"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.

Litter with care

Like most college students, I binge drink. Coffee, that is. Mornings are too harsh to face without the companionship of warm caffeine and I begin my day with 16 ounces of the real Maxwell House deal. No instant brew for me, I march down to the local java depot and pay three times the market rate for…well, for a cup of overpriced coffee.

One morning I happened to glance at my coffee cup – a cheap contrivance adorned with modern commercial art – and read the notice: “100% Biodegradable.”

Biodegradable, for those of you who couldn’t get past the third syllable, means readily compostable. You know those warm and smelly compost piles your grandma used to keep under her sink? The material of my cup was compost minus a few weeks decomposition time.

Can you say appetizing?

So there I was, standing in the cold with a fresh cup of joe, waiting for the recycled fibers to start falling apart and give me my second warm shower of the day, when it hit me like a bad mid-term grade: Where should I dispose of my cup?

Tossing a carefully engineered, enviro-friendly container in with all the other landfill garbage seemed like a big waste, pun intended (sorry). But I couldn’t justify placing it with the aluminum cans either.

And while the cup was environmentally friendly, the lid was made of unrecycled petroleum-based plastic, which would resist rot for decades. The cardboard insulation sleeve promised similar decomposition stubbornness.

I would have to throw it out in parts, like a serial killer disposing of a body.

But what of the coffee inside my cup?

It was probably made from conflict roast farmed by underprivileged farmers on the “wrong” side of Columbia. And the cocoa in the mocha was arguably from child laborers in the Congo. And the half and half was probably sucked from abused cattle masquerading as “happy cows” in the cheese commercials.

So I dug a hole in my backyard lawn and laid my cup to rest.

Post-Semester Stress Disorder

Finishing school is like finishing a war. The guns are silent, the gore is dried, and your bed feels safe at last. Exhalation is natural and a smile is no longer forced. The steel muzzles cool, and the smoke clears. All is quiet on the wide fields of slaughter, and flowers begin again to dot the trench-scarred landscape.

But try as you might, there can be no return to the life that was before. A nerve deep inside your soul has been touched, and your one-innocent heart has been jarred. You thank God for home, for your loving family and familiar routine, but you find that you cannot enjoy them as you once did.

No, something has changed. You can feel it when, having stayed up by habit until two-thirty in the morning, you stare bleary-eyed at random websites as if they were vital research for an overdue paper that you had to finish. You can feel it when, five hours later, you jolt out of bed perspiring as if there were no time to dress before classes began. You can feel it when you wriggle your weightless fingers and unclasp your empty hands as you carpool to work, thinking you ought to have a book with you. You can feel it when you can make evening plans and not worry about homework deadlines or study groups.

The caffeine addiction dies hard. You cannot bear to bid adieu to your morning coffee, nor can you kiss your desert coffee goodbye. Your hands even itch at times to make that midnight cram-session pot. Mountain Dew may be a good place to start cutting back. They don't, after all, have it at In N' Out, and there's no longer any need for an energy boost in that calculus class. Red Bull is, naturally, off limits.

Slowly, the reality sinks in. You don't have to mute your laptop to keep the Tetris music from reaching your professor's ears. You don't have to sit up straight or act respectable; you don't have to zone out. When someone asks you a question, you don't have to scramble into the dark and misty caverns of your memory in search of potent ingredients for a plausible answer-concoction. The only alchemy in your life is in your plans to revive a hibernating relationship.

In time, the harsh regimen of the semester begins to loosen. There is no one to bark out orders, no one to set deadlines, and no one to impress. You can leave your hair ungelled and trip over your shoelaces. You can guzzle coke on the couch in a stuffy room whose murky dimness is pierced only by the flickering light of a television screen. The only blot on your perfect liberty is a faint but recurring recollection of the horrors you conquered.

Buck up, soldier. Don't let the bad memories phase you. Your troubles are in the past, so keep them there. If steel and fire couldn't hurt you, there's no reason to be afraid of ghosts. Relax and take it easy now, because in just a few months, you're scheduled for another tour.

Caffeinated Pyramid

Starbucks coffee shops are always bustling with activity during the morning rush. Upper to middle class Americans and the college students who are consumption smoothing on little or no income and hope to someday be upper class Americans run in and out of the store picking up their wake-up Joe.

Generally you can predict a patron's beverage choice before they order. The older woman in the Christmas sweater gets a cappuccino and the too-thin tech geek grabs a tea with an oriental name. A young woman in modest but zippy attire gets a skinny latte and a burly man with rough hands orders his mug refilled with black or "unleaded" coffee.

The other day I was one of those people. Life was moving along a little too quickly and Starbucks seemed like just the thing to slow it down. I left home a few minutes early and stopped in at the Java stop that never stops.

I found my place in line in front of an overeducated and overworked Latina woman and behind a slightly overweight gentlemen who wore too tight pants and an orange leather jacket that could best be described as foppish. The Latina woman would get an iced doubleshot and a scone; the fop was a wildcard since he never ordered the same drink twice. The day's "suggestion" - a cranberry mocha beverage that was blood read in its menu representation - was a likely bet.

My turn came and I placed my order. If you've ever been to Starbucks with me you probably know what it was since my coffee tastes have changed little in two years of regular consumption. Feel free to guess in the comment section if that toots your flute.

Receipt in hand, I marched over to a second line to await my drink. That's when I noticed The Pyramid.

I've heard mention of different body types. In one of the not-to-recently passed decades, it was in vogue to debate and label people's shapes: she's a pear; she's an apple. We've probably at least heard that before, even if we didn't understand it or approve. The woman in front of me in the to-receive line broke all of those stereotypes. She was not a pear...and she was certainly not an apple. Tall, triangular and a giant three-dimensional arrow, I think she could best be described as a pyramid.

But what would this monster of a woman drink? My eyes searched the menu quickly, looking for any Mrs. size drinks or a taste that would appeal to the plus size. Starbucks prides itself on a svelte and posh appearance and none of the drink titles seemed to appeal to "bigger" appetites.

That's just another of the many differences between Starbucks and Burger King.

When the drink arrived and was announced by the green-aproned employee, a shocked quiet came over the hustle of blenders and quiet chatting of busy people. Even the music seemed more hushed. Her order: A venti (no surprise) Java Chip Frappuccino (okay...) with six shots.

Six shots.

Mille milliards de mille sabords! That would keep me up 'till Christmas, but it was her morning fix? How had she acquired such a resistance? What did she do when she needed to stay awake at night?

The Pyramid shuffled over to the drink table and picked up her order. Then she took a sip. As the liquid demise poured through her being, her imposing figure palpitated and I could actually see her heart beating more quickly beneath her stylish blouse. Her poor heart!

Then it hit me like those Gatorade showers players give their coach after a championship: that would be me in a few years. Sure, I could maintain some semblance of expected human form for a little while, but my poor alimentary and physical habits will eventually catch up to me and I will be the sniveling intellectual waiting in line to treat my addiction. I might even be a pyramid. For a moment I was worried. Then my drink was called and all thoughts of the line were erased by the cool refreshing taste of my favorite beverage.

Running Up A Tab (Room)

There are two kinds of FCN readers, those who have never been in a Tab room and those who don’t know what the heck a Tab room even is. If you are in the first group, take heart, the next few paragraphs may provide some of that forensics enlightenment that has thus far eluded your consciousness; if you find yourself in the second group, you’re probably going to find more humor in Larry King (although Larry King apparently had enough humor to marry six times) and should reconsider accordingly.

Tab (or Tabulation) is the nerve center of a debate tournament. It’s where all the results are recorded, pairings are determined and winners noted. It’s a completely objectified, rational bastion of patriarchal narcissism - yes, narcissism, but we’ll get into that more later.

There was one woman in Tab – a mother figure who more than once saved the tournament by saying “no” – and the tournament director (also a female) made our room of relaxation a regular respite so she could rebuke us rudely, so we couldn’t quite claim to be completely patriarchal; but that didn’t keep us males from acting like a bunch of bachelors.

As head of Tab at a small national qualifier, I had a barrel load of responsibilities. The tournament had to be run on time, the Tab staff needed their caffeine fixes, ballots had to be double checked, the donut supply had to be maintained and, well, you get the idea. We started early and worked late, which is a lot to ask of a bunch of derelicts, especially on a weekend.

Folks get this picture of Tab workers wearily sitting in front of a computer in a dark room endlessly crunching numbers and reworking statistics like so many silicon-based life forms. While I’d like this sympathetic stereotype to live on unedited, the truth is that we sit in a well-lit room surrounded by refreshments and chew the fat. Then, whenever a ballot is returned, we get all excited and two staff members (designated “Affirmative” and “Negative”) Ro-Sham-Bo to determine the victor. These results are then quickly entered into a computer and we resume our arduous task of shooting the breeze (which consists of chatting it up, ingratiating with one another, schmoozing, bragging, and, perhaps, a little gossip).

After every round we would print the tournament’s to-date results and post them on the wall for all the initiated to see. There, with results in 2-D, we would make bets on the next rounds. One of us would be Bill Bennett and the other Pete Rose and we’d lay down our pocket change and await the results of the next Ro-Sham-Bo match.

Perhaps the most exciting part of Tab work is figuring out who “breaks.” The term “break” is a semantic oxymoron because, while it sounds bad, it actually means someone can advance to the next round. At any other tournament, any team with a winning record would advance; but not in my Tab room.

To determine “breaks” we brought out a dart board, eight darts and some sticky notes. We pasted the names of all the competitors to the board and started chucking the darts from across the room. When all the sharp objects were cleaving to the wall, both undefeated (ballot-wise, not Ro-Sham-Bo) teams were off our break list.

Fortunately for the tournament participants, the female tab member intervened and created her own list of breaks, one that all of us guys regarded as a cheap fake imitation that wasn't even real.

One of the most fun parts of running Tab was reading all of the contestant’s ballots. Yes, I did just admit to an extremely freaky and somewhat perverted espionage, but that’s in the job description. Actually it was pretty fun because, after years of reading one-line disappointments on my Reasons for Decisions (RFDs) over the years, I got to see the newcomers flail in the quicksand.

Without revealing any confidence (the Judge – Tab Room – Tournament Director – Competitor chain of confidence is to be broken only by parents, coaches, siblings, friends, pastors, counselors, pen pals, hair stylists and perfume consultants), I can tell you some of the real headline grabbers from the tournament:

RFD: The Affirmative team had a better tie.

DECISION: Affirmative.

RFD: Nice Shoes.

DECISION: Double Loss.

RFD: What are you doing tonight after the tournament?

DECISION: Negative.

Doesn’t that tickle you in places you just don’t talk about at parties? It’s enough to give every debate parent a chill from nape to cape. What good, substantive, groundbreaking discussion our youth are sharing in the competitive environment of academic forensics, eh Squanto?

And the salvos just kept coming. But whenever we felt our Ro-Sham-Bo tabulation would have been more accurate and were about to break out the Liquid Paper to “fix” the judges’ mistakes, a really fine bit of judicial writing would enter the room and our feelings of superiority would be assuaged.

I don’t think I’ll ever be invited to run a Tab room again. But if I am, no women will be allowed to help out. None.

Red Bull Blast

Wow. I just had my first Red Bull in over 10 months. The last time I treated myself to the lightly carbonated deliciousness of the world’s best energy drink, I was speaking on the fifth of five consecutive days at the National Debate championships and was living off taurine, caffeine and adrenaline. Then, I didn’t just drink the stuff; I guzzled it as if it was going out of style. I averaged 3.25 cans a day (over the course of the tournament) as I slurped raw energy with raw abandon.

Last summer’s blast of Red Bull had given me some problems. It took a week before my hands stopped shaking and I had cardiac irregularities for a few months afterwards. My vision reacted strangely to light and I absolutely had to have some caffeine to wake up in the morning. I decided that, though tasty and metabolism strengthening, Red Bull was 8.3 fluid ounces of early death and I’d rather abstain. There is a reason, after all, that this beverage is banned in Denmark, Norway, France, Uruguay, France and Iceland and wouldn’t be sold to minors in Finland.

My resolve lasted until about an hour ago.

Earlier today, while eating lunch with Amanda and Tony, a couple of Red Bull sales people approached our table and, after discovering that Tony and I were athletes for the school, insisted we take a canister of their product as a sample. They practically forced me to succumb to their requests with such persuasive entreaties as:

“Red Bull is the most heterosexual drink ever produced in Austria.”

“This stuff is stronger than Peyote.”

“It’ll do wonders for your times.”

I packed my can away, knowing I had a mid-term in my night class that evening and did not want to risk any adverse side-effects that might impair my performance.

But something about the cold tin of an unopened Red Bull can was too enticing for even my academically focused psyche. After track practice, I opened up the can, enjoyed the oddly comforting depressurization noise, and took a large gulp of liquid myocardial infarction.

I smiled, exhaling slowly and feeling a quiet hum in the back of my head. The stuff was working. I could feel my heart rate increase and knew my blood pressure had to be in the danger zone. I had hypertension, but it was a good kind of hypertension. A dull throb pounded throughout my body and my hand started to shake.

I took a second gulp.

Memories of last summer washed over me. I paused to enjoy them; some memories are best remembered the way they were experienced.

Before I knew it, I had drained the entire can. I couldn’t remember the last time I drank any beverage that quickly, much less a highly mephitic blend of semi-toxic stimulants.

I drove home more alert than I’d been in years. I took a phone call from my brother and told him more in three minutes than I had in three weeks. I think he suspected something.  I wrote this post in record time and did so while editing a term paper and writing an email.

My mid-term felt good, but I ended up getting my worst grade yet this semester. That’ll be the one I drop.