CollegeHumor: User 237's Articles

CollegeHumor: User 237's Articles http://www.collegehumor.com http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1750364 A REFLECTION ON THE EXISTENCE OF PATRICK BATEMAN*, STRUGGLING WRITER Wed, 27 Feb 2008 09:03:16 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1750364 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> I live in a poorly-maintained brownstone on East 5th Street on the second floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. I'm 26 years old. I believe in choosing between taking care of myself, a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my hair is in my face I'll put on a bandana while debating whether I want to do stomach crunches. I can do 50 now before losing interest. After I remove the bandana I use an expired Albuterol inhaler. In the shower I use anti-dandruff Vive For Men Pro shampoo, then Duane Reade store brand moisturizing bar soap on my body as well as my face. Then I gargle Duane Reade store brand fresh mint antiseptic mouthwash, which I endure for 10 minutes while I try to remember the rest of my routine. I always use CVS Pharmacy store brand acne wipes that are saturated with alcohol; they are unquestionably drying my face out and making me look older. Then Dove moisturizer, then a prescription anti-rash skin ointment followed by as many as six Q-tips. There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some sideshow attraction, and that's really me, embodying entropy, something real sorry, and though I can sometimes stay awake all day and you can shake my hand and feel flesh that was possibly washed that afternoon and maybe you can pretend our lifestyles are remotely comparable: I ... I'm sorry, I completely forgot what I was saying.

* Name changed to protect the author.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2008-02-27 09:03:16 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1750364">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1745050 Trot or Not Sun, 25 Nov 2007 01:40:41 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1745050 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> BEST PART OF JANOWITZ’S TURKEY? CERTAINLY NOT THE LEGS.

GIBSONIA, PA — When he ran cross country in high school, the best time Neil Janowitz registered was 18:07 on Saratoga, New York’s three-mile woodland track in the final race of his prep career. Earlier today, as Janowitz slogged along a 5K course that meandered through Treesdale Golf & Country Club in suburban Pittsburgh, that time popped up yet again. Only this time, appearing as it did at the two-mile marker of the community’s Turkey Trot charity race, there was nothing “best” about it.

“I’m more than 50% slower than I was seven years ago,” a worryingly out-of-breath Janowitz bemoaned, shortly after crossing the finish line in a time of 28:49. “Back then, my splits were right around six minutes. Now? Look at it. What—nine, nine-and-a-half minutes? Christ, I can’t breathe, much less do math right now.”

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2007-11-25 01:40:41 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1745050">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1733614 The Inner Monologue Of An Unnamed 25-Year-Old As He Stands in H & M Trying to Decide Whether Or Not to Buy X-Men Briefs Tue, 12 Jun 2007 08:04:18 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1733614 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> �
But do I really want to go back to briefs? I can't remember the last time I wore them. Must've been elementary school. I probably had some just like these. What would it be like to switch back? Really uncomfortable, for one. Is it worth it?
�
It sure would be funny. I'd crack up every time I wear them. I wonder if women would find it as funny. Some probably would. But do I want to be with a girl who finds X-men undies funny? On the other hand, do I want to be with one who finds them lame? Am I really in a position to be that selective? And what if briefs make my penis look small? Is my penis small? Should I be looking for underwear that makes it look bigger? Will it looker bigger with Wolverine on it? Cooler?

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2007-06-12 08:04:18 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1733614">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1695185 The Perils of Youth Wed, 14 Jun 2006 00:00:00 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1695185 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Beavis and Butthead DVD set in the mail and popping it into my player. The ensuing reverie reminded me just how strange and surreal my adolescence, as well as that of any teenage male in the mid-nineties, truly was. Our generation got to enjoy the Simpsons as the show entered its irreverent prime, but beyond that, we spent evenings watching back-to-back (and on occasion, -to-back-to-back) episodes of Ren and Stimpy and Beavis and Butthead. I don't recall seeing it, but I have no doubt Mom would go snort pounds of Xanax in the kitchen whenever she happened upon me engaged in the sophomoric, frenetic world of mid-90s teen television programming.

But whereas Ren and Stimpy took place in some surreal, psychedelic world filled with a very colorful assortment of excretory matter, Beavis and Butthead could've been any pair of American teenage males"�males who had endured Roethlisbergerian head trauma or astoundingly bad parenting, sure, but ones who were in the mix with us nevertheless. We all worked at a fast food joint, we all had some strange obsession with fire and blasting our buddies in the nards, and we all watched the same bizarrely amazing music videos (Safety Dance, anyone?), wondering aloud what the crap was happening. Did afternoon marathons of Beavis and Butthead set the average loss-of-virginity age for our generation back a full three to fourteen years? Hell yes it did. But we were too busy watching the boys talk about scoring with chicks to realize that with each episode, our likelihood of doing just that was rapidly diminishing.

So the question now is: how should we, as educated, sophisticated members of the college-and-above set who visit CollegeHumor for the articles, regard Beavis and Butthead"�a show that featured two functional retards obsessed with fire, boobs and destruction? Do we move on, ignoring the monumental impact the show had on our development, and spend our days engaged in highbrow activities like reading People and watching CSI: Somewhere? Or do we follow the model of 25-year-old roommate TBone, he of perfect SAT score, Dean's List in economics and one-time Fortune 500 employee, and DVR an entire weekend marathon of the show, then watch it the next?

Beats the hell out of me. All I know is this:

- I cannot hear the words "dumbass"� or "bunghole"�"�words I still encounter at an alarming clip"�without thinking of 7th grade best friend Matt Durkee, circa 1994, with his appropriately generous forehead and gummy smile, spending entire weeks talking like Butthead. It is one powerful, vivid association.

- Similarly, any mention of frog baseball, lesbian seagulls, riding lawnmower road trips and / or Gwar sets me adrift on memory bliss. This doesn't happen as often.

- The entire decade of programming that followed has the fingerprints of Beavis and Butthead all over it. From the pop culture references in Family Guy to the inane debauchery of Jackass, Viva La Bam and really anything else that crew does, all signs point back to the B boys. They were early members of the lowbrow 40 / 40 club: wildly moronic yet brilliantly hysterical, all at once. Mike Judge, who would go on to write and direct uber-quotable Office Space, knows a thing or two about comedy and how to entertain viewers. He also knows we are all inherently very, very dumb.

Beavis and Butthead

*********************************************************

his bi-annually updated website.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2006-06-14 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1695185">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1683996 Legendary Creatures: The Bad Female Dancer Mon, 24 Apr 2006 15:00:00 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1683996 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
"To our favorite bar," you tell your chauffeur, except you actually specify a location, in case the anonymous roadsman doesn't know your preferred watering hole. It's a brief drive, but you tip well 'cause there's no cover at the bar that evening. The place is packed, and as you and the fellas amble your way through the masses, a particular filly catches your eye. Fifteen minutes of unabashed staring later, you catch her eye, too, and you look away coyly, thinking how happy you are she actually has eyes. Then you look back. She's still looking. Looks like this looks good.

When she turns away you tap a buddy's shoulder and point her out. The crew cranes in unison for an evaluation.

"She's hot as hell," says one.
"Great ass," says another.
"I saw her, too. Not bad," chimes a third, secretly planning to move in when you head to the bathroom.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2006-04-24 15:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1683996">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1672587 Worldly Possessions Fri, 24 Mar 2006 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1672587 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
"Whatever," you sigh. "There's time."

And there is time, but of the 'passing quickly' variety. You hang out each night, but nothing comes of it"�least of all you. Naturally you play it down when the week is up and she says goodbye, leaving you with a hug and an O.C. season's worth of sexual tension.

"Whatever," you tell yourself. "There are other fish in the sea."

And there are. But none have that enchanting smile. Those sexy laugh. An ass from which all future asses should be molded. You can't shake it. Sitting around playing cards with the guys, the question gets asked:

"If you could bang any chick, who would it be?" The answers are predictable: Angelina Jolie. Jennifer Connelly. Shakira. It gets back to you.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2006-03-24 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1672587">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1665560 The Holy Grail of Comedy Tue, 21 Feb 2006 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1665560 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
The best someone can do when leaving our loft"�which we have to do from time to time"�is flash the repulsed scrunch-face, curse the owners of the market"�they won't understand"�and make a dash for the blissful, aromatic relief of the nearby subway platform. During the summer, when the warm air takes the smell on a field trip throughout our apartment and escape becomes impossible, my roommates and I can do nothing but sit and marinate in the stankness, trying to remember the last time a female stopped by.

I bring up my abode with good reason; a reason intrinsically linked to the Monty Python: Herring. I don't know what herring looks like, and I certainly can't read the character-festooned signs adorning each ice bed of fish, but every time I breathlessly sprint past that fish market, I look in, wonder if they have any herring and"�though we all know it couldn't fell the mightiest tree in the forest"�hope that a few hacks with a substantial slab of the fish could take out some of my odor-emitting neighbors.

Such is the way that Monty Python"�a troupe from another country that entered its prime thirty years before I thought about trying to enter mine"�has become a part of me. Our generation has seen an inspired run of Hollywood comedies"�ranging from mid-nineties Jim Carrey vehicles through the Farrelly Brothers / American Pie shock-fests and into the current string of Frat Pack movies"�and each has delivered on the laughs except American Wedding, which was the celluloid equivalent of a hippopotamus carcass inexplicably rotting in the Arizona desert with vultures eating, puking and crapping on top of it.

But while each of those movies was entertaining and rewatchable"�again, except American Wedding, which really did blow for seriously hard"�they also lack any distinct style. Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson make fifty-seven major motion pictures a week, and each one is composed in a similar manner. The jokes are funny, but they're interchangeable. No one would notice if you slipped a situation from Old School into Wedding Crashers or Road Trip. But just you try to drop a castle full of nymphomaniac virgins into one of those flicks without raising a few eyebrows.

That's how Monty Python made their mark. By blending the randomness of improv comedy with the episodic feel of sketch, the Python fellas, both in short form and long, managed to create a brand of comedy impossible to find anywhere else. Thanks to the Python catalogue, I can no longer haggle, eat Spam, frivolously distribute sperm or perform a great number of other rarely-to-frequently performed tasks without a chuckle and an acknowledgement. They reached into the far corners of pop culture and academia with their references and left it up to viewers to make the connection. It's not hard for comedy writers to amuse audiences when they're riffing on dating, sex and booze. Killer medieval rabbits, lisp-afflicted Roman emperors and walking-based government ministries, however, are a slightly harder sell.

Best of all, they do it with style, sophistication and no small amount of satire"�the holy trinity of comedy writing. A Monty Python production is driven as much by political or social relevance and wordplay as it is by the eclectic, gender-bending humor taking place on screen. These dudes are smart, and the result is a series of work that is abstract, absurd, referential . . . and yet, somehow eloquent. In other words, the Pythons thrive on the only entertainment formula that could possibly bring David Hyde Pierce back onto the pop culture radar.

Of course, Pierce does an admirable job in his Broadway turn as the Not-Quite-So-Brave Sir Robin, just as the rest of the Spamalot cast did justice to the source material in Holy Grail. It occurred to me at a recent viewing of the musical, as I laughed for the infinitieth time when the Knights Who Say Ni appeared with their legendary choice of cutlery, just how similar Spamalot is to the original flick"�and how different it was from, say, American Wedding.

At first, this surprised me"�for some reason, I had expected revolutionary updates. But the more I watched, the more I realized it didn't need any more than it had. There, on stage before me, I was watching the same Pythonian jokes that had been made thirty years prior, and yet I was just as inspired, and just as appreciative of their humor's breadth, as I had been the first time I saw the film. So why shouldn't the musical mimic the original? If something's that classic, that perfect, that timeless, there's no need to change it.

Unlike my address.

Watch Monty Python's personal best on PBS, Wednesday 9 pm EST, check your local listings or Check it out here

****************************************************************

Neil's a struggling writer with an email address. He's also a knight, and has the certificate to prove it.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2006-02-21 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1665560">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1663574 Waxing Romantic Wed, 15 Feb 2006 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1663574 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
But that was before provocateur naturelle Alex "Voetsch" Voetsch came along with his set of Valentine's Day plans: romantic schematics featuring an activity so rich in story potential that I promptly forsook my own lame agenda. Hearing them, I decided - alongside companions Susan B., TBone, Basil and Lesch - to follow "Voetsch"� uptown, where we would be attending a handcuff party. The rules were simple: Ladies were given handcuffs upon entering the bar, and guys couldn't partake in drink specials unless they find a gal to bind herself to them. Though my original plan to wallow in self-pity at a local bar was enticing, nothing says "romance" quite like "Voetsch" handcuffing himself to aesthetically challenged women just to score cheap booze.

9:15: I arrive at the bar in midtown Manhattan. I turn a few heads upon entering, though my initial elation is tempered by the knowledge that people are looking at me because I'm wearing red polyester pants and a matching tie. I think I hear someone, possibly from my own entourage, call me a douche.

(Related tangent: the term "douche" has pretty much completely worked its way into the tween-aged lexicon, though this fact has somehow eluded anyone over, say, thirty. Never was this more apparent then when I referred to myself as a "douche" in a work email to all my editor-associates the other day and received responses that ranged from light-hearted amusement to complete disbelief that I would reference a female hygiene product in a work email that included women. Will "douche" ever catch on with the older set? Will I keep my job? New developments to be charted.)

9:30: "Voetsch," the evening's mastermind, suggests that we get some Valentine's Day cards from a nearby pharmacy and hand them out to gals in the bar. I make an impromptu run to Duane Reade for ammo and find a disheartening lack of VDay cards for 9:30 at night on the big day. I end up going with two bags of Spongebob Squarepants lollipop cards, which cost $2 for bags of 22. Bitches better respect.

9:35: The fellas scramble for lollipops when I return. "Voetsch" and I allocate a handful of the "You're My Best Friend" variety to the guys while keeping a bulk of the golden "You Steal My Heart" cards for ourselves. The lollipops are shaped like hearts. These are more of a lock than roofies.

10:12: My crew and I station ourselves in the front corner of the bar, as is the textbook M.O. for a roving group of young men, and begin handing out cards to women within our attack radius. A problem quickly develops: Turns out that when you're in a bar packed with four hundred dudes and seven gals, it's difficult not to hit on the same gals as your buddies. It also turns out that when you hand a babe a Spongebob Squarepants Valentine's Day card, she will think it's an adorable gesture . . . unless two members of your group already gave her the exact same Valentine in the past fifteen minutes. Then it's not so adorable. Noticing our lack of range, "Voetsch" and I embark for a corner at the far end of the bar, hoping to unearth a new trove of girls to bombard with redundant lollipop cards.

10:22: The following exchange takes place:

"Voetsch:" I want to give that girl in the sweater a card.
Me: So do it.
"V:" But she's not that hot, is she?
Me: Not especially, no.
"V:" But I'm sure it would really make her night.
Me: It absolutely would.
"V:" What if I just give it to her and run?
Me: . . .

Ultimately deciding to do just that, "Voetsch" leaves me standing in The New Corner. I occupy myself briefly by watching the two worst dancers in the history of mobility 'n' rhythm bash genitals with each other; then, a thought hits me: Who is more pathetic: A pair of drunken revelers dancing like crippled giraffes, or a lone dude standing there mostly sober watching them? Fortunately a hot babe walks by at that very moment, and though I don't talk to her, it diverts me from my previous line of thought and ushers in a new one: How much do escort girls cost? Are they clean? Is there a Valentine's Day discount? Or do you pay a premium? What if I wait 'til after midnight?

10:30: To date, I have yet to see a handcuffed couple. This is disappointing, as my night's expectations were based around getting one of my louder associates - "Voetsch," Susan B. or Chris, ideally - attached to a heifer and watching him inadvertently offend her as he yelled complaints to us.

The terrible dancing duo is now a destructive force in the back of the bar, as they've switched from close 'n' intimate - albeit awkward - grinding to some distant, retarded cousin of swing dancing, and they now pose a threat to anyone who comes within fifteen feet of the area. Standing just inches from ground zero I brace myself for the worst, which comes seconds later when "Voetsch" enters the area only to get wrecking-balled.

10:50: One fleet of my crew just left for another bar, and the remaining three of us - "Voetsch," Susan B. and I - are about to mobilize when we encounter an obstacle: an errant drunkard snares "Voetsch" with her cuffs and drags him to the bar for rounds of discounted shots. In all fairness, the handcuffer is cute; in all honesty, she is the only attractive girl in her group of four, which clearly conforms to the established female clique-hotness-ratio guidelines. Susan B. and I retreat far, far away and watch the situation unfold.

10:51: The situation unfolds and re-folds in seconds. "Voetsch," sated by discounted shots and terrified by the zoo he found himself in, breaks free from his captor - despite her really, really impassioned pleas - and our trio heads outside. There we find the hot babe that passed me a half-hour ago, and engage her in brief discussion. She compliments my pants, thanks Susan B. for his many thoughtful, identical Valentines Day cards and asks when we'll be back to the bar. At this point "Voetsch" and I realize that she's a paid employee of the establishment, while Susan B. becomes convinced she's coming onto him. Using the baffling tactic he's employed of late, he immediately asks her out to dinner; she replies with the suggestion that the three of us come back to the bar the following night to see her. Susan B. looks at "Voetsch" and I with the, "Hey, let's do that"� look. We, in turn, hail a cab.

11:09: In the cab to another bar, "Voetsch" explains his poker metaphor for dating:

"You have to wait for a good hand. I obviously won't play 2-7 off-suit. At very least, I need king-8 suited, and that's when it's late and I'm desperate. In normal conditions I wait around for K-Q suited before I play a hand. Maybe I'll see a flop with that hand, hang around for the turn, y'know. What you really want to see is that pair of pocket aces, though how often does that happen? Smaller pairs are a crapshoot. A 2-2 might hold up - maybe she has a good personality, maybe a cute laugh, something like that - but it's really not a very good hand. It'll win once in awhile, but most times you play it you'll wake up the next day with a fat chick who has a scathing case of herpes but can tell a good joke. You just shouldn't chase hands like that. In the long run, you're going to lose."

11:21: We arrive at the new bar and find it emptier than Rick Moranis's day planner, prompting a round of finger-pointing and invective-hurling. Though fellow struggling writer Molly Knight is waiting tables, the barren bar is more of a downer than some of us are prepared to handle. Half the crew decides to stay, "Voetsch"� and I decide to leave and Susan B., drunk beyond the point of decision-making, teeters near the door.

11:45: En route to the next bar, "Voetsch"� and I make an executive decision to get some Dominos pizza; then, while enjoying a delectable $9.99 large pepperoni pizza, we erupt into a feverish discussion about the situation in the Middle East with the Islamic cartoons and Danish newspaper"�as so often happens in Dominos pizza pick-up-only establishments across the world. We leave when the employees start to look at us funny.

12:20: "Voetsch"� and I arrive at the same bar I had intended to visit in the first place. We grab some beers and mosey down to the pool table, where another discussion develops; this one about whether or not it's preferable, at our age, to have a steady girlfriend. Blatantly ignoring the situational influence of having this talk on Valentine's Day, we determine that yes, it is far more advantageous to have a girlfriend. We fail to explore whether or not we, as single 24-year-old guys who are decidedly not getting laid on the day that single girls are most jaded and willing, are essentially choosing to take a cyanide pill while in captivity rather than endure torture.

1:00: After a thrilling round of games betwixt the two of us, "Voetsch"� and I are approached by two less-than-desirable females and challenge to a pairs game, with the losers buying the winners drinks. We punctuate our agreement with an almost maniacal laugh, and then proceed to very nearly lose. [Conscience's note: We actually did lose, when I scratched on the 8-ball, but the girls played on and "Voetsch"� gave me a "shut the fuck up"� look.] For the next game, the girls propose that we "mix things up"� and form co-ed teams, which we suspect was their plan all along. I get paired with a confident and healthy-in-the-Victorian-sense gal sporting a dress that made her look like Andy Warhol painted a mountain. (Not painted a mountain on canvas, mind you, but actually hauled some tankers of acrylic paint out to the Catskills and spent a month slopping paint all over a modest hill. As associate TBone would later say, "Wow! That . . . that is a dress.) Immediately, the following exchange takes place.

Her: Oddly dramatic: Tell me about yourself. I want to know everything.
Me: Wow, that's very forthright of you. And dramatic.
Her: Well, I'm an editor, so I have an eye and ear for such things.
Me: Ah.
Her: And what do you do?
Me: I'm a struggling writer.
Her: Oh, that's noble.
Me: Yeah.
Her: Do you do anything else to support yourself?
Me: Not really, no.
Her: I don't know how you get by. I'm a Columbia MBA student, an editor for a famous author and a bartender, and I can still barely get by.
Me: Yeah, it's . . . uh, it's tough.
Her: Well, what's your last name?
Me: Janowitz.
Her: Neil Janowitz? I've never fucking heard of you.

At which point I reach for my notebook and pen and think to myself, "That's probably for the best."�

1:37: Having grown weary of my pool partner's never-ending list of credentials, I slip over to the bar, where I find Shakira-lookalike banging away with some drumsticks in front of two gentlemen, who are clearly also drummers. Being something of a percussionist myself, I sit down and the four of us pass the sticks around like a joint, banging out our favorite rudiments. It is an odd, odd scene. But as I sit there on a bar stool, letting Shakira-lookalike's ratamacues blend into the dangerously unnatural beat of my heart, it hits me"�my night ended up just as I planned: On a stool, single, disillusioned and broke as hell. Yet, somehow, I feel pretty damn good about the night. The pre-VDay ennui that had afflicted me is gone. Warhol's Lost Masterpiece walks up behind me and says something about buying her a drink, but I keep drummin' right along with Shakira-lookalike, who, admittedly, only resembles Shakira if you're in an extremely low-light situation and are Ray Charles. But sometimes, on Valentine's Day like any other day, you can't be upset about not walking away from the game with more chips than you started. You just have to be happy to have played one winning hand.

And if you can get your buddy handcuffed to a werewolf in the process, well . . . that's just icing on the metaphor.

****************************************************************

Neil's a struggling writer with an email address. He likes subwoofers. No, he loves them.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2006-02-15 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1663574">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1612989 Fluids Tue, 04 Oct 2005 00:00:00 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1612989 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
I don't remember going to bed, which others might consider a problem. What I do remember is waking up, stumbling into the bathroom and finding blood in the sink"�another event that others might deem problematic. However, my natural reaction wasn't some self-preservational assessment like "is that mine" or "are the fellas alright?" Instead, standing in our bathroom in my green "one up mushroom" boxer shorts, arms trembling as they strained to hold my hungover ass out of the ceramic bloodbath below, the first thing that popped into my head was "must've been a hell of a night." The second thing that popped into my head was the faucet, when I fell over.

Consciousness regained, I had a few ice-pack moments to reflect on just why that bloodstained sink seemed so awesome. It took awhile, but finally, long after brain-freeze had numbed my brain into ineffectiveness, I realized: There is a direct relationship between the amount, and type, of bodily fluids expelled during a given night and the overall awesomeness of said evening. By the end of my contemplative recovery session, I had more than enough evidence to support my assertion. I also had a solid case of freezer burn to match my bruise.

Blood: The culprit at hand; the crimson muse that inspired this dissertation. These days, children grow up in a jaded, over-protective society in which the site of blood triggers all sorts of negative associations. People seem to think that all good things have to feel like a blowjob in a hammock on a cool autumn afternoon. They forget that sometimes, a bit of bloody recklessness can be a thrill. Providing that no serious, serious injuries are sustained, an evening of fights, falling down stairs and hurling the fellas through windows can make for some stellar morning-after stories. Even in sex, the appearance of blood can be, if nothing else, relieving: It means that she no longer has to worry about that pesky "first time" or you don't need to worry about those annoying "pregnancies." A few spots of blood are a small price to pay for peace of mind.

Sweat: The bi-product of intensity and aggression, or of fat people and verbs. Unless you're being interrogated or robbed at gunpoint, visible sweat is an indication to the world that you're going full throttle. You don't get sweaty watching a marathon of Laguna Beach or spending seventeen straight hours on your computer; of the latter, I'm positive. You get sweaty from rocking out, and people are drawn to that. Then you get sweaty again when you're corkin' those people that were drawn to you, and then again as you awkwardly lay next to them wondering if they're ever going to leave or at least stop asking you where you're going when you get up to get a glass of water or take a piss or even just put your damn Rocky and Bullwinkle boxer shorts back on. But even that's better than a 26.2 mile session of Counterstrike.

Tears: When you make someone cry, it's usually because they are overwhelmingly grateful that you touched them so profoundly. In this harsh world, where we so frequently find ourselves alone, people search for those special moments when they connect, however briefly, with another person"�even if that person sneaks away via the fire escape immediately thereafter. That's when the tears of unbridled bliss start flowing. Don't think of it as "breaking their heart." Think of it as "generously making room for another person to share in their life, even if that too only lasts twelve minutes." They'll appreciate it.

Urine: Frustrating as it may be, having to pee every forty-five seconds is indicative of good hydration. As any nutritionist will tell you, it is essential that tweens drink 10 to 12 ounces of fluid per hour during activity. Doing the legs-crossed, bladder-push thing as you scramble for the bathroom is simply a testament to your personal health regimen. Plus, if you're whizzin' that much, it probably means that you're one Jack shot away from hurling yourself out of the bar window, commando-crawling over to a shrub and then humping it.

Nether nectars: You should wake up after a good night to find your bed"�assuming that you reached your bed"�in tatters: Covers strewn about, headboard shattered and stains on the sheets that look like a mix between a Rorschach and Casper, the Friendly Ghost. In fact, the more closely your sheets resemble the flexibility and texture of plywood, the better your evening went. (This phenomenon also harkens back to those early-pubescent days when I'd be terrified to have Mom wash my sheets / boxers / carpet / drapes / socks because they felt like cardboard. But even then, it was a sign of a good night.) Just remember to give your gear a good scrubbing before the next night out. That's the kicker about fluid evidence"�it may be a welcome sign after a hard rock evening, but if the trophies linger too long, you're going to find the factory involuntarily shut down.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-10-04 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1612989">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1613370 Getting Rocked Out Tue, 04 Oct 2005 00:00:00 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1613370 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
Still, I had to approach the opportunity with caution. TV producers are not known for their scruples, and I wanted to ensure that our deal was handled with the necessary prudence. It was important to me that I was paid accordingly, retained creative control and presented in a dignified manner. After being told that none of those three requests would be honored, I re-assessed the situation and realized what was truly important to me was having a show on TV, even if it was two minutes of pixilated video game women having sex.

Thanks to those Trump-ian negotiating skills, you can now looked forward to seeing the premier episode of "Rocked . . . Or, Epic Disasters on a Relative Scale," an adaptation of my column that ranges from sobering truth to hilarious fiction, depending on how embarrassed I am of each particular story. The tales are presented as a series of animated video game clips paired with Daytime Emmy-caliber writing. It's not entirely unlike "Lost," except starring the cast of "Mario Party."

It's also been a re-introduction for me back into the world of video games. My gaming career began with the original Nintendo Entertainment System and has since, despite a few stop-offs with other systems, returned to a state of 8-bit NES bliss. While it made game-buying a very cheap enterprise, my old school affinity left me very disconnected from modern developments within the industry. Now, after having seen dozens of clips, I feel much more informed about the current crop of video games - which, as far as I can tell, all involve endless legions of naked, monumentally endowed women.

I had the good fortune of seeing an exclusive sneak-preview of the first episode, "For Love or Madden," late last week. Having had a few days to absorb everything, I can now say with unwavering confidence that the episode might almost redefine the world of two-minute video-game-clip montages. Enhanced by narration that's delivered with all the enthusiasm of a toll booth operator, the show quickly establishes me as a juggernaut in the gaming vignette industry.

Additionally, the execs at G4 kept bringing good news to the table. I was naturally thrilled to find out the show would appear during a block called "Nocturnal Emissions," a catchy title that essentially guarantees Mom won't be showing the grandmas my prestigious accomplishments. It was equally as exciting to learn my episodes would be occupying the coveted midnight time slot, presumably sending Leno, Letterman and Co. scrambling toward their respective war rooms to figure out how to stave off the imminent threat. All considered, it's pretty apparent that I'm going to be making a name for myself with this project, though the jury's still out on whether or not that name should've been my real one.

Either way, tonight's debut marks a turning point in my life. After the premier of "Rocked . . ." I will officially be a television writer - a job that, like being Spiderman, comes with great responsibility. It will be my duty to maintain the quality of my craft. Sure, right now these stories about my buddies and I might be animated with clips of pirates, dragons and 17-person all-female orgies (rightfully so). But I know that in time, there will be a point when "Voetsch" is no longer played by a sword-wielding lobster, when Sweeney isn't represented by a talking mutant sneaker and when my real-life roommates actually get jobs.

Until then, I guarantee that the hard-working fellas at G4 will continue to receive the best damn 150-word scripts that I can scribe. It may seem like inauspicious beginnings, but make no mistake: this is where all truly great television writers begin. Eventually, when NBC, Fox and Lifetime decide that they once again want to fill their must-see blocks with hours of video-game clips, there will be only one guy fit for the job. A distinguished list of careers has started in the trenches of video-game-clip storytelling. Now, it is with great pride, principle and the desire to be on TV that I add my name to the bottom.

..::

"Rocked . . . Or, Epic Disasters on a Relative Scale" will be premiering tonight on G4 at 12 am ET, 9 pm PT. Check your local listings for the station or swing by the Cinematech Nocturnal Emissions "Rocked" home page for more information.

The show is rated TV-14, so plan accordingly.

::..

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-10-04 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1613370">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1609850 Marking My Territory Fri, 23 Sep 2005 00:00:00 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1609850 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Matrix shoot-out, during which globs of food whiz toward an infant hero making very little effort to get out of the way. Yes, you spend the first few years of your life covered in enough food to feed an island nation, and this is not only acceptable, but in many cases adorable.

Thing is, a short time later - say, twenty years - it stops being so cute. Fortunately, as I readied myself for a trip to Albany a few weeks back, "cute" wasn't the look I was pursuing. Neither was "stain-addled drunkard," but that point is moot. I was heading upstate, specifically to Saratoga, for the Travers Stakes, which is a thrilling time of year when we Albany natives all congregate at Saratoga Race Track and drink ourselves amnesiac. This tradition is conducted with little regard to horses, racing or the general welfare of garments.

That's not to say I didn't try. Horse races are generally classy affairs, and ignoring the fact that I was going to spend the afternoon playing beer pong in the picnic area, I did my best to dress the part: in addition to a yellow button-down, I sported brown slacks and boat shoes, which are a tip-off that I'm bringing my high society "A-game." Not once did I consider the stain potential of combining a thin, light-colored shirt with an afternoon spent eating messy meat sandwiches and falling over fixtures alongside an equally-inebriated "Voetsch."

But I should've. I have messy affairs with renegade drops of ketchup and the buckshot spritz of an opened soda on a near-daily basis, so I can't claim naivety. Somewhere, deep in my subconscious, I knew my fate. That a stain took as long as it did to emerge is the only surprise from that day. My ill-advised yellow shirt - which, in retrospect, is probably pretty ill-advised in any situation - survived bouts with Beirut and sloppy hot dogs, but that luck ran out when I decided to share a fateful Dove Bar with a pair of nice gals; The Lovely and Emily. Just a few bites in, we all watched in horror as a spot of melted chocolate broke off mid-bite and cozied up on my shirt.

Immediately, misguided instincts kicked in.

I looked down at the small dribble of chocolate and instantly decided to clean it in the same fashion that I do my hands, shoes and open wounds: I spit on it. Now, if my saliva had any sort of purifying qualities, I would presently be living the blissful life of a man who does laundry by spitting on his clothes while watching football. Instead, that chocolate-laced loogie was a miniature Exxon Valdez crashing into my sternum. The stain quadrupled in size.

Upset that the right side of my shirt had Wonka volumes of chocolate running through it, I threw my hands down in disgust. Among those hands was the one holding the ice cream bar, which caused a giant chunk of chocolate to break off and fall onto our blanket. This prompted Emily, an ever-vigilant stain-fighter, to panic. Demonstrating why so few sports involve the tossing of chocolate globs, Em lunged for the gooey mass and hurled it with all the grace and accuracy of tossing a porcupine. From roughly a foot away, Mrs. Clean drilled the other side of my shirt with a handful of milk-chocolate goodness. The original pin point of chocolate had become a thorough, equal-opportunity staining.

More Dove Bar than not and equipped with the laundering abilities of livestock, I figured the forecast for my shirt, and dignity, looked grim. Dumping an entire glass of water down the front of the stain accomplished nothing, save for turning my yellow shirt a striking shade of invisible. Equally futile was scrubbing the shirt with my fingernails, though it did cause the vendor at a nearby lemonade stand to laugh herself incontinent. Seeing the mountain of lemons behind the cart, I instantly remembered that lemon juice can remove chocolate stains, a fact which is not actually true. Nevertheless, my chuckling associate was happy to provide me with handfuls of lemons, which I began violently scrubbing against my chest.

Then I paused for that ever-crucial self-assessing moment. There I was, standing amid a throng of formally-dressed track-goers wearing a transparent, soaking wet, chocolate-patterned yellow shirt. To my left were the Lovely and Emily, the Pedro Martinez of chocolate. To my right was a lemonade salesgal gasping for breath. Between them, I was vainly attacking my shirt with a fist full of lemons that were quickly disintegrating into a vest of aromatic pulp. At that point I decided that cleaning my shirt, much like dressing nicely in the first place, was a lost cause. Defeated, clad in chocolate-citrus soup, I went off to find "Voetsch" and more beer.

The episode was troubling for volumes of very obvious reasons. But what bothered me the most wasn't that I was trudging around the Travers with enough foodstuffs in my shirt to open a smoothie stand. Instead, it was the battle of attrition that my eating had become, and that I now had to add another brave solider to the list of casualties. I realized at that instant that I needed to grow up. The sloppiness had to end. It was time that I began composing myself in a more professional, distinguished manner.

Or wearing a bib.

Even more over at Neil Janowitz.com. Yeah.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-09-23 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1609850">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248149 Being Enlightened by George Lucas (and one mile's worth of glowing plastic lightsabers) Wed, 18 May 2005 00:00:00 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248149 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
(My costume - either "blue screen technology," "space" or "a blue lightsaber blade" to speculating Star Wars dorks; "The Tooth" to any associates who know of my super hero alter-ego - was worn to outshine fellow line-waiters The British Kid, who had dressed in a flawless Jedi robe-ensemble, and Bobby, who was wearing . . . a mullet wig. The outfits inadvertently landed us an interview by an international documentary filmmaker, to whom I claimed - on camera - to be Princess Leah. It also landed me the comment, "I bet you were popular in high school," which ironically came from a 14 year old wearing a "Yoda: Justice" t-shirt and who had, in the past half hour, attacked three passers-by with his glowing lightsaber spin move.)

Yes, I was there last night, just as I have been for the opening-night of every Star Wars film released since . . . well, since the production of my Pumps. And, despite the condescending middle-schoolers and video documentation of my unabashed dorkiness, it was once again a thrilling event. That's not because the movie was so groundbreaking (though it was, by all accounts, better than the previous two 'digital-generation' Star Wars movies). Rather, it's because you always learn something at events such as these. Whether it's from the eclectic crowd or the philosophy-laden flicks themselves, new knowledge and experiences float around like midi-chlorians, ready to empower and enlighten us all (oooof). "Revenge of the Sith" was no different, and that's why I'd like to share some of these new lessons with you.

(Fair warning: reading on from this point is like leaving the "Revenge of the Sith" refrigerator open: it will spoil the contents.)

- We quickly find out that Padme (Natalie Portman, for the rest of the fans out there who had forgotten the absolutely-forgettable name "Padme") is knocked up with Anakin's child; soon thereafter, we find out that Anakin's wildly erratic powers have revealed to him that Padme will die during childbirth. Wanting to protect his wife, Anakin allies himself with the Emporer in exchange for dark side powers that will allow him to prevent Padme's death. This leads the An'ster to kill a gaggle of young Jedi kids, choke the wife he was trying to protect and ultimately turn into Darth Vader. Lesson learned: children truly do change everything.

- Though he participates in no fewer than three major battles during the course of the film, Obi-Wan's neatly styled coiffure never moves. Doesn't even shift slightly. Didn't matter if he was fighting a giant robot Sith lord in some weird crater, or his apprentice-turned-Mariah-Carey-esque nutjob in a lava field, Master Kenobi's hair remained stiffer than Tara Reid's drinks. Standard Hollywood fare? Or a greater power at work? Lesson learned: the Force can hold hair in place a lot better than the $1.99 can of Rage 4X Mega Hold hairspray that I don't use.

- In Episode II, we got to see a glimpse of Yoda throwing down his cane and wiling out on Count Dooku. In episode III, Yoda not only tosses the walker aside, but he also disrobes and takes the Emperor on mano a mano. The ensuing battle features Yoda bouncing around like a super-ball on speed, hurling lightsabers, electricity and stadium seating at the Emperor with reckless (yet thoughtful, Jedi-planned) abandon. Though the battle ends a draw, and Yoda exiles himself for the time being, it does make one thing absolutely clear: that wrinkled little sum'bitch needs a walking cane about as much as I don't need a shower. Lesson learned: until midgets get jetpacks, 'agile Yoda' is officially the coolest (term used relatively, mind you) sub-four-foot entertainment in the world.

- At the end of an intense, angst-fueled climactic battle on some wild volcanic planet, a really salty Anakin tries to jump over Obi-Wan's head and . . . well, we never find out what he had in mind, because Obi-Wan takes a few choice swipes with his lightsaber and airborne Anakin lands on the ground sans a few body parts. A heart-wrenching exchange then takes place before Obi-Wan, with a heavy heart, leaves Anakin for dead. Sure, the Emperor skulks on in, grabs Anakin the mannequin and turns him into Darth Vader, but that doesn't change the fact that the elder Skywalker wasn't doing much walking for a hell of a long time. Lesson learned: on the long list of awful ways to die, having three limbs cut off and catching fire on the banks of a molten planet . . . well, that's gotta be up there.

- Finally, after being condemned to the life-sustaining Darth Vader outfit for the rest of his life, Anakin awakens and asks the Emperor what happened to Padme. When the Emperor reveals that Anakin himself killed Padme (a load of horseshit, that scoundrel), Anakin "force-fully" flips out on everyone in the room before spreading his arms wide and howling, "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" That's Darth Vader's last line in the film. Lesson learned: even the most bad-ass villain in the known history of villainy can't make an over-wrought "nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" yell seem credible. Has there ever been an actual living person who screamed that in a moment of tragedy? My guess?

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-05-18 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248149">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248145 Rows by any other name would still hurt like a bitch Wed, 04 May 2005 00:00:00 -0400 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248145 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
The first phase of the process required that I devote eight months to the growth of a mane that has never been confused for 'attractive.' Recently deeming myself sufficiently hairy, I enlisted the assistance of good friend and frequent collaborator Jonny, who - having been involved in some shiner-yielding fisticuffs during a past weekend - met me at the subway station wearing massive white-rimmed sunglasses. That (plus the video camera that he brought, but mainly the shades) made him the perfect companion for my perilous mid-evening sojourn to East Harlem, if only because he looked more absurd than my cornrows ever could.

Though initially reluctant to leave the Village, we soon discovered that there were nearly as many braiding salons in Harlem as there were pedestrians skeptically glaring at us. I settled on "Fanny's African Braiding Salon" - due in no small part to the proprietor's name - and popped my head inside to ask for an appointment. "20 minutes," Fanny replied, a number that described both the wait and the duration of awkward silence that followed my request.

We used the downtime to lay the foundation for our epic. As with any good documentary, we had framed our topic (getting cornrows) with a fictionalized story (my upcoming wedding). As our fabricated plot was to unfold, I was in the process of documenting my wedding preparations as a keepsake for my fiancee. The cornrows, I revealed, were intended to not only add some style and neatness to my unkempt hood of hair, but also to act as an olive branch of sorts to my fiancee's African-American father, who hated my guts. This was the introduction that we recorded five times at the corner of 110th and Lexington at nine in the evening. I spoke quietly.

45 minutes later, Fanny informed me that she was ready. Though my request for cornrows had seemed normal to Fanny - she was, after all, in the business - my outfit certainly did not. In an attempt to 'