruin?

So, while we're all sloshing down green beer on Wednesday and remembering how much we love Guinness (you have my full permission to falcon punch anyone who says "they brew better stuff over in Ireland"), raise a glass to Patricius, who helped save "civilization" by bringing Christianity--and peace--to Ireland. Oh, and let's not forget to salute Ireland's abundance of redheaded beauties!

And to think...in the entire book, there was no mention of Lou Holtz or any saucy redheads. More's the pity...

Memoir Monday: Tequila

I know some of you have seen this picture several times before. I've used it on forums boards for my avatar, I've used it on social sites, I've even thrown it around just for shits and giggles.

This picture was taken in grad school, during my first semester, before I had entered a lab to do my research, and before I had even met my wife. In those halcyon days before my life was dominated by "research" and "reaction mechanisms" and "14 hour days" and "chemistry 24 hours a day" and "fevered dreams of cyclopropanes and benzene rings", and even before an angry God or panoply of angered deities saddled me with a powerful allergy to hops, I was able to drink.

And, boy, did I.

However, in all that time, I hadn't really "experimented" with alcohol. I knew what was out there, and I knew what I liked (and that vodka did not like me). I knew the slow burn of scotch as it crawled down my gullet, I knew the fiery burn of Jameson, and the slow warming of bourbon.

And before you go all smartass on me, I know that they're all types of whisk(e)y.

I like whisk(e)y. Which is why it was my sipping liquor of choice.

Rum, however, was my "get drunk and hit on my undergrad students" liquor of choice.

I had, however, managed to avoid the creature known as "tequila". I knew of tequila, but had never imbibed. Mostly because my friend, the guy who woke me up shaking the bed when we roomed together in college, got drunk off tequila once. I remember it distinctly.

*ring*ring* went my telephone.

Whoever could this be? I thought, idly picking up the phone.

"Lock up yer daughters and sisters and wives, lubbers, 'cause Captain Rummy is coming ashore!" drunkenly drawled screamed a crude imitation of a pirate's brogue into my ear.

"[name redacted], is that you?" I asked, innocent as a schoolboy.

"There is no [name redacted]; there is only Captain Rummy, and he's comin' ashore, lubber!"

And then the phone disconnected.

"[name redacted]? [name redacted], are you still there?" I asked into the phone.

The response I got was the front door to the dorm (I lived one room away from it) flying open and smashing against the brick facade of the building.

"Captain Rummy, has boarded yer vessel!" I heard, bellowed in the hall. "Avast ye, and say yer prayers!" And, still holding the phone to my ear, I looked out in the hallway as my former room mate went tearing down the hall, screaming about how Captain Rummy was here, and he was there was rapin' and pillagin' to be done. Curious, I stepped out into the hallway for a better look, and all I saw was the north end of a south-bound former room mate. I saw him go around the corner, at full tilt, and I heard the back door of the dorm fly open, bang, and then slowly shut.


And silence.

This, my friends, was the result of tequila. Or so it was revealed to me later. And, if tequila could lambaste a hardened drunk like my former room mate in such a manner, then it was not something I wanted to mess around with.

"Try it," insisted my Bulgarian friend, while I was hanging out in his apartment on campus at Notre Dame. "It's a very good drink, baby. I'm sure you'll like it." He offered me the shot glass filled with the clear, slightly green beverage.

"Just make sure Captain Rummy doesn't go looking for some rapin' and pillagin'," I said. And then I took the shot.

Holy wow. It burnt, it cleared my sinuses, but damn, I didn't feel even slightly drunk--you know, that feeling like you just threw down a bunch of alcohol? Yeah, I didn't have that sensation at all.

"Would you like a margarita, baby?" my Bulgarian friend asked.

"Set me up, baby," I said. So he did.

And he did again.

And then again.

Let me take a moment here to pause and encourage you that, if you ever get the chance to drink a margarita made by a Bulgarian, go for it. They like to put a lot of alcohol into their drinks.

So it was with these margaritas. Aside from the shot, I think I had three, maybe four margaritas, with at least one more shot thrown in, to boot. Tequila and I were getting along famously. I was snuggling down in her bosom and getting comfortable. It was so warm and muzzy in there, and her breasts were so pillowy soft and full of alcohol.

Unfortunately, while I was getting sleepy, I was also getting hungry.

