Gender Revealing Parties and Things of That Ilk

This looks like a nightmare.

Society has gotten a bit out of hand with the parties these days. Seriously. No, this is not another fist-shaking, get-off-my-lawn edition of Matt and me being prematurely curmudgeonly, this is just a legitimate plea to knock it off—or at least not invite me.

I was at one of my jobs the other day, where I am a waitress in a midlevel chain restaurant (more on this place with so much spectacular reality show potential later) when my manager walked in wearing head-to-toe (literally) blue. We greeted her from the expo line and she sourly told us she had just come from a gender revealing party. I gave my most quizzical expression. A what??? I was imagining some sort of post-transgender surgery celebration. No. This lovely little gathering was to commemorate the occasion of my boss’s friends learning the gender of their unborn child.

You read that correctly.

To me, this seems like another excuse to have people come over your house and bring you a bunch of garbage you don’t feel like spending money on yourself, only this time it can be from Target’s gender neutral children section so that you can cultivate a non-gendered child while simultaneously letting everyone know which sex it will be born as.

When I was in second grade, my mum took me (and my sister two years later) to get First Holy Communion photos taken. Me, in my dress and veil and white shoes (which, admittedly, I was excited to wear more than just the one day), rosary in hand, looking pensive amid clouds or on a kneeler or whatever. I was 8. I remember thinking it was fun, but I didn’t really see the point. #growingupcatholic, for real.

Senior pictures were another thing I didn’t quite understand. I walked in to the photographer’s place and shared that I didn’t want any pictures of me gazing stupidly into the distance or leaning against a tree, and I didn’t even bring a change of clothes because what is the point? I had like five shirts apart from my school uniform and I wasn’t into fashion shows. The most exciting I got was when she told me my hair had “a lot of movement” and blew a fan on me—the ensuing image of me laughing is the one my mum selected to enlarge and display in the living room.

 I knew these pictures, like Communion pictures, were just events I had to partake in, as I would with a bridal shower, a bachelorette party, a wedding, and a baby shower. As of 8 years ago, this was it. Those were the awkward events in which I would be on display for people and as long as I could make it through those, I would survive (I’m not being dramatic—my friend recently got married and shared wedding photos of the bridal party walking in to the reception. You can literally see me blushing, immortalized on film).

Not so anymore. My cousins got married a couple of years ago and they each had engagement parties. ENGAGEMENT PARTIES. Hey, we got engaged, let’s celebrate. That happens later, I swear. That’s what weddings are. Let’s not even talk about bridal showers or the ever-increasingly ridiculous and expensive bachelor/bachelorette parties, complete with trips to Vegas and headbands featuring glowing, glittering bits of male anatomy wobbling from the top. Pass.

Baby showers equal people bringing you diapers and cribs and baby clothes and baby toys and baby books. That event is specifically set aside for you to garner as many child-related items as possible to somewhat assuage the lifelong expense of having a child. That’s fine. I can get behind that. Not gender-revealing parties. I don’t even know what goes on there because I was too flabbergasted by the existence of this that I couldn’t even sputter out any further questions.

In that same realm, there are pregnancy photos, newborn photos, and engagement photos. The pregnancy photos are usually sappy black and white images of the expectant mother looking down and tenderly cradling her tummy, gracefully dressed in a dress and heels. This is the same mother I will see posting pictures of herself on Facebook in a sports bra and showcasing her bare tummy, or roaming around in the summer wearing a crop top along with her baby belly poking out. Time and a place, folks. I don’t want backlash about body shaming or any of that nonsense, either, but when you have just had a baby, I don’t care about all the pictures of your postpartum stretch marks. I give you kudos for carrying and bearing a child and I’m not saying you shouldn’t love your body in all its various forms, I just don’t need to see pictures of your body all over the internet, whether you have stretch marks or a six pack. People need to keep some things private and have a little decorum, seriously.

I can guarantee, humble readership, that if you pass along a senior picture I will keep it for the allotted time, I will attend your weddings and baby showers, but if you even contemplate inviting me to a gender-revealing party or anything of that ilk, you can feel free to remove me from all future invite lists as well.

