Damnit!

I’m sitting here in the basement of my parents’ house watching the FSU vs. Miami game, and I just had a huge revelation. FUCK! I am no longer in college.

It wasn’t the day that the College Football Preseason Annuals hit the newsstands. It wasn’t summer turning into fall. It wasn’t the actual kickoff of college football season. It wasn’t talking on the phone with friends in younger grades, it wasn’t searching for jobs (haven’t quite “tried that out” yet), or receiving firey emails on my fraternity’s email list about rush parties that are less than a week away. Instead, this epiphany of an oh so tragic truth surfaced when ESPN's camera zoomed in for about four seconds on one of the FSU Cheerleaders.

No, there was not an emotional moment of nostalgia when Neil Young’s rendition of Helpless during The Last Waltz came on the iPod shuffle, and I balled my eyes out (that was 2 hours ago…). It took the visual stimulation of seeing this absolute baberaham, dressed in her skimpy cheerleading uniform, shaking her pom-poms (and what her mother gave her), and having absolutely no idea that there was an instant classic rivarlry football game taking place behind her, for me to realize that I can no longer actively partake in the debauchery that is college.

Not that I would have been able to capitalize, but I no longer have any chance of ever seeing a girl like that, in an environment like that, who is – pardon my language – looking to get plugged by some gigantic football player or some hammered frat daddy later that night. FSU just lost on a last-second play, but fear not: this chick (and thousands of other broads just like her around the country) is still looking to party and hook up tonight, and the highlight of my night will be watching Erin Andrews interview Jacory Harris about his shoulder injury, which he just described as his “funny bone.”

Oh well. I guess at least I don’t have to do homework.

P.S. For a website that boasts a congregation of pictures of absolute smokeshows from SEC schools that will make you wish that you had listened to your testosterone and went to a state school in the south, check out http://poonsec.blogspot.com/

Streaking

Cal Ripkien’s 2,632straight games. The 1972 Miami Dolphins’ undefeated season. Joe DiMaggio’s 56 consecutive games with a hit. Orel Hershiser’s 59 consecutive scoreless innings. Bowling a 300. Pitching a perfect game. Pitching a tent. These are some of the all-time great “streaks.” However, when the sun sets on Monday, September 7, historians will be able to add another great streak to the annals of ass. Wilos will have gone the whole summer without hooking up with a chick.

Damn. I mean, I’ve had my fair share of dry spells (see: TI Initiations and the weeks to follow, sophomore year), but this one is pretty bad. It might not be my longest; but, given the circumstances (recent college grad with no job, a fact that has allowed me to go out any night I see fit), this one cuts deep. I mean, come on, not even a lousy d-floor make-out! Not even a lousy hj under the table at the Olive Garden whilst sharing a Chicken Carbonara and bowl of endless breadsticks!

My last intimate contact with a member of the opposite sex (aside from the goodnight kiss that my mother gives me on the forehead as she tucks me in to the bottom bunk of my bunk beds each and every night) was back in early June. I treated myself to a little “sky rockets in flight” with the broad upstairs after I finished packing up my college dorm room. Thought it’d be nice to give me something to smile about as I bid my school farewell in the rear-view mirror. Smooth, right? Resident Stud Wilos closes down shop with a bang (hiyo!). Gettin ready to slide on in to my post-collegiate victory lap wherein I would be up to my eyeballs in women. Nope. Nothin’.

I dunno what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that I wear a rubber “Livestrong”-type bracelet from my elementary school’s 5-Year Reunion. Maybe it’s the fact that I oftentimes over-serve myself to the point of losing control of my bladder. Maybe it’s the fact that my hair resembles that of Bozo the Clown. Maybe it’s Maybeline!

Whatever the underlying factors, I have come to the conclusion that the reason I am in the throes of this epic summer drought is that I do not posses the slightest hint of what one would call “game.” Boom. I have no game. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Looking back on it, as laughable as it sounds, all of the tail I pulled in high school stemmed from the fact that either a) the girl was a staunch practitioner of the Open Door Policy or b) I was a senior, the BIG varsity quarterback, and, quite simply put, I ran shit. (Cocky, much?)

Take last night, for example. I was out at a bar in Nantucket called the Chicken Box which is, to put it in layman’s terms, packed wall-to-wall with hot soup. I mean, there are some FBI (Female Body Inspector, of course) Certified, Grade A scorchers in there. And that’s the eye candy. My target range is more along the lines of the slightly overweight chick in the corner, eyes rolling back in her head, guzzling her seventh vodka-soda, and dancing by herself. But I can’t even bag that! You wanna know how my night ended?? (Probably not, but…) I ended up on a random beach by my house drinking scotch-and-waters with some bizarre dude that I shared a taxicab with. Hmm.

