Top 40 Break Up

Hello,

You're such a rude boy.  How low can you go?  You did say you would break my heart, but over the telephone?  So we're over, onto the next one?  What's going on in your head?

I feel like I never even met you!  You said I was your baby, your (very attractive) chick, your american honey.   When we were dancing I never wanted to let you go. I was addicted to your natural, young, glittery smile.  I liked your dad and sister, too.

OMG, you meant everything to me.  Nothing hurts as much as you running and turning your back.  I thought I (made) all the right moves.  Time is ticking;  I need you and hope this is only temporary.   Can we try again?  I'm tired of talking about bad romance.

Imma be sleeping with a broken heart.

The Masters...on CBS

A few months ago my faculty advisor asked if I enjoyed living with ambivalent purpose and suffering through the consequences of my wayward life decisions. When I answered with an affirmative informalism, he recommended I pursue graduate school. “The party continues,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “loans toll repayment and you don't have to get a job.” I was convinced and ran off write the graduate entrance exams. Fast-forward through an arduous process of alternately playing the vendor (“Look what I have to offer your school”) and the buyer (“But what are you offering that xyz school isn't, specifically can you offer me some money?”), I now have to make a choice between a handful of universities that, I am promised, will not disappoint the derelict.

To help make an informed decision, I have to actually visit the campuses of the schools in question. To that end, I am sitting on a scantily-cushioned waiting chair at Terminal C11/9 of Detroit Metro airport, an important regional hub in Michigan. My final destination is upstate New York. For this airport's size and puissance in the plane-flying world, it has surprisingly spartan food and entertainment offerings.

Before sitting down to pen this post, I finished a trek through the entire C Terminal looking for some caloric relief. Although planes and hungry people were flying all around, the closest I could get to credible sustenance was a twenty-person line at Fuddruckers, a restaurant name that would make a less mature writer want to giggle. I settled for an overpriced diet coke, a major disappointment given that Minneapolis, from whence I flew, had a full service California Pizza Kitchen.

Fortunately for the Faithful Few, my walk through Terminal C did produce something more noteworthy than a rude giggle and a bottle of colored fizzy water. As I exited one of over a dozen moving walkways – “please watch your step...please watch your step” – I noticed a crowd gathered at the Martini Cove. Ever notice how airport restaurants name themselves after popular food or drink items? It's not The Watering Hole, it's Jose Cuervo's Watering Hole. It's not a Food Den, it's Coney Island Food Den. I think I had lunch in Minneapolis at the Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich Shop, a glorified Subway.

The folks in the crowd were not waiting in line for overpriced and ostentatiously titled airport fare or even being remotely social. They were watching The Masters, a professional golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia, which, in the immortal voice of Jim Nantz, is on CBS. Every year the world's best golfers compete to win a claim to a hideous green jacket by trying to out-golf each other. An explanation of the “sport” of golf is both beyond the scope of this blog and utterly boring, but it suffices to say that the game more slowly than a salted slug on frozen molasses.

The disgraced Tiger Woods was getting ready to putt. He took a couple of practice swings, shook his head as if trying to banish the mental image of mistress number eight and hit the ball. It didn't go in. Woods gave his best “I'm disappointed” mime as he fell to his knees clutching his metal stick in angst. Then he got up and finished the hole with an easy stroke for par. Golf clap. The crowd dissipated quickly as soon as Tiger's infamous image left the screen. The parting mass was clear evidence for the view that the “sport” of golf is very much benefited by Tiger's scandals. My anecdotal experience here in Michigan suggests that Masters viewership will be through the roof. The number of people who tune in this week or watch the final this weekend if Tiger is playing might even rival the Super Bowl. Sure, Bill Simmons probably said it before me, but you heard it here first.

I wonder if golf would be more popular it were broadcast by Scott Hamilton, the ice skating legend. Instead of talking about dimpled girls twirling in toilet-paper dresses, he'd be commenting on dimpled golf balls being hit into holes in the grass. Using his signature grunting, Hamilton would describe the golfer's movements with an encouraging “It miiiiight go iiiiiin....Oh it did!” He could partner with the sarcastic commentator from that NBC reality show where contestants run through obstacle courses (please volunteer his name in the comment section, I'm too lazy to hunt it down) saying things like “that must have hurt” or “he'll feel that in the morning.” Now that's TV that I would watch.

Interested in locating airport goers -- any in the terminal -- who were not entranced by Tiger's performance, I spied a woman reading Cosmopolitan Magazine (Playboy for women). Her devoted attention to the text's glossy pages was not deterred by replays of the unfaithful golfer. An elderly gentleman with a legal pad was busy scribbling something important-looking. He did not look up either. Then Tiger reappeared to challenge another hole. The old man set aside his notes and the woman put down her girl porn. Woods had center stage and I looked around the terminal to see everyone sitting in rapt attention. I could have hijacked a plane right off the tarmac and no one would have noticed until Tiger left the frame.

No one, not even Fred Couples (Fred who?), demands the undivided attention garnered by Tiger Woods. The entertainment provided by his return to golf is enough, even, to make a visit to Detroit Metro interesting. Bravo Tiger!

Awkward Situation #8

Note: This is a true story.

Picture this.

You're checking into a 4-star hotel.

There is a long line, and several people are in front of you.

The girl at the front desk is apologizing because apparently a group of about 60 soldiers checked in unexpectedly and she's having to re-arrange the accommodations.

She checks a lady into the hotel and sends her to her room. Lady seems glad to be out of the line and makes her way toward her room.

The desk girl starts checking in the man in front of you. The process takes a while. You begin to tap your foot impatiently.

A few minutes later, the lady who was checked in comes back to the desk. She doesn't look as happy as she was when she left. "Miss," she hisses through clenched teeth, "there's a problem with the room?"

"A problem?" the desk girl cries, "What seems to be the problem?"

"Miss, I used my key to get into the room you gave me, and... there was a troop of soldiers in there. Let's just say that after a long day they had apparently been excited to get out of their uniforms and make themselves comfortable."

The flustered desk girl tried to make amends, but you don't remember what they were because you were trying very hard to conceal the laughter brought on by this entertaining occurrence.

Awkward Situation #7

Picture this.

You're in a stall at a public restroom, minding your own business, doing your business.

You hear the door open, and someone says, "Hey, how are you, man?"

Cautiously, you reply, "Ok?"

"Great. What are you doing?"

"Um, I don't think I should answer that question, it should be obvious."

"No problem. Hey, do you want to go hang out with me later? I'll treat you to dinner."

"You don't even know me, dude..."

"There's a first time for everything, babe... let's call it a date."

You finish your business, open the stall door, and head to the sink (because you decide you'll actually wash your hands this time, because someone is watching and all). Trying very hard not to make eye contact with the creeper, you sneak a glance at the mirror to see what you're up against.

He turns around and you realize he was talking on his cell phone.

Fail.

Awkward Situation #6

Picture this.

You're sitting on the couch in your living room and your older sister walks by. She is dressed in an early-19th century costume and pauses before you. She turns around.

"What do you think of my hair?" she asks. "I was trying to make it look period, but I don't know if it worked."

You stare at the tangled mass on the back of her head and try to think of something smooth to say. Your mouth opens.

"If you're doing it to look old-fashioned, it's fine," you hear yourself say, "but if you're doing it to look nice..."

Oops.

The sticky spot on the library keyboard

I just arrived at the library. There's a crazy new rule that we have to slide our identification cards to get in the door, so I had to pull out my wallet at the entrance. That was a hassle. What is even more of a hassle is trying to replace the wallet comfortably in my back pocket before I sit down. I don't like sitting on an obliquely situated wallet; it's so uncomfortable and I worry about the long term health implications such laziness could have on my my back. My pants don't help the situation. They are four-pocket Levis—the perfect pants for proper wallet fitting, right?—except this pair is one of those loose-fit styles with a slightly lowered crotch for easier movement. It's comfy, but the wallet housing situation is suspect because the pockets are so large that the seams don't fit snugly against the leather of the wallet. It's really awkward. I'd considered passing up the pair at the store because of this obvious deficiency, but they were on sale and I was poor and my date the night before hadn't gone well. So I bought the pair and now I was struggling with my wallet as I entered the library.

I was still reflecting on my sub-par date and considering what I could have done differently, if there were other reasons she never called me back, and whether she was waiting for me to call when I arrived at the computer concourse in the center of the library.

They say you don't select your library computer; your computer chooses you. I tried to choose my own computer once: I marched confidently to a terminal and sat down to start working, but the system started beeping at me like a smoke detector with a low battery. I fussed with it for a few minutes, pushed on the power button several times, fiddled with the wiring and was just removing the motherboard for an amateur evaluation and no-charge repair attempt when the librarian came up behind me and asked me to leave.

I don't think that computer chose anyone ever again.

Today, I kept my eyes open as I scanned the concourse. Heads moved up and down in front of computer screens recalling the first time I ever bobbed for apples.

90% of the computers were logged into Facebook. Students perused each other's profiles with the same intensity they ought to have devoted to their course materials. One girl had an intense expression as she stared at a photo of a guy and girl positioned in a way that provoked romantic thoughts. She wasn't happy, so I wagered it was an ex-lover with his current flame and she was suffering through a bout of post break-up jealousy. I thought about introducing myself, but noticed the librarian's wary eye and thought better of it. Five percent of the computers showed footage from Hulu. The remaining 5% of the terminals were unused.

I marched directly toward terminal L117, on which someone had installed Flash in order to play music from Pandora. I turned on the monitor and set my fingers on the keyboard to enter my key-pass. That's when I felt something sticky between the F and the G keys. I didn't look, but tapped the spot a few times to determine its texture. It was gooey. Then I looked and immediately regretted having tapped it.

Stickiness is the most disgusting of all the tensile sensations. It is more eerie than pressure or wind and has more staying power than heat or cold. Whenever you feel something sticky, you know that you will keep on feeling it for a while. That's why I hate cleaning the sink; all it takes is one three-day old piece of pasta to ruin an afternoon.

The spot between F and G looked like a partially masticated piece of cereal that had been settling in for a week. It had just enough form that I could tell its origin and was covered in a light green powder and oozed after my touch. It smelled, too, a little.

Ew! I thought.

I hesitated, pondering whether to be embarrassed because I'd been had by a piece of cereal or altruistic and try to remove it for the next person. Then I made up my mind. I picked up my backpack and marched to another terminal, leaving L117 for another unsuspecting soul.

As I logged in at L108, I wondered how many other people had made that same decision.

Awkward Situation #5

Picture this. You're the best man in a wedding. It's the big day and you are at the future home of the bride and groom getting dressed for the wedding. A woman comes over who is dressed very nicely, makeup and hair done. She puts some of the groomsmen to work folding the programs for the ceremony and proceeds to the master bedroom to make the bed.

You offer her your assistance, all the while wondering who she is. Finally, you ask: "I don't think we've met; are you the photographer?"

"No," she replies, "I'm the maid of honor...we met last night at the rehearsal, remember?"

You can tell she's slightly put off by the fact that you don't recall meeting her, so you try to smooth things over with your suave, always-appropriate humor.

"Wow!" you say, "It's like extreme makeover!"

Oops.

Awkward Situation #4

I am sitting in the library working on a term paper.

I have my headphones plugged into my computer and am listening to Chris Cagle's My Life is a Country Song at medium blast.

I can't hear anything around me because my headphones are sound canceling.

I have been working for twenty minutes and nobody has acted at all abnormally.

My friend from statistics walks up behind me and motions to take out my headphones. She wants to tell me something.

I remove the headphones and note that I can still hear the music. My computer speakers are blaring the music even though my headphones are plugged in!

I look around the library at the ten or fifteen students gathered in my study area. None of them return my looks.

Awkward Situation #3

Picture this.

You're cruising around on Facebook, minding your own business.

You get an instant message from Becky, a girl in your Biology class.

"Hey how r u?"

"OK, I guess." You don't really know why she's talking to you, so you go with a general answer.

"Hey u kno Samantha from our class?"

"Yeah." You know her vaguely, she sits behind you most of the time.

"Hey what do u think of her new haircut?"

"I think she's trying too hard. College bobs are overused. You'd think she'd be more creative."

"Hey what do you mean 'college bob'?"

"You know, a lot of girls cut their hair short while they're at college as a sign of independence and maturity. I think it's tacky."

"Hey, so would u go out with her?"

"Nope. She's a snob."

"Hey you're a JERK."

"What?"

"Hey, this IS Samantha, so watch it bud. I hacked into Becky's facebook to talk to you."

Your mouse heads for the "logout" button before you know what you're doing.

"Do you guys take food stamps?"

I am a starving college student who frequents Starbucks because it makes me feel better about my lot in life and because it's a great place to meet women. But mostly because it's a great place to meet women. I was at this fine caffeine depot the other day, studying, no doubt, the latest issue of Men's Health or some such auspicious and educated publication, when a woman entered and marched to the barista behind the cash register.

"Do you guys take food stamps?" she asked with a mix of indignation and authority.

I was shocked. Even as a woefully underemployed member of the proletariat, I pay a goodly portion of my paycheck to the state and federal government, which in turn redistribute my income to needy people like this woman. I didn't want her to starve, but I didn't want her to spend my hard earned bucks on her post matin caffeine fix. If you want a coffee and you are accepting food stamps, make it yourself for 25 cents. Don't accept the charity of your neighbor (through the "generosity" of government) to purchase your mocha.

When she heard "no" from the cashier (Whew!), the woman went outside and used the ATM to withdraw cash from her account. She then reentered and purchased a venti.

I am ashamed to say I said nothing to the woman. I should have stood up right there and demanded an explanation for her abuse of western charity. There are people who need the funds she is abusing -- need them to feed their hungry children or get themselves through the week. Granted the standard for poverty in this country is nowhere near what it is in other nations, but there is a place for some redistribution. But this lady was a walking advertisment for welfare reform.

Please, have some dignity.

Awkward Situation #2

Picture this.

You're on a bus.

You can hear very loud music.

You're drinking your second can of Mountain Dew.

All of a sudden, you realize that you really need to burp.

You think about the situation and decide that maybe, just maybe, you could burp on the beat and the loud music would disguise the sound.

So you try it.

You are impressed with your creativity and problem-solving skills.

Then you get off the bus... but the music still follows you.

You realize you've been listening to your iPod.

Awkward Situation #1

Picture this.

You're sitting in class.

Your professor is explaining, for the 14th time, the difference between an oligarchy and an autocracy. You were up late last night watching The Dark Knight. Again. You shotgunned a Red Bull before class but it apparently isn't kicking in yet.

Your eyelids droop and fall closed subconsciously, and you are vaguely aware of resting your head on the desk. You're studying by osmosis, right?

You don't know how long you've been asleep, but you suddenly feel your neighbor shaking you awake. Feverishly he whispers, "Dr. Stevens wants you to stand and close the class in prayer... wake up!"

So you stand and begin to pray. You're aware of a few faint twitters and giggles. You finish praying and sit down.

Your classmates are staring at you. Trying to keep a straight face, your professor folds his hands in front of him and says, "Thank you for that impromptu prayer. Do you mind if I finish the lesson now?"

You look at your neighbor, who won't make eye contact with you. But judging from the silent laughter racking his body, you know you've been punked.

Punishing a broken watch

Meet my watch. It is one of the few pieces of electronics that I haven't named. I purchased my watch late last year and was so proud of my new toy that I wrote a post about it. In that post, I lauded the features and abilities of my watch, including its 200 lap memory, which actually turned out to be more of a detriment than an advantage.

A week ago my watch broke. Something snapped in its silicon brain and it went all Charles Manson on me, squealing and flashing away in a way that can only be described as chronological. Anyway, it wouldn't tell time anymore.

I couldn't let my watch get away with this rebellion without some kind of punishment. I needed a deterrent to show the rest of the electronic world that giving up - even if that surrender is justified by valid medical reasons - will not be tolerated.

With N toting the camera, I took the offending watch outside to the concrete pad in front of my house and delivered the kind of swift punishment that would have, in another time and place, make me famous. In four strokes of my hammer, the damage was done. My watch will never disappoint another owner again.

Enjoy the photo essay...

Like the snake snuggling with the rat, the crazy watch nestled against the hammer.

The watch is in position and the hammer is poised to smash. I could almost see the watch's face flinch.

The glass is smashed, but the job is not done.

The faceplate broke into a fine powder that shone brightly in the late Spring heat.

This is one watch that will never again tell time.

Two smashes later, my watch was warning all the other electronics in the area to be good.

A million pieces.

How to Tell the Difference Between a Violin and an Accordion

It's one of those awkward moments that happens to everyone. You see someone playing an instrument and go to complement them.

"I didn't know you could play the accordion!"
"It's a violin, you thtoopud!"

Awkward. Very awkward. After a recent incident involving a spatula and a very irate accordion purist, we decided that a public service announcement was in order. What follows is a concise but complete 2-step guide to determining which instrument you're looking at. We like to call it the FCN Accordion/Violin Method, or simply the FAV Method.

Step 1) Avoid making a total fool of yourself.

There are many different kinds of instruments, including bassoons. If the instrument in question is neither a violin nor an accordion, you should avoid using this method. Here are a few red flags:



A big flaring end. This is for sound to come out of when you blow into it. Any instrument with such a device is definitely not a violin or an accordion, and may possibly be a bagpipe.

Frets. These usually come on stringed instruments, which make them hard to spot because violins also have strings (more on this later). Look for metal lines running perpendicular to the strings. If you see them, the instrument is not a violin or accordion. There's an important exception to this rule, however. If the frets are made of paper tape, you can be absolutely certain the instrument belongs to a beginning violinist.

A mouthpiece. Mouthpieces are for blowing into. Violins and accordions are NOT for blowing into. Even a violinist with taped paper frets will not blog into her instrument.

Bigness. Anything requiring wheels, multiple decks of keys, a hand crank, or trade tariffs is probably not what you're looking for.

Safety devices. Instruments are designed to be safe to use (except for harmonicas of course). If you have to buckle yourself into it, it's probably not a violin or accordion.

A trigger. The only musical instruments that come with triggers are custom-made mandolins, the players of which are not to be trifled with. You should never come close enough to an object with a trigger to determine whether or not it is an accordion.

2) Look closely.

This is a violin. Note the bow, strings (without frets), bridge, unique box shape, and tuners.

This is an accordion. Note the keys, levers, handles, contracting accordion bag, and general frenchiness.

And that's all there is to it! Remember that the key to the FAV Method is practice. Don't beat yourself up if you get it wrong a few times. Keep practicing. It's okay to print out these pictures and take them with you for quick reference. Observe a few violins/accordions close up and personal. Note what they have in common and what sets them apart. With time you'll get it and you'll be able to join the ranks of the FAV Masters.

Prayer of Confession

Heads were bowed, eyes were closed and hands were folded as the pastor led his congregation in a Prayer of Confession and Declaration of Forgiveness. Everyone was still and silent and pastor’s soft words were heard plainly from the pulpit.

“We come to you Father mired in and cognizant of our transgressions...”

In the front row, between two fatigued parents, sat a young girl. She looked to be somewhere in years between five and seven, but was a tad stout and had the ornery air of a person who enjoys rebellion, which rendered an accurate age assessment impossible. To that point during the service she had made a number of mischievous dalliances toward inappropriate behavior, but she had never gone so far as to cause a disturbance. Only my eyes, peeled as they were to youthful societal infractions, picked up on her desire to sin.

With both parents distracted by the prayer, the young girl saw her opportunity. Posterity will never know exactly what she did that scratched her sin itch, but it must have been satisfying because it immediately drew a “SHHHH” from one of her parents.

Pastor continued his prayer:

”We acknowledge our shortcomings and humble ourselves in Your presence knowing that You and You alone...”

The girl in the front row succumbed again to temptation and this violation put her over the threshold. Mother grabbed daughter’s wrist and marched deliberately toward the back exit. Both women were wearing stylish sandals that made a distinctive flip-flop sound as they moved, such that even without lifting my head I could track their location.

“We disappoint You routinely – such shortcomings are in our nature – but You in Your benevolence see fit to correct us...”

The walls of the church building were thin and the sound of a sobbing girl was not restrained to the nursery room. Apparently her rebellious desire was extinguished quickly by a stern look from mom and in its place were shrieks of expectant agony. The girl knew she was going to get a spanking and everyone in the sanctuary knew it too.

“Save us heavenly Father from the punishment of eternal damnation and the flames of hell...”

The retort of a blunt impact reverberated around the room and was followed by a bellow of unrestrained agony punctuated at times by girly sobs. Another smack was recorded in the ledger or our ears and more screams reinforced pastor’s prayer.

”You know our hearts and minds, please see our penitence...”

“I’M SOO SORRY MAMA!” The temptation was firmly erased from the young girl’s mind and her only thoughts were for her own comfort. Although she was hidden from view, I am sure tears were streaming down her cheeks and that sitting down would be unpleasant for the next few minutes.

Another voice, much quieter than the young girl’s sobs and more feminine than the pastor’s prayer joined in saying “It’s OK, honey. Come on; all’s forgiven.”

“Thank you Father for sending Your son to give His sanctifying blood on our behalf...”

The flips-flops made their way back to the front of the sanctuary, accented by gentle sniffles from the young girl. Daughter looked embarrassed and mother appeared oblivious to the fact that the entire church had witnessed her meted punishment. Pastor made no comment, he only concluded his prayer:

”In Your blessed name we pray, Amen.”

hi

A couple of days ago, FCN received the following email which is reprinted below without any change to spelling or grammar:

Subject: hi

It is too difficult to say about myself in a few words!!! I am very cheerful girl, I am an optimist. I think that I am pretty. My friends say I am a good girl :):):) Also I would like to say that I am very serious and I don t like when people play games with the feelings of other people! I have a couple of best friends and I am here to find my special one. Sometimes people come into your life and you know right away that they were meant to be there...to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson or help figure out who you are or who you want to become. You never know who these people may be...The successes and downfalls that you experience can create who you are, and the bad experiences can be learned. To meet friends is good but I have friends. Now I need my soulmate in my life. Unfortunately I couldn t find him in my city but the world is very very big!!! I can t stop hoping to find a good sincere and honest man! I woman and I am lacking the right man in my life, someone to hold on, someone to lean on, someone who could be there for me all the time, Someone to share fun with, bad times and good times, trial times, Celebration times, rainy and sunny times of life. I need an honest , trust worthy . I would like to meet a nice guy 30-45 years old, open-minded, kind and willing to have serious relationship. I want to note that he must have serious intentions and not only swap messages. Of course, he also would like to meet in person. Well, any other questions we can discuss on the phone or by mail, my adress ksendansen@gmail.com ! With the best
regards, Kseniya

My answer:

Re: hi

Oh, Kseniya! Where to begin? Let's start with that name. Is it pronounced "Sen-eeya" with a silent "K" or are there actually two hard consonant sounds right after one another at the start of your first name? That must be a great-aunt to spell out for people. If your name is Seneeya, let me be the umpteenth to say "what a pretty name" with a somewhat confused blank look on my face. How ethnic.

I googled your name just to check out your story, and found the following picture of Kseniya Zamyslova. If this is indeed you, I will renounce the rest of this post. If it isn't, and I have a sneaking suspicion that you and Zamyslova share nothing more than a first name, you deserve every word that follows.

Thank goodness that you did find a way to use "few words." To think what your pitch would have been like had you been verbose. I get all Dr. Wright just thinking about it.

Your comment that "you think you are pretty" would be much more encouraging if it didn't follow a declaration that "I am an optimist." You may be optimistically pretty (heck, Janet Reno is optimistically pretty) but realistically, shall we say, unwholesome.

My friends say I am a good boy :):):).

I didn't just drop into your life. I am not in your life. You are in my inbox. You are clogging up bandwidth on my computer. You are distracting me from writing FCN posts and eating, my two productive pastimes.

Please, if you are really interested in my attention, call my mother and tell her we're an item or issue a death threat. Either way I will fear for my life and be forced to address your demands.

Sincerely,
C*** ******

In retrospect, I might have written something about my not being in the 30-45 age range or the probability of finding an honest man through random web searches, but I need to save some ammunition for the next girl.

If any of you, the faithful FCN few, are interested in sending Kseniya a message and getting onto the warmer side of her good graces, be our guest. Her email is ksendansen - at - gmail - dot - com or, for all you web 'bots surfing the internet looking for random emails to spam, ksendansen@gmail.com. Maybe Kseniya can find a soul mate in a really intelligent computer or an equally intelligent FCN reader.

Best of luck!

Cow Bell 101

This site has cataloged my antics at my school's basketball games before, but this post centers on the behavior of another ardent fan, this one in the pep band. If you've ever been to a collegiate sporting event, you have undoubtedly been treated to the rousing notes of the pep band, rising up over the raucous cheers of the crowd with a volume that does little to disguise its own discord.

A friend who plays a very loud (and thus very important) instrument for the group once confided in me that the band practiced only two times outside of games all semester. For such little preparation, it is astounding that they are able to get so many people to play the right note at the same time, or at least a tone that is within a half step of the right note.

This is higher education: Who's to say what is or isn't the "right" note?

Our pep band has one clear standout. He is the Kobe Bryant of the court, the Bill Gates of the computer world and the Tim Berners-Lee (the guy who invented the internet) of packet sharing. No, I am not talking about any trumpet, trombone, tuba or timpani player, although, for what it's worth, all of those instruments do start with the letter "t." Rather the clear standout is the band's cow bell player.

Yes, the cow bell. You might have heard it on an Amish farm in Lancaster County or in the background at a Nordic skiing event. In these venues, the bell is wrung randomly and with no thought to intensity, rhythm or tonality, all very important qualities for the cow bell instrumentaliste.

When our cow bell player strikes stick to bell, the retort can be heard throughout the 6,000 seat stadium and the winces of the other band members are visible from across the court. You see, our cow bell player is very skilled.

But not only does he keep rhythm, he dances like the white guy he is.

As he strikes, the cow bell player moves his feet back and forth, bobbing his head to the beat he creates. He sways, bobs and weaves like Kevin James in Hitch, Dane Cook after a bad joke or our President in Africa. It's as if he has seen too many showings of Step Up or that Cowbell skit on SNL. During the timeouts, he skedaddles out to center court and continues his gyrations in full view of all.

In the middle of one of these impromptu performances, a friend of mine asked how a cow bell specialist got to study at our school's highly ranked music department. Were there even enough classes, my friend wondered, to allow a major in Cowbell Studies or Fine Cowbell Arts?

After a brief visit with our school's catalog confirmed that, yes, cowbell was an offered degree. We have classes in Beginning, Intermediate and Advanced Cowbell Strikeage, Cowbell theory (including a upper division course in where best to strike a cowbell), History of Cowbell (divided up into pre and post modern Olympic games and a specialty class in cowbells of the Western United States), Cowbell Form and Motion, a cowbell capstone class and even a course in how to dance while playing the cowbell.

Too ensure a well-rounded graduate, majors have to take at least three electives from another percussion instrument including pots and pans, the serrated stick and car dashboards.

I am going tonight to watch my school's last home game of the season and a I guarantee that during the timeouts, I will be watching the cowbell player - the cowbell artist, excuse me - very closely.

FCN sees “Cloverfield”

“Let’s go see a movie.” A statement not a question, the line is uttered with no regard to consequences or costs, direct or hidden. Friends are over and conversation needs stimulation. A movie is just the thing.

But what to see? I like chick flicks, but F and N hold an automatic veto over any movie directed by Anne Fletcher. The visiting friends suggest the Johnny Depp movie, a proposition that is quickly asphyxiated with a chorus of “nos.” N puts forward his bid, a film with a couple of Academy Award winning actors that are probably closer to retirement than their next nomination, but no one is in the mood for a movie about a couple codgers end-gaming their life. F wants to see Enchanted, again. Yeah, right. The arguments buzz around like bees in a Penn and Teller magic trick. People change sides faster than Mitt Romney and preferences go from comedy to drama and back again like the F-Train. Even ambivalent viewers turn into ardent advocates as soon as choices are presented. The debate is fierce and enemies are made. Nobody is permanently hurt, though, and a choice is made before the clock strikes an hour.

None of us are sure who’s idea it was – the end of the film had us pointing fingers like a six year-old in a candy shop – but someone introduced the name “Cloverfield,” a virally promoted disaster movie shot entirely with hand held cameras. The merits of "Cloverfield" were never heavily explored but, by virtue of the fact that all the other films were disqualified, “Cloverfield” got the selection. It's a movie about a monster, filmed by a badly shaking cameraman who didn't know it was all computer generated and/or ketchup.

I wont drag you through the hour and twenty minutes of dizzying and horrifying film footage that was flashed before our wide-eyed faces, except to say that the plot moved exceptionally slowly and was a grating regurgitation of every other disaster movie plot, except it was worse. When the credits rolled, a gentleman sitting behind me muttered “Is it over? [Boy], what a waste of money. I should have just left a tenner at the foot of the movie poster.” Great piece of critical analysis, that. He should start a blog.

I, for one, have never witnessed such a tepid reaction to a movie in theaters. All fifty plus people in attendance sat stunned for over a minute before picking themselves up and walking shakily toward the exit, rubbing their eyes. The roomed seemed to spin slowly and I was a little nauseous as I stood up to follow their lead. Looking at the back of so many heads in dim light exiting a building reminded me vaguely of a scene in the movie. Which scene, you ask? All of them.

The baby boomer in attendance speculated that it was the “worst movie she’d ever seen,” a perspective that has been proffered for a dozen other cinematic productions. I thought the movie was creative, but was upset that all the attractive females were killed off (sorry, is that a spoiler?) and that the monster’s soft side wasn’t exploited by the directors.

F made the mistake of defending the movie’s concept publically and was berated excessively for his lack of taste. Defending bad movies is tantamount to making bad movies on the hierarchy of cinematic sins. It might even be worse than defending that limited release Hannah Montana production. Goodness, F, grow a tongue.

By the time we got home, the dizziness and arguments had worn off. We hopped out of the car and looked around. After an awkward pause, somebody asked: “So, now what do you want to do?”