Fortunately, Dr. Assy had a bucket of cheeseballs sitting in the living room (he shared an apartment with my Bulgarian friend), so I grabbed the bucket, tore the lid off, slid my hand in to feast myself. After the initial couple of handfuls, I slipped my hand back in there, and then I succumbed to the warm, pillowy bosom of tequila.

My friends, who love me oh so much, decided it was picture time. And, honestly, I can't blame them. Plus, I'll always have this lasting memento of the night I first encountered tequila.

Well, to go along with the cirrhosis, that is.


Memoir Monday is a wholly-owned subsidiary of I Like to Fish... and as such is the brainchild of Travis. I would have used the bookish button that he normally furnishes to go along with Memoir Monday, but as he claims that today he will be showcasing a new button to the blogging world, I'm just writing up this somewhat parodical disclaimer with inclusive links so that he won't sue me. The stories therein cannot be rebroadcast, retransmitted, or announced without the express, written consent of Major League Baseball."

To Sleep Perchance to Dream: Aye, There's the Rub

So, I had a dream last night.

I suppose I have dreams every night, but this one struck a chord.

I was hanging out with my grad school buddies again, Dr. Assy and Captain B. You might remember Captain B from suck such pick-up lines as "California? I'm from Connecticut! They both start with C!" Dr. Assy was the other guy I lived with in grad school.

Well, we were back together and we all had our respective degrees. This was kind of odd because two of us are married and Dr. Assy is busy curing Cancer or some other sign of the Zodiac. But, we were hanging out and, when the three of us were together, there was usually a lot of alcohol involved. I may or may not have mentioned this in the past.

So, we're hanging out, talking, my buddies and I, in this dream, when Dr. Assy does his patented arm-wave. This was something that happened one night during a particularly drunken Groundhog's Day where we passed out watching an endless loop of The White Shadow on ESPN Classic. At one point, Dr. Assy started waving his arms around and I was like "What the hell? Are you an anemone now?"

"No," he responded, "there's just a lack of alcohol in my vicinity."

When you get science-type people drunk, you get conversations featuring words like "anemone" and "vicinity". And "backside attack".


So, in my dream, Dr. Assy is waving his arms around looking for alcohol, but there is none. I decide it's my duty to head down to the liquor store and buy some alcohol for the three of us. Captain B decides he's coming with. I start walking through a bunch of, what I can only describe as passenger cars on a train, because I keep opening and closing doors and ending up in a long, hallway-like area. And Captain B is right there.

I can tell, because he's got his hand on my back. And, apparently, he's getting more and more desirous of that alcohol, because he's pushing me harder and harder to get to the liquor store. Now his hand on my back is beginning to hurt. Finally, after about ten minutes of this, I turn to tell Captain B to fuck off, stop pushing on my back. But, when I turn, he's not there.

"Ah, hell," I said, "this is a fucking dream."

Which instantly caused me to wake up. Only problem? The pain in my back was still there. As lucidity slowly returned to me, I realized that my wife was sleeping with her knees in the middle of my back. *sigh* Once again, I've turned into Al Bundy.

Since it was the night of our anniversary, I decided not to start pushing her around the bed (heh), but instead shifted myself around so that I slept around her knees. After a couple of minutes, apparently satisfied that she had ruined a decent part of my night sensing me shifting on the bed, she rolled over and fell back asleep. A few minutes later, I also fell into a steady, dreamless slumber until the alarm went off a few minutes later.

Notice how I told this entire story about Dreaming, and didn't mention Sandman once.

Well, guess I fucked that up...

TMI Thursday: Me and Mr. Wodka Don't Hang around Where We're Not Wanted

Let's head back in time to that magical era I called my sophomore year of college. It was early spring of 1996, and for some reason, I had not been involved in the theatre production that had just wrapped up. I think it had something to do with my work schedule.

Despite having missed the show, I was invited to one of the cast parties because I was a regular. Being that I felt like throwing caution to the wind and actually having a little fun, I decided to head on down to the party. Accompanying me was the other two legs of my Unholy Triangle, Scooter and Young Bob. You might remember them from the infamous "White Chair Incident". And Young Bob was the camera operator for Sparkle Belly. Rub my nipples.

We finally roll into the shindig there on second Justin West, and immediately I grab a beer and start drinking. What fun is college with alcohol-fueled shenanigans? Alright, alright, it can be fun without the booze, I know. But, seriously, I'm not one to pass up free booze. This could be downfall, as we'll soon see.