I really just don’t know how to get with chicks. Maybe you have to “talk to them.” Maybe you have to “spend time with them at the bar.” Perhaps it would behoove me not to be the guy sweating pure ethanol through two layers of shirts because he is running around the dance floor Rabil-ing dudes right and left. I dunno.

So, as I sit here on American Airlines flight number 853 headed for O’Hare Airport (from where our family will drive out to our grandparents farm), it looks like, save for an act of God or an act of incest, Labor Day will come to pass with old Wilos notching an astounding zero hookups in the season that was the summer of aught-nine. In the words of Vince Vaughn from Wedding Crashers, “hell of a season, pal.” And, with the way things are going, look out Cal, cause this streak ain’t ending anytime soon…

(Eds. Note: credit for picture goes to BJG)

Rule No. 1

I was hanging out this past weekend with a friend of friends in THE City (New York City that is, for all of you who thought I was referring to Des Moines), and I realized that our host and his two roommates referred on two separate occasions to “Rule Number 1.” The guys were very cool, so I immediately ruled out the fact that they might be trampling on the grave of Wedding Crashers by quoting an extremely cliché and oft-overused exchange between Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson (what the hell happened to Luke Wilson, by the way?). So, I thought that perhaps the trio had a bro-riffic series of rules forged through years of time spent together, but I used my deductive reasoning to cross this off when I realized that “Rule Number 1” was a joke of sorts.

The usage of “Rule No. 1” came about under the following circumstances: when someone felt bad about something, be it drinking obscene amounts of liquor on someone else’s tab and not paying the person back, engaging in questionable antics with a girl, or committing any act that a girl would be infuriated with, they were “breaking Rule No. 1.” As I’m sure you can see, breaking Rule Number 1 is feeling bad about something. In essence, never feel bad about anything you did that brought satisfaction to yourself or to your friends. The guys accentuated the joke by saying, “what’s Rule Number 1?” “Never feel bad.” “What’s Rule Number 2?” “Never feel bad,” and etc.

Perhaps I have been living under a rock for the last twenty-two years, but I had never heard this terminology and, I’m not gonna lie, I liked it. I believe that this concept would be classified under the family of “Sorry For Partying,” “Never Apologize,” and the more traditional “Fuck you.” Sorry for Partying was a phrase that took its formidable roots at my school on that fateful day that was Fall Lawn Parties 2008, which spilled into an epic night at the fine establishment Winberries, which went hand-in-hand with the ushering in of “Disturbia” as the anthem of the year/my life (citation here goes to a cohort of people, including CJB, EAS, JF, and MJB).

I am quite tired and do not feel on my game tonight, so I will cut this post short by leaving you with a picture. I will throw out a WARNING, as this picture is pretty gross and not for those with a weak stomach. It occurred on the night referenced above, and if the custodian charged with cleaning this up or any residents of Spellman entry 5 are reading this, I offer you my most sincere apologies. For partying.

Wilos' Blog

What I will now write is somewhat of a disclaimer for this mutated beast of a “blog” that I created about a week ago (on a side note, how the hell did they come up with that name, anyway?). I had been out on the town, returned home, had had a few too many pops, and thought it would be funny to rip on people who are a tad too into themselves, as that is a pet peeve of mine (along with Princeton FluFest – citation to MPC). However, after some thought, sarcastically chastising others for behavior which, I’m sure, at one point or another, I myself have been guilty of becomes a) old and is b) probably unhealthy for my general outlook on life.

So, when my lazy ass gets around to it, I will try to change the name of this site to something along the lines of “Wilos’ Blog.” I must admit, I cannot take full (nor, for that matter, any) credit for this ingenious title, as it is similar to the name of a very amusing book that I received from a friend about a year ago (JDB). The book was entitled Rickles’ Book, and it was Don Rickles’, who happens to be, in my esteemed opinion, one of the funniest comedians around, autobiography. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrzJf334rXI&feature=fvw for a scene from the cult classic Dirty Work, wherein Rickles goes off on one of his patented rants.

Anyways, as I can only imagine you have no doubt realized, I tend to ramble a lot and go off on tangents before (and, sometimes, I don’t even get a chance to) I make my point, so I will try to get to it. This will be – if I have the willpower and commitment to write stuff down every once in a while – my blog, and I will write about random stuff. Hopefully the blog will take on some type of an identity (i.e. I will write about either specific things or broad topics), so for the meantime if you happen to be reading this, please bear with me.