Yes, There IS Such a Thing as Too Helpful, or Adventures in Guitar Center

I recently embarked on an adventure of sorts with my friend Liz. She was bored at her cubicle job and daydreaming about purchasing a new guitar so she could learn. Was I interested in helping? Um, is Kim Kardashian a plastic surgery experiment of the most public kind? (The correct answer is "Duh".)

I immediately began firing off mid-price-range options for her to review and she settled on a choice between a solid little acoustic-electric Epiphone or the Dean Exotica model I've played since I learned several years ago. She picked me up to take me to Guitar Center with her after she got done work, and I noticed a battered black acoustic sitting in the backseat. I raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I feel like it's time to give Garcia back to the universe," she said.

As a side note, Garcia is a piece of junk. He is named for Jerry Garcia and has flowers drawn on him (by Liz) and a bumper sticker that says "Don't Be a Dick" (courtesy of the previous owner) as well as a hole (not the one that's supposed to be there). She found him on a sidewalk somewhere while she was in undergrad at Penn State and took him. Now, Garcia falls out of tune too easily (read: by the time you tune the G, B, and e strings the E, A, and D strings are out of tune again) and to preserve Liz's sanity, she was passing him back.

The second we arrived at Guitar Center, we were swooped down on like prey by a fuzzy haired guy with a ponytail'd beard that would put some of the guys of Middle Earth into a frenzy of envy. (Tangent: I have a problem with this part of retail work. I dreaded it as a Kitchen Collection employee and I loathe it as a customer literally ANYWHERE. If I want your help, I will seek you out. If not, please do not accost me the moment I walk in the door). He asked if we needed any help and before I could finish my "No thank you, we're just browsing," Liz said, "Well, I'm looking for an acoustic-electric," and our not-so-helpful guide went, "Right this way," and led her to the Acoustic Corral, leaving me torn between rolling my eyes at that name and trying to glare at my friend for making the fatal retail mistake.

For the next HOUR AND A HALF we stood trapped in polite captivity, with this Sean character-- no, he probably spells it like Shaun or Shawn or some other equal abomination-- as he fiddled around on guitars instead of listening to anything she specified wanting. He instead tried to pawn off a crappy Yamaha guitar with a fuller body.
"This is really the guitar I would get."
"No, I want a Dean I think."
"We don't have those here."
"Or this Epiphone."
"I'd really get this Yamaha."
"I don't want a guitar made by a company who makes dirt bikes."
"This is a great guitar-- look at the fuller body."
"Dude, have you seen THIS fuller body? I don't need that!"
"I just think the Yamaha is the better guitar for the price."
"It doesn't feel right. I don't like the sound. I want the Epiphone."

Round and round they went. I had to leave several times. First it was to peruse the lefty section, which boasted a whopping four guitars (SO many choices!) and then I wandered into Drum World, only to be pounced on by a pretty helpful guy who helped me pick out a drum set (some day...). I reentered the Corral to find Liz and this Shaun character debating the merits of hard versus soft cases.

"Well, I don't really sell a lot of this guitar. I think you should probably just take a soft case."
"No, I want a hard case."
"I don't know if it will fit. See, now the Yamaha guitar slides right into this case. If you want a hard case, your best bet is probably this guitar right here."
I don't know if this guy has stock in Yamaha or what, but I was irritated and had no idea how the usually quick-tempered Liz was maintaining any level of patience with this clown. Also, as he was saying he never sells the Epiphone, a guy sauntered up behind him and plucked the EXACT SAME GUITAR right off the wall. I felt so triumphant, internally, and then I escaped to browse records.

Liz emerged, looking frazzled, with the guitar and case of her choice, and approached the counter to pay and select a capo.

"I would also like a capo," I said. I needed another one to keep with my Les Paul so I didn't have to go fishing around the other case trying to find one all the time-- or worse, worry about forgetting it.

"I'm going to recommend this one right here," Shaun said. "This has a year warranty and it's the best capo. I think."
"No, I want the Keyser one. I have one just like it at home already and I'll just stick with what I'm comfortable with."
"No, see, this one is the same price and it's better."
"Really, thank you, I'll just get the same one I have."
"Well I'll let you think about it."
"Um?"
"See, this rubber portion on the back here, the grip...It tends to come off over time."
"I've had the same capo for 5 years and I play with it more often than not. It won't come off."
"No, but see, it comes off over time."
"Really, I'm not fussed about it. I'm taking the Keyser. Thank you." I looked up to see Liz staring at us with a look like "This guy!"