Foreshadowing aside, I down the first beer rather quickly. Not feeling anything, I get a second. Again, it's gone painfully fast. Time for a third. What the hell is this I'm drinking? Water? Oh, Miller Lite. Same fucking thing. But, it's college. I give myself a pass. Plus, hello, free beer = good beer. Not always true, but in college, it's a 90% win rate.

When it comes time for my kids to go to college, I'm going to teach them a few rules. The first one will be "Liquor before beer, in the clear; beer before liquor, sicker quicker." This is a talk I wish my father had had with me, but since my mother threatened me with bodily harm if I even so much as touched alcohol in college, I left for Rensselaer, IN with a wide, innocent-eyed view of my future. You have to remember that in high school, I was a much different person than I am now. Alcohol? Me? Never!

Back to the party. Not only did I head off to this party with my good friends Scooter and Young Bob, I also arrived with a healthy lust for a Croatian honey that we'll call Amy. We'll call her Amy because she's in the army now and I'm pretty sure she could kill me with a look if I used her real name. So, Amy it is!

Anyway, Amy was this beautiful first-generation Croatian girl that I had been sprouting wood for since we both arrived at St. Joe in fall of 1994. As I was in one of the "off again" periods with the Ex-, I felt that anything and everything was fair game. Did I ever mention that I have a thing for Slavic people? They are a beautiful race of individuals, in my opinion. Amy had dark hair, gorgeous, big, round brown eyes, and a singing voice that would make the gods themselves weep. Plus, she had big tits.

Amy showed up at the party, but didn't stay long. She came in, got a drink, and mingled for a moment or two and then left. I had waded about four or five beers deep into the Sea of Debauchery when I saw Amy show up. I sauntered over to the bar, struck up a feeble attempt at conversation, and then asked what she was drinking. It was a college party, so it wasn't like I was going to go all captain smooth here and try to buy her a drink. She was having a screwdriver, medium vodka.

'Fuck,' I thought--though hazy my mind may have been--'if she can handle a medium vodka screwdriver, I can handle a heavy vodka screwdriver.'

"Can I get one, too?" I asked the lovely Mandy, who was manning the bar and hosting the party. "Heavy on the vodka."

I'm pretty sure that the lovely Mandy upended the bottle of vodka into my cup and whispered the words "orange juice" over the top of it. When this young woman made a drink heavy on the vodka, the stock price of Smirnoff shot through the roof. Like an idiot, I drank it.

Up to this point, I was largely a vodka virgin. I knew what it was, that it made an excellent drink, and that it largely had no flavor. I also knew that it was a bit tricksy when it came to you feeling drunk. You drink it, and then you don't feel all that drunk. However, suddenly--WHAM-O!--you're fucking blotto and quoting lines from Crime and Punishment. What? I love me some Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov.

So, here I am, stumbling mingling about the party with my half-consumed bucket of vodka and I'm not feeling drunk. In hindsight, I'm acting drunk, but not feeling it. Case in point. Remember, I came to the party with Scooter and Young Bob. Now, Young Bob was not one to drink. He didn't like the flavor of alcohol and he was one of those who enjoyed staying sober and laughing at the stupid antics of us drunk motherfuckers. Scooter was a bit more of a casual drinker. He got a drink, nursed it through most of the night, and usually left a party feeling buzzed but not drunk.

Me? I'm Barney Gumble.

Early on, we had met this cat named Robert. He was a friend of the lovely Mandy's (host of the party), and Scooter was chatting him up all night long. Robert was pretty cool. I came over and asked them, "Hey, how you guys doing?" and Scooter responds with "We're good. We're talking about comics." I think he was trying to lure me into the conversation, maybe to play wingman. I dunno. Things have gotten a little hazy at this point.

I stare at Scooter and Robert with a very serious look on my face. "Awesome," I say, "Comics RULE!" *insert requisite fist pump to accentuate the word 'RULE'*

Having finished the screwdriver, I decided I wasn't nearly drunk enough. So, I head back up to the bar. Now my friend Kurt is manning the bar.

"What can I do you for, my good man?" Kurt asked.

"I think I need something to drink. I'm not nearly drunk enough," I respond.

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"Nope, not drunk enough."

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"Nope, not drunk enough."

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"I think we're getting there." I say. I put my arm around a talking zebra that I befriended somewhere between the second and third shot and we stagger away from the bar.

(In case you couldn't tell, there was no zebra.)

I find Young Bob.

"You're drunk," Young Bob says. He has a mastery of the obvious.

"Yesh," I slur. At this moment, It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) by R.E.M. is queued into the stereo.

"Oh my God," I say, wide-eyed. "Thish ish the besht shong! I know all the wordsh." I try to sing along, muttering and mumbling everything except for Leonard Bernstein (naturally).

Young Bob shakes his head. "Bitch, you couldn't do that sober. You're just embarrassing yourself, drunky."

"I got 'em all," I insist. "I jusht shang too fasht for you to hear."

What happened after this, I'm unsure. However, I know that Amy the Croatian Honey had left the party. At this point, I'm drunk AND horny. I start hitting on something close by. Now, when I say I'm drunk, I mean really fucking drunk. People, I started hitting on one of the Stankus girls. Swear to anything and everything I know that's holy, Stankus was their last name. I'm pretty sure Stankus is Latin for "disease-ridden sulfurous pit". Yes, I'm referring to that particular pit.

Finally, I end up out in the hallway. It's well past midnight, but it's before quiet hours (which started at 2 am), and I'm beginning to feel the copious amounts of vodka that are now coursing through my veins. As the Bolshevik Revolution was playing out in my liver, I felt the need to escape the pounding music and the close quarters. The hallway was a great place to do this.

Young Bob accompanied me. We were standing there, talking. Well, he was talking, I was slurring shit together into incohesive incoherency. There was a lull in the conversation, and as the Russian army continued pounding through my vasculature, my stomach suddenly turned into the Romanovs. They needed to get out of the country, and they needed to get out NOW!

Being that I'm a polite drunk, I simply walk away from Young Bob. He turns to tell me something, and I'm gone. I'm down the hall. A trashcan is in my sites. I walk over to it, stare at it, and then I fountain into it. And by fountain, I mean a raging torrent of alcohol-tinged vomit comes rushing out of my piehole, splattering noisily against the back of the trashcan, and landing in the bottom. I can identify dinner. I think I can identify lunch. It was brown. It was chunky. I remember it tasted like pasta sauce and vodka. The flavor clings to my palate to this day.

Not all of it went into the trash can. When I puke this violently, it comes out my nose, too, and so there was some left-overs on my upper lip. I needed help. I looked up. The only person around me was my nemesis: Vanzetti. Yes, he was related to that Vanzetti. For some reason, we strongly disliked each other.

But, I was desperate.

"Oh my God, Vanzetti, could you get me some paper towels?" I asked in my most pathetic voice. Vanzetti's girlfriend at the time lived on the same floor as the party, and he had walked down the hall to use the bathroom. I saw him as he was headed into the toilets. A few seconds later, he re-emerged, carrying some paper towels. I thanked him, wiped up, and proceeded to puke some more.

I heard Young Bob at the end of the hallway ask Vanzetti, "Is he throwing up." Later, Young Bob related to me that Vanzetti paused and then said with a look of horror on his face: "Oh. God. Yes."

Having emptied my stomach of everything, I was feeling better, but still drunk. I return to standing in the hall with Young Bob. The world is spinning. It's almost 2 am.

"We should get going," Young Bob says. I think he's more worried about the fact that I just puked up my internal organs than it being late.

"Just a sec," I said. I stopped the Stankus girl in the hallway. "315 Gallagher. It's almost 2 am. Come by before they lock the doors."

Young Bob and I wander back across the quad. Together, we mount the stairs to the third floor. All is silent. I pour myself into my room and strip because, hey, there's a Stankus on her way, right? I'm still powerfully drunk. I lay down in just a pair of red Indiana shorts. Sleep claims me immediately.

If there was a knock at the door, I'll never know. However, I do know that the fucking fire alarm went off at 3:15 am. And there I was, wearing only a pair of Indiana shorts that are indecently too short. I pull myself from the alcohol-fueled reveries and fall down the three flights of stairs to the safety of the outside. It is fucking freezing outside. I am wearing just a short pair of shorts. I am still drunk.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, we are allowed back in. I am cold. I am drunk. I am so cold and drunk, I cannot sleep. Finally, after an hour, I fall asleep. The next morning, I woke up sick. And hungover. And with a healthy distaste for vodka.