Lastly, before I sign off and finish watching The Soloist (great uplifting movie by the way, with Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr.), I will close with one point. I am a firm believer that, in some ways, for a guy like me who happens to be gainfully unemployed, living in his parents basement, and currently lying on his sofa wearing a Mount Lebanon Women’s Lacrosse hoodie, writing a blog is quite narcissistic. I mean, after all, who am I to think that others care what I have to say about the tools that run around Nobadeer Beach in Nantucket? It’s one thing if you are doing something cool like living in Kenya for the year or teaching English in China, but I have little of interest outside of my own rambling thoughts and opinions.

So, please do not take this as a self-interested guy trying to write for the enjoyment of reading his own work (well, not 100%...). I see this as a forum for me to collect some of my jumbled thoughts on paper, keep in touch with my writing, and hopefully find out a little bit about what the hell is going on inside this weird little thing that one might call my brain. And, if I happen to elicit a laugh or two from friends, then all the better.

-Wilos

P.S. I realized that last part sounded a little too self righteous. I was the man in high school.

Awesome!

I'm watching a movie on TV and the leading actress just showed her tits. Nice!

BRO-badeer, continued

So, as promised from yesterday, here are some of the ideas that I have come up with for the Nobadeer project. A few of these are a bit lackluster, because I do not have my right-hand woman with me to stimulate the creative juices, but I will update the post as I get more. Perhaps we will compile these into some sort of T-shirt. Or, perhaps these will be read by a grand total of six people and I will forget about starting this blog by next week.

-Brobadeer: Ya, my Dad still smokes pot. With me.

-Brobadeer: Licenses to Chill accepted here.

-Brobadeer: Where’s your fucking Trin Coll bumper sticker?? Ya, that’s what I thought. Have fun at Cisco!

-Brobadeer: The first rule of Brobadeer is we do talk about Brobadeer. A lot.

-Brobadeer: I remember my first beer. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Beware of pickpocketers and loose flying lax balls.

-Brobadeer: I went to a lax pinney trading show and a beach party broke out. With lots of hot chicks and dudes wearing the same aviator sunglasses. And lax pinneys!

-Brobadeer: That reminds me of the day I drank 100 beers. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Home to shitty D3 laxers playing with fiddlesticks and skimboards since 1992.

-Brobadeer: The water’s warm, the brews are cold, and our fake IDs say we’re real fucking old!

-Brobadeer: So many babes, not enough time.

-I went to Brobadeer and all I got was this lousy hickey from a Seal. On my ass. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Play another Afroman “Because I Got High!”

-Brobadeer: Yo, who brought the acoustic? I wanna hear some JJ.

-Brobadeer: This fucking ATV cop should be mowing my step dad’s lawn.

-Brobadeer: Don’t hassle me. I’m on my fourth straight month of vacation and this economy is totally killin’ the job market. Dude. I mean… Bro.

-Brobadeer: That’s my bro Tommy. He’s always bumpin’ the hardcore country jams. Got all six Kenny Chesney CDs. And one Shania Twain.

-Brobadeer: You ever heard that song, “Six Pack Summer?” Ya, that’s me. And my Bros.

-Brobadeer: If you ain’t got croakies, you either lost them when you were BLACKED OUT last night or should keep on walkin’….

-Brobadeer: Ya, go ahead and try to arrest me for drunk driving on the beach. My Dad is the best lawyer in New Canaan and he’ll see to it that by the end of the month you are jobless, homeless, penniless, and… hairless.

-Brobadeer: Where Bros congregate to face chug Mike’s Hard and tell stories that they vividly remember from when they were blacked out the night before.

-Brobadeer: If I play my cards right with this babe, I might get a bro-job.

It's BRO-badeer, biatch!

A good friend of mine and I were wrapping up a random but enjoyable night in FRATucket – which had included partaking in some illegal activities in her outdoor shower out of a beer can, walking/taxiing in the rain to four different bars in the span of about 48 minutes in search of a female friend who it would please me to see (most likely already have freaked her out with my over-exuberant text messaging, calling, and general existence), and stuffing our faces with some dank Tacos Tacos burritos - when we saw what I will describe to you now:

A tall, skinny, somewhat-awkward-but-definitely-hiding-it-enough-to-woo-the-blonde-hike-skewl-chick-with-braces-and-the-cherished-full-Gatorade-bottle -of-vodka-on-the-STRIP! guy walk into the newly-opened Easy Street Cantina (which is a new combination of Tacos Tacos and Joe’s Broad Street Grill, which now serves breakfast all day and is open until 2am – a great spot for late-night munchies). Immediately, my friend and I begin to crack up, and she mutters underneath her breath in her unique English accent which amounts to a slightly higher level of humor, “we neeeed to get those t-shirts….” Anyhow, upon seeing me approach him, our new friend, entering the restaurant from stage right, almost immediately halts on a dime and recoils into a deer-in-the-headlights look. The guy, who will we call Nathan Nantucket, is your prototypical kid who has just spent his first summer on the island of sin that is ACK. In essence, your prototypical chief. Nathan is wearing a fresh pair of Rainbows, khaki shorts that are too loose for his long legs, has a sailing-rope-type bracelet on one wrist (you know what I mean), a puka shell necklace, has sun-blonded hair, a tan that could only be accumulated through three straight months of sitting on a beach, zero percent muscles or fat, and is wearing a shirt that I will describe to you now:

It is a white t-shirt, naturally too large across the shoulders, girth of chest, and in the length of the sleeves because of his lack of muscular structure. On the front of the shirt (which isn’t even a pocket tee!!), there is a sign. The same type of sign that they have at the Rotary that says “Surfside,” “Town,” “Madaket,” etc with an arrow under it pointing in that direction. However, instead of displaying the name of the area of the island that one might be attempting to reach via vehicle, little Nathan’s shirt said something different. The road sign on the front of Nathan’s shirt that was draped over his delicate little frame said one word, and one word only. And if you know Nantucket, you know this word, and if you know this word, and you are remotely cool, and you see Nathan stroll into the Cantina after a night cruising the Strip, typing some text messages to himself into his new Samsung Sidekick, and almost bagging Lucy who works at the Juice Bar, you know that this shirt might as well have had a road sign with an arrow that pointed to the owner of the shirt that said, in big, bold letters: “TOOL!” That word, my friends, is the one. The only. The most kick-ass beach on all of the island (and, for that matter, in the entire fucking world – yup, beat out the Hamptons, the OC, AND Surfside, SC). "NOBADEER."

So, my apologies for the long introduction, but I have nothing else to do and, for those unfamiliar with Nantucket, the life of a young partier trying to find his place in this wild world, Nobadeer, douche bags, talking about how much you like to drink and party, I just wanted to paint the picture. Nobadeer, aka BRO-badeer, is one of the few beaches on Nantucket (and, for that matter, I believe, on the east coast, which is pretty cool) on which you can drive your truck or SUV. This adds a fantastic dimension to your day at the beach with the additions of power, louder music, a place at which to congregate and a staging area from which to play outside drinking games, a larger compartment in which to transport your food, drink, beach accessories, and friends, and a vessel which facilitates travel to a nice spot on the beach without having to exert effort. And, of course, a sure-fire layup of an opportunity to drunk-drive home before showering before dinner with your parents. Just kidding. No, but seriously.

So, naturally, the hordes of high school, college, and post-collegiate frat stars that inhabit Nantucket during the summer months migrate toward this strip of beach on the southeast corner of the island, located directly underneath the path upon which airplanes fly to and from the airport (adding a further Wayne’s World/heady aspect to your time spent relaxing underneath the sun). And, all of the above provides an excellent recipe for a great time. And, as any fun kid who has done a tour of duty on Nantucket knows, there is nothing like a day at Nobs.*

HOWEVER, and as the above asterix insinuates, there is a catch. This glorious conjunction of positive positivity comes with a hanging chad: There are a ton of d-bags that partake in the party atmosphere of Nobadeer Beach. Thus, one must take caution when approaching the subject of Brobadeer. In a short sentence (because I am getting tired), there is nothing that screams “I am not cool, simply a jabroni, faux bro (citation: The Beer Lodge), chief, tool, etcetera etcetera” louder than overdoing something without sarcasm, being 100% cliché without sarcasm, and being… well… just not cool, an asshole in general, think you’re cool when you’re not, and, ya… any of that stuff.” (Sense the sarcasm??) So, while by no means should you let the fact that a contingent of posers spoil a great thing by overcrowding and drawing too much attention to themselves deter you from enjoying an amazing day at Nobs, just be careful when you talk about it and about who you might encounter there.

Anyhow, seeing Nathan walk into the Easy Street Cantina, most likely before he sprints to his house to chew on peanut butter and swallow Listerene to make curfew and to avoid missing another awesome night out on the Strip because he was grounded, prompted my friend and I to come up with ideas for a sarcastic shirt or, perhaps, an expose satirizing the anti-bros that take up space on a great party spot (when taken for what it is). Due to time constraints on my computer’s battery I will not write those down at this time, but my friend and I hope to knock heads (and, perhaps, boots!) tomorrow and come up with some ideas. We already have a design for the shirt and some ideas, so stay tuned.