Liz got talked into the other capo I snubbed and we escaped from a generally joyless trip to Guitar Center.

Epilogue: After dragging her to a school board meeting I had to cover for the paper following our excursion to get a guitar, I proposed wings at Big Shot Bob's, which provided the perfect locale to leave Garcia and deposit him back to the universe. Mission complete.

The Ultimate Music Festival Survival Guide

Music festivals have fascinated me for years. While the popularity of music and arts festivals in the United States waned significantly in the years following Woodstock ’69 (not to be confused with Woodstock ’99, aka Durststock), they’ve experienced a revival in the past 20 years thanks to the popularity of Lollapalooza, Coachella, Burning Man and the Humongous Fungus Festival.

My interest in these festivals has manifested itself not only in my attendance at the last three Firefly festivals in Dover, DE, but also n the form of a grad school paper and a post on Everybody Hates Cleveland (just trust me, I wrote it, not Jim), which dove deeper into the social and financial reasons the US of A has embraced going to see hundreds of bands in one weekend, as Europe has for decades. I plan on discussing none of that here.

Instead, as a seasoned veteran of the festival camping circuit (twice), I’d like to impart some wisdom onto anyone willing to get some friends together to meet some boys and maybe eat some mushrooms, or cruise some chicks and get a suntan. There are hundreds of Pinterest sites and Buzzfeed articles that’ll give you full lists of the supplies you’ll need if you feel like WASTING YOUR TIME. (Wait, you’re telling me I should bring clothes to this festival? Gee, thanks, “Buzzfeed Entertainment Editor” John Sucksalot!) I’m here to give you the REAL advice you’ll need, which you can apply to festival camping, tailgating or getting ready to go to the DMV on a Saturday.

Sure, it’s neither timely nor helpful to craft a list of festival tips after many of the major festivals (Coachella, Bonnaroo, Firefly) have already passed, but I’ll forget about all of this if I don’t do it now, and besides, it’s my blog and not yours, so shut your mouth. Let’s go.

1.   Number of stakes you need: MORE

Stuff falling down is hella lame. You need extra stakes and extra shit to pound the stakes into the ground. Bring twice as many stakes and mallets as you think you need for every tent, canopy, shelter, and camper dressed as a Walking Dead character you expect to encounter on your journey.

2.   Number of hot dogs you need: ALSO MORE

They don’t go bad, they’re easy and quick to cook, and no one really dislikes hot dogs; they just don’t like eating them while embedded in normal, civilized society. But you’re not a part of normal, civilized society for the next week: you’re at a music festival, the true representation of post-apocalyptic life, and the only goods of value in this God-forsaken world are stakes and hot dogs (and alcohol, but not for the purposes of this joke). They’re utility goods, and they’ll serve you in a million different ways. Camp grill keeps falling over? STAKE IT. Buddy getting sick from all the hot dogs? HOT DOG HIM AGAIN (to build resistance). Torrential wind and rain threaten to tear down your campsite? Stake some damn hot dogs in the ground in the shape of a pig to appease Hatfield, the Norse God of Storms and Meat Byproducts.

3.   Establish a pee spot

Let’s not beat around the bush here; you’re going to consumer your own weight in awful food and cheap booze 25 times over during the course of your weekend, and there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell you’re going to make the journey to the port-o-johns and wait 45 minutes for one that isn’t submerged in pure human waste every single time nature calls. For #1, it’s best to establish a single community area to decimate for the duration of the trip. Do it near one of your cars whose open door can give you a little cover from the world, and whose owner doesn’t mind never being able to sit in or sell the vehicle ever again.

There is no easy solution for #2. The punishment for trying to pull that shit (literally) anywhere that isn’t a john is immediate death by having a hot dog staked through your heart.

4.     Get water at off-peak hours

Hey, while you’re staggering around the campgrounds at 4 AM in a drunken stupor, wander over to wherever you get water and fill up. Everyone’s going to want it in six hours, which is also about how long you’ll need to wait if you go when everyone else does, so beat the rush. Plus, the water stations provide an excellent new location for you to pee on the ground so you don’t kill ALL the grass in your own campsite.

5.     Clotheslines

Nobody at this festival is camping to get acquainted with nature or prove your mettle by choking a grizzly to death for his or her only food for the week. You’re a millennial suburbanite hoping to time your acid drop just right so it lines up with your favorite MGMT song (which is definitely “Siberian Breaks” – Oracular Spectacular just isn’t who they really are anymore, man). This means you are probably also terrible at camping (like me), which means your tent is probably going to flood and all your stuff is going to get soaked and reek of rainwater, mildew, and urine, because you are literally pissing EVERYWHERE, YOU FILTHY ANIMAL. So you’re going to need something to dry all that out.

Tie clotheslines to your other structures and proudly hang your shirts, shorts, socks and other garments for all to see. If you’re worried the weight of all your Hulkamania boxers might pull your tents and canopies to the ground, then you weren’t listening to me earlier when I told you to STAKE IT ALL DOWN. STAKE STAKE STAKE ALL THE STAKES.

6.     Find a meeting place, and don’t try going to shows with a group bigger than 4

It’s just not happening, man. You cannot bring a dozen of your friends from the campgrounds into the festival and expect them all to stay together, even if you’re all going to see the same bands that day, so establish a meeting place and time after each act to reconvene. You’re inevitavbly going to lose a couple people in the midst of the crowd, either by someone stopping for food, striking up a conversation with a dude wearing the same Bryan Reeves Vancouver Grizzlies jersey as they are, or excusing themselves to take a leak in the PIZZA STAND, OH COME ON BILL, WE TALKED ABOUT THIS.

Invariably, cell phone service will be minimal, and your phone will probably die within 20 seconds of entering the festival grounds anyway due to the Rules of Being In A Situation Where You Need A Cell Phone, so don’t count on that either. It’s as simple as, “Okay, meet me back here at the hot dog stand after Bon Iver for some hot dogs! I miss hot dogs!” or “Hey, see where those security guards are beating the crap out of Bill? Be there at 5.”

7.   Speaking of phones…

As mentioned before, your phone will be nigh useless as a communication device for the duration of your stay at the Sludge ‘n’ Smirnoff Inn & Suites, but if you plan on using your phone for playing music through some Bluetooth speakers (preferably the same song over and over again all weekend to endear yourself to your neighbors), you will probably need something to charge it. Portable emergency chargers are as useful as they are easy to lose, which is to say “very.” Your best bet is to gas up your truck, Sea Doo or whatever you plan on driving onto the campsite beforehand, bring a car charger, and just run the car occasionally. This way, you’ll give everyone the juice they need without killing your car battery, which is vital because…

8.   Speaking of cars…

You’ve always dreamed of owning a pickup truck. Not necessarily one with all the bells and whistles, but an old beast of burden, capable of hauling all the cement blocks you could dream of and eliminating your need to ever rent a moving van ever again. You love driving the truck. You love the idea of the truck. But then, the day comes when you own the truck, and you regret everything, because now – to your friends, family and neighbors – you are The Guy/Girl With the Truck. You are putting your local U-Haul out of business because everyone just wants to borrow you and your wondrous 26-cylinder moving machine to transport furniture, TVs, and tons and tons of junk. It’s like winning the lottery and seeing old acquaintances and strange third cousins emerge from the woodwork, only instead of an annuity, all you get are payments in the form of few slices of Papa John’s pizza and whatever PBR is left in Uncle Bo’s tool shed, because that is worth eight hours of your Saturday and $40 in gas.

Anyway…the same concept holds for owning jumper cables at a music festival. On the one hand, having a heavy-duty set of cables will be a godsend if you accidentally leave a light on all weekend. On the other, once someone two campsites over with a shot battery sees you wielding a 10-foot, black-and-white ticket home, word spreads quickly. Soon, whatever time you hoped to spend packing or drinking the last of your beer is burned playing the Mother Theresa of Cartman Cables.

Of course, if you don’t bring jumper cables, no one else around you will have any, so you’ll need to wait even longer for the on-site AAA guy to get to you. So your best bet is to just not let your battery die, which means run the engine. Sorry, environment. Sure, your chances of blowing everything up while leaving your car running is much higher than if you just left it alone, but look at it another way: think of how quickly the hot dogs will be cooked!

9.   Please, for the love of God, pace yourself

Whether you’re tailgating, camping at a music festival or running a marathon, a great piece of advice is, “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” Like gunning your engine before the race starts, going too hard your first day at the festival before things have even really gotten underway is a recipe for failure. Also, vomit. You will probably vomit a lot, because if this weekend proves anything, it’s that you are a disgusting creature that barely deserves to live.

There’s little point in me telling you how much alcohol to buy (more) or what kind to drink (light beer and refreshing stuff – this isn’t a brewery tour, it’s 100 degrees outside), and I won’t pontificate on use of certain other paraphernalia that may or may not be legal in your state or municipality (do what you want, man, just maybe not within 20 feet of a state trooper). I’ll just remind you that, although you may be incredibly hyped up once you’ve arrived and set up your pad, you will be living this lifestyle of debauchery for several more days. Don’t wear out the novelty too quickly.

Note: This rule does not apply in situations where, oh, just as an example, a huge f***ing thunderstorm tears through your festival and you're forced to evacuate. In this situation, you should start drinking immediately and with vigor. Like you're gonna be any safer sober or something.

10.   Remember, music festivals are hyperreal spectacles that have more in common with megachurches than they do venues for genuine artistic connection, designed to distract you from the ills of society and your own personal limitations and failures as a person via the simulation of a single artist or group’s image over huge screens and sound amplifiers in a grand attempt to convince you that you are part of this generation’s Woodstock when, instead, you just plunked down a grand sum of money to ostensibly live the way citizens of developing nations are forced to live every day by eating awful food and wallowing in your own filth for days.

Er, I mean, see you next year!

The Sprite is Gone

Last night, as I was preparing a delicious hamburger on my filthy George Foreman grill, I reached into the fridge for a Diet Dr. Pepper and noticed something amiss.

Was it the fact I was holding a Diet Dr. Perky instead? (Hooray generics!) Was it the half-finished can of ginger ale I’d bafflingly decided to save until completion? Was it that I wasn’t reaching into a fridge at all and that my relationship with my roommate was about to get much more interesting?

No, ladies and gentlemen, there was something missing. A certain 12 ounce spawn of Satan was not to be found in its usual spot on the door of my fridge*, mocking me and all that I stand for.

The Sprite is gone.

I cannot for the life of me recall how or when it happened. Maybe my roommate drank it. Maybe my girlfriend drank it. Maybe it dissolved into a million microscopic parasites that now reside in the cracks of our floorboards, waiting for the opportunity to swarm into my ears and take control of my brain.

It’s of no concern to me. All I know is, my seemingly eternal nightmare is no more. I am in a state of complete euphoria. I have won the emotional lottery and, for the time being, reside in an alternate universe where the sky is raining love and happiness, cancer has been cured, world peace has been achieved, the Phillies are not a complete dumpster fire and Joel Embiid’s feet are indestructible rocket-powered boots instead of hastily-assembled structures made of fine china and Krazy Glue.

If you were the one who disposed of the beast, step right up and claim your prize of “anything you want.” A recent review of my bank statements seems to indicate that I do not quite have the $100,000 reward I initially offered, but I will write you a song, a post, or something else that won’t result in me losing my job or spending more than a few hours in a holding cell.

Now, to do something about that damn Hamm’s that’s been on our top shelf for seven months…

*-Some insane people might point out that the Sprite photographed in my earlier post was in the middle of the top shelf of my fridge, not (as I claim in the post) on the door of the fridge. There’s a simple explanation for this: it was easier for me to photograph the Sprite on the shelf, and it also spared you the agony of seeing exactly how filthy the door of our fridge was at the time. Rest assured, when not being moved for aesthetic purposes, the Sprite sat comfortably on the door of the fridge, occupying a spot that could have been used for better beverages.