If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Seeing Yellow

If you went anywhere near Nickelodeon this weekend, you probably would have stumbled upon this show called "Spongebob Squarepants". It's this little cartoon about the misadventures of the title character, his pink starfish best friend Patrick Star, his self-adoring and arrogant neighbor Squidward Tentacles and the misplaced underwater squirrel scientist, Sandy Cheeks.

Okay, I'm done insulting your intelligence. Of course you're heard of Spongebob Squarepants. Even if you're not as intimately familiar with Spongebob as I am, you at least know of him. This weekend, he turned ten years old, and I've been watching the wacky shenanigans of Spongebob, Patrick, Squidward and the rest for nine years and ten months. It's about as close to love-at-first-sight one could have hoped to have had with a cartoon.

I remember the first time I watched Spongebob...more or less. I was in my first year of graduate school at Notre Dame and one Friday evening I had nothing better to do, so I was on campus. I went over to hang with my friend, Dr. Assy, whom I had just met a couple of weeks earlier and also with whom I was teaching undergrads every Tuesday and Thursday morning. I went over to his place and we shot the shit for a while until his other room mate--Captain B--came home. We shot the shit some more, all the while a powerful thirst was building within my parched throat. It was the kind of thirst that could only be slaked with alcohol.

So, we went to the liquor store right next to campus and Dr. Assy got a bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey, Captain B got a bottle of vodka, and I felt my quota of Captain Morgan was running low, so I picked up a bottle. We returned to Dr. Assy and Captain B's joint and proceeded to drink about three quarters of the bottles, apiece. The height of our drunkenness crested sometime around 3:00 in the morning. At that time of the night, naturally, the first inclination is to go onto campus and start some shit...which is exactly what we did.

There happened to be a restaurant/student center that was open 24 hours, which is where we ended up. I don't remember the walk into Reckers (the name of the place); I just sort of ended up there. And, of course, since we were drunk, we knew we were smooth with the ladies. Captain B made the first move and was chatting up this girl who was from California. Captain B, in all seriousness, then said, "We have so much in common. You're from California, I'm from Connecticut, and they both start with 'C'."

I still have no idea how he didn't score that chick.

I met some girl who was taking the organic class that I was teaching the lab for (red flag alert!), but that didn't dissuade me one bit. Instead, I moved in for the kill. She was cute...at least, I remember her being cute...but she wasn't wearing shoes. Things were going along just swimmingly when she folded her arms and hopped up and down because she was cold. I mean, it was four thirty or five in the morning in September when we were out there, so it was a touch nippy--at least for those who were sober or at least sobering up. I remember her saying, "Jesus, I hope I don't get pneumonia and die." Except, my drunken ears heard "ammonia". So, I held a hand up, all smooth like and waved it back and forth.

"No, no," I said, all suave and debonair, "you're in organic now. You won't get ammonia. You'll get methane."

I still have no idea how I didn't score that chick.

As the morning ground on, one of my students--a dude from Maine named Sean--showed up (red flag alert!). We chatted things up a little bit and then I uttered the magic words: "Fuck, I'm hungry." Since it was a restaurant, they were able to serve me up a cheeseburger and fries, but when I got to the end of the line, I realized that I left my wallet back at Dr. Assy and Captain B's pad. Undaunted, Sean swooped in and saved me, buying my food for me. Awesome. I gave him an A- for the semester. He was a B student, but when grading time came out, I said to myself "Dude bought me a burger and fries. I'll put a minus on there to make it somewhat legitimate." When it comes to academic honestly, I'm dripping with it.

As I was sitting there eating, someone slid onto the bench beside me so much so that their hip was pressed next to mine. I looked up just as she announced, "Hey! You're my orgo TA!" And, it was true (red flag alert!). There, sitting beside me, was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I had to shift around to hide the fact that I was not suffering from whiskey dick. That's how badly I wanted her since the first day of class, but being a TA, I couldn't try and make a move on her. Her name was Andrea Goldyn. She was a stunning brunette with deep, velvety brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a radiant smile that caused her eyes to sparkle like diamonds. She was shapely, curvy and smelled extraordinary, especially at 5:00 am.

"Hey, Andrea!" I said. She sort of hugged me (red flag alert!), and I was able to keep my burger and fries out of her wavy, curly brown tresses. It was the kind of hair that my friend Jim would describe to me some years later as "sex hair", and while I wanted to touch it, I didn't want to sully it with a Reckers burger. And, as carnal as my passions for this woman were, I didn't want her hair in my food.

We talked for a long time. Mostly about class and then the conversation turned to football--duh, it's fucking Notre Dame. Since it was the fall, football had already started, but I missed the first game of the season because I went to Columbus, OH for a bachelor party. See, my old room mate--also named Matt--was getting married. The next two weekends were games at Michigan and then at Purdue, so I had yet to get to a game, and the Purdue game was tantalizingly close down in West Lafayette, a mere three hours away. It so happened to be that Matt was getting married on the day of the Purdue game...so, in other words, he was getting married about nine hours from when I was sitting around drunkenly chatting up one of my students.

And, it turns out, that gorgeous Andrea had a ticket to the Purdue game...and an extra ticket. Which she offered to me (red flag alert!). Enter moral dilemma. Do I go to the game--that I desperately wanted to go do--with a woman--that I desperately want to do--who is also one of my students--that I desperately want to do--or do I go to my friend and room mate's wedding in Chicago?

And here's the thing: I could see--even through the clinging, lingering tendrils of a long night of drinking--how this would play out. I had to drive, so, naturally, why bother coming back to campus? She could just come home to my apartment, and, in a few hours, we could leave from there. We've both been up all night, so we're going to need to shower before we leave for the game. And, if we're already naked, might as well do it. This might not have been her plan, but it sure sounded good to me.

Sadly, I took the moral high ground and declined Andrea's offer to go to the game with her. We talked for another fifteen minutes or so, and then departed. Happily, I didn't use the "ammonia/methane" line on her. I do remember part of my subconscious screaming "idiot" inside my skull while I watched her perfect ass swaying away from me.

The sun was coming up as we dragged our asses back to Dr. Assy and Captain B's pad. I laid around for a little while. It was a little after 6:30 when I finally decided I should go home and try to get some sleep before driving to Chicago for my friend's wedding. So, I drove to my apartment--admittedly, I probably shouldn't have, but I was feeling pretty sober; the greasy Reckers burger kind of helped in that department, and Andrea's offers and my depraved visions took care of the rest.

However, when I finally fell into my apartment, I couldn't sleep. While the greasy Reckers burger helped to clear my head and sober me up a touch, it still was sitting in my gut like a ton of Crisco. So, I sat there in my chair, sick to my stomach, exhausted, beginning to feel the onset of a wicked hangover. I decided I needed to find something to watch on the tele, so I clicked it on and my channel-surfing landed me on Nickelodeon, which was showing Spongebob. I sat there, enraptured, watching every little bit of it, from the hydrodynamic spatula with port and starboard attachments to the sound advice of "when in doubt, pinky out".

After watching Spongebob, I got up from my chair and brought up the Reckers burger and some of the Captain's Booty. I went back to my chair, collapsed and slept until well past noon. I woke up with a monster headache, Hey Arnold (also a fine cartoon) on the television, and my clock telling me there was no fucking way I was making it to Matt's wedding.

"Fuck me," I said, getting up, scratching the back of my head, and stumbling into my bathroom to brush my teeth. I came out and changed the channel on the television to find that the Purdue game was about to kick off. Suddenly, the conversation I had the night before with Andrea came rushing back.

"Oh," I groaned around a mouthful of toothpaste, "FUCK ME!"

There you have it. The story of how I came to be a fan of Spongebob Squarepants.

Anyway, here is a list of my favorite Spongebob episodes, and since it's his tenth birthday, I thought I'd give you ten of them. In some semblance of my favorites, here they are without further ado:

1) Artist Unknown
2) The Camping Episode
3) Band Geeks
4) Tea at the Tree Dome
5) The Fry Cook Games
6) Dying for Pie
7) Sailor Mouth
8) Graveyard Shift
9) Suds
10) Sandy, Spongebob and the Worm

Even doing that, I could list another ten I consider my favorites, but, hey, maybe I'll tell the same tale on Spongebob's 20th birthday, and I'll make the same lame list and tell the same lame story. Hooray for the forgetfulness of old age!!!

Oh, hey, did I ever tell you guys about the first time I watched Spongebob?