I much prefer bandwagon fans in the realm of sports

If you know me, you know of my traitorous opinion of my own major. I’m a political science major, but I work in the Journalism School. I hate the kids in my classes. And yes, I couldn’t stand the last election.

My political leanings aside, these past few months have been a complete burn on my patience. It seems that ever since two months ago, legions of folks who had little to no knowledge of or interest in politics suddenly came out in droves to support their candidates and strive to alienate anyone and everyone that disagreed with anything they said. If you don’t believe me, check the archives of the Alligator from the last few months. Politics really does bring out the worst in people.

But that is only half of my disgust with the entire process. Beginning on the day students came back for the Fall semester, there were countless political activists all over campus. First, it was whether or not I was registered to vote in Alachua County. Then, it was whether or not I was voting early. Then, it was whether I supported Senator Obama or Senator McCain.

Jesus Tapdancing Christ. It was so annoying. I couldn’t walk from class to class without being ceaselessly pestered multiple times. I know this sounds petty, but I’m sure that anyone who was on campus for these past few months will agree with me that it got a bit out of hand. I’m looking forward to getting back to dealing with Brother Micah telling me that I’m going to Hell and the Gideons giving out free Bibles.

Now that it’s over, though, I am elated to not have to deal with the sheep of both parties suddenly caring more about the direction of our country than they ever had. Now we can all concentrate on the most important things of the season: my birthday and football. Oh, how glorious it will be.

Almost as spooky as Matt Garza in game 7 of the ALCS

I hate how this has largely become a photo blog. Hopefully I will find time to write more in the coming months.

I can mumble and be cute… why won't Ellen Page do it with me?

Tonight, Ian and I went on a man-date to the movies to see Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. And, following an hour of a lifestyle I cannot possibly relate to, I have come to a conclusion. I think it’s funny how Michael Cera plays the exact same character in everything he has ever done.

Arrested Development? Awkwardly charming teenager.
Superbad? Awkwardly charming teenager.
Juno? Awkwardly charming teenager.
Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist? Awkwardly charming teenager.

This is by no means a complaint. I find his films to be quite heartwarming. Plus, he is obviously doing something correctly. I mean, if it works for him, dude should rock the weirdness until his penis falls off from boning the legions of tiny girls who adore the feeling of “AWWWWW” that overcomes them every time they see him avoid eye contact and stutter strangely when making a point.

I just wish I could pull it off, too.

Yes, I did it.

The beard is five weeks old. The mohawk is about 14 hours old. We’re going to the World Series!

Obligatory Playoff Beard Update

Updating, my beard is now four weeks old.

Playoff Beard, stage 1

Now that the impossible has happened, it is time to begin a playoff beard:

I kind of knew it was going to end this way.

Well, that was short-lived. About a week into our awesome hair-growing experiment Angus shaved, but didn’t have the guts to tell me he did this. I learned it by proxy from Bulgaria.

Weak, man. Weak.

The Fall Follicle Fiesta!

Well, I have been in Gainesville four days with my good friend Angus (who, to my great pleasure, has taken up blogging). We have been pretty bored this week, so we needed something entertaining to keep from going insane.

What did we come up with? A facial hair growing contest, of course! I am offering Angus $20 if he makes it until October 12 without shaving. A modest amount, yes. But the wonders that await Angus’ face will repay me tenfold.

Below is a photo taken with my (terrible) camera phone and a professional artists’ rendering of what we anticipate in a couple of months.

Cubbies for a day

This past weekend, Ian and I made the trek up to the fine City of Chicago to enjoy a Cubs game and a Jimmy Buffett concert. A few observations:

Every bloody thing in Chicago is named after Mayor Daley or his dad. The Richard M. Daley Building, the Richard J. Daley Center, the Richard M. Daley Public Restroom (A Richard J. Daley Project). You get the idea.

Chicago has public transportation down, man. We took the train from our hotel to Wrigley and back in a snap, all for the low price of two dollars. (I will have to get used to public transportation this coming fall, because I think I’m taking the bus to campus if I can’t find someone to sell me a red parking decal. This is a not-so-subtle hint.)

I felt sort of like a traitor when I clapped for Cubs hits. Oh well, I balanced that out by wearing the right cap:

My cousin Scott is a dirty, funny, old man. He burned a bunch of bootleg and compilation CDs and brought them to Buffett tailgating, where he offered them to old drunk ladies in exchange for a good view of their funbags. I have photos. They are disturbing.

Finally, I think I fill out a coconut bra quite well, don’t you think?

Yes, Indeed, I'm Walkin'

So, when a guy gets a walk in baseball, why does he run to first base? It’s called a walk, people. If I were playing, I would take my own sweet time to get to first base, man.

Look: baseball is a special sport because even fat guys can participate. Earning the right to walk anywhere should be their bread and butter. It’s 90 feet of leisure in an otherwise taxing world.