Fireworks: A Referendum

On Saturday July 4, around the same time my brother, his friend and I were putzing around Pittsburgh trying to decide whether to try and find a spot to watch the fireworks or just retreat and get a head-start on our drinking, New York Giants defensive end Jason Pierre-Paul, like many amateur pyrotechnicians around this time of year, was blowing his hand off.

Alright, maybe he didn’t destroy his hand setting off his literal moving van full of fireworks. Or maybe he did! Or maybe he didn’t. No one in the Giants organization was willing to confirm anything after the news broke aside from their conspicuous revocation of the contact they’d offered Pierre-Paul months ago. Now JPP will likely have to prove his worth this season with an injury ranging anywhere from “it’s just a flesh wound” to “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

Pierre-Paul’s a dope but he’s far from the only one. Twitter Justice Warrior @FanSince09 spent his(?) Independence Day retweeting folks who’d taken friends, loved ones, or themselves (if they were setting off fireworks alone like some sociopath) to the emergency room that night – including an alarming number of people whose first instinct after taking a firework to the face was SUP TWEEPS.

You probably think I’m about to embark on on a quest to the summit of Mount Pious to pontificate on the hazards that roman candles, aerial repeaters and snizzy snozzer snazzamafrazzles (okay, I made that last one up) present to dopes and those who choose to associate with them on our nation’s observed birthday. This isn’t true. Fireworks simply present a risk that far outweighs their entertainment value. I’m not trying to rid the world of fireworks because they’re dangerous; I’m trying to rid the world of fireworks because they suck.

If you are a child, or if you are legally or morally bound to a child, there may be some value in fireworks. Look at the pretty colors! Listen to the big, loud noises! Let Mommy/Daddy/Big Sibling hear and see something other than your dumb little face wailing because you asked for a chocolate peanut butter crunch ice cream come, took one lick, then decided you wanted cookie dough instead! They're wonderful, aren't they?

But if you’re a Grown-Ass Adult, there is nothing positive about fireworks in and of themselves.

I’m turning 26 later this week. I’ve seen hundreds of the “World’s GREATEST Fireworks Show” in my day in various towns and cities – just the finest parts of Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Delaware, mind you – not to mention Dopey Neighbor Du Jour attempting the same in their backyards (“’Zambelli’s are so good,’ they say! ‘Just leave it to the professionals,’ they say! Well, the ‘professionals’ have never met BOB SMITH. Let ‘em fly, kids!”)

By now, I am fairly certain I’ve seen damn near every type of firework that’s ever been set off. There are the standard bloom-and-bang fireworks, the ones that look like palm trees, the ones that crack and sizzle like bacon (cue the “BACONFIREWORKSBLAMBLAMAMERICA” faction), and the little tiny ones that are somehow also SUPER LOUD OW DAMN IT MY EARS. With some minor variations, these will be launched at different intervals for about 10-15 minutes before Gil the Firework Dude says, “Crap, we’ve got a lot of these left, and I just put that new two-level hot tub in the basement so I can’t take ‘em home with me. Welp, better just launch ‘em all at once!”

Thus, we get the Grand Finale. The thing is, a grand finale is generally defined as “exciting,” “impressive” or “climactic,” and unless you are five years old or have just been told by the town prankster, “Hey, there won’t be a grand finale at this fireworks show” and you believed them, none of these words should be words you use to describe the end of a fireworks show.

This isn’t some constantly-evolving piece of technology. There are no homing missiles or iFireworks or sparklers that can teach you Spanish. Nothing earth-shattering has happened in the firework R&D department in almost two hundred years, at least since when they introduced reds, greens, blues and yellows to the fireworks. That’s right: the last major innovation in fireworks was “colors that aren’t black or white.” Yet, every damn year we trot these things out. Fireworks are to Fourth of July/the summer what "pumpkin spiced everything" is to the autumn; if they're so awesome, why don't we do it any other time of the year?

Even worse are the people who try to videotape or photograph a firework show. Unfortunately, none of those people are reading this post right now, because you need Internet access to reach this blog, and if those folks had paid their Prodigy bill this month and had enough time to clear all the old issues of Readers Digest off their keyboard and log on, they’d surely have poked around the web enough to find innumerable, marvelous photos and video of fireworks online. Sorry Pops, your LG Chocolate circa 2007 is not going to cut it here, and it’s dark out, so we can’t see your kids in the shot anyway - and by the way, neither can you, because they’ve spent the last 10 minutes rolling around on the grass instead of gaping at Round 83 of “Ooooh!" "BOOM. BOOMBOOM. BOOMBOOMBOOM cracklecrackle.”

This isn’t a gripe from someone of the “short attention span” generation. Fireworks aren’t some feat of nature that kids raised on TV and video games are skipping out on because we just don’t appreciate things like this these days. Fireworks are manmade entertainment; chemically fascinating, but still just dopey, manmade entertainment, no better for your brain than playing “Mario Party” all day, and – as mentioned before – FAR more dangerous.

Those who might somehow find all this unpatriotic clearly don’t know me very well (nor the history of fireworks). Please, by all means, celebrate the Fourth of July! It’s a great day! Have some friends over, cook a million hot dogs, drink all the PBR your little liver can handle and watch the probabsell sprotsmatch. Or do what we did, which is head back to our friend's apartment, order a crappy pizza, drink beer and watch old episodes of Police Squad!

Indulge in all that makes this country great. Just not fireworks. Fireworks do not make this country great. Fireworks suck.

Thoughts on Aaron Hernandez

Aaron Hernandez is a bad person. He shouldn't have killed that guy. Killing people is bad.

-Matt

Reflections on Journalism: The Good, the Bad, and the Meta

I recently finished reading a book that was compiled, edited, and introduced by Ira Glass of NPR fame. It's called The New Kings of Nonfiction, and it reminded me what I love most about journalism. There is such a style involved that makes each writer so unique, and I love that.

I recall being in my first journalism class at Duquesne, and this professor I had would share stories early on in the semester about his experiences. He was, in my mind, the quintessential journalist. He just knew, and he allowed us the opportunity to develop our own styles. He said that by the end of the semester, we would be able to turn our articles in and he would know who wrote which piece. He helped me hone my craft and encouraged me to try new things.

Sometimes when I write, I get attached to what writers call "darlings"-- certain lines or turns of phrase that seem to summarize everything we want to say in a poetic, perfect sense-- only to have a draft returned with the best parts cut out. I don't see much editing in a lot of my pieces, which I am thankful for, but there are occasions that certain editors have so much of my piece moved around, rephrased, or cut that I lose my entire style and personality. I had three pieces over a period of time that were adjusted in such similar ways that it failed to be effective. A choppy introduction rife with brief, staccato sentences is effective maybe once, not in every article.

Another edit I have a problem with is removing myself from the story. I have qualms with this, and I'm happy someone recognized it other than myself. Ira Glass wrote, "A lot of daily reporting just reinforces everything we already think about the world. It lacks the sense of discovery." Writers who refuse to share any sense of discovery, any of the details that make a story interesting because they result from the author actually being a part of the story, are doing a disservice to themselves and the craft as a whole. Certainly, I acknowledge that there are journalists who insert themselves so fully into the story that it's difficult to discern where the fact ends and where the opinion begins. Hunter S. Thompson is regaled as a great journalist but he was inebriated and higher than a kite (to use a cliche) most of the time. How reliable was he, anyway?

There's another bit in Ira Glass's introduction that I really dig. He says, " I have this experience when I interview someone, if it's going well and we're really talking in a serious way, and they're telling me these very personal things, I fall in love a little. Man, woman, child, any age, any background, I fall in love a little. They're sharing so much of themselves. IF you have half a heart, how can you not?" Truth. I mean, I tend to adopt a more Joan Didion approach to interviewing: notebook open, pen flying across the page as I sit silent and wide-eyed, allowing the quiet to go on until the interviewee gets so uncomfortable that they talk to fill the void.

I do fall in love a little. I learn so much about people, and we have some wonderful moments. Sometimes, those moments capture them better than any scripted answer they had canned in the back of their minds somewhere. If I can't put myself in the story and acknowledge that I am writing it, how could I share those moments and truly represent them in their most positive, realistic light? How could I be telling a story as if I were the authority on the topic if I refuse to even acknowledge that I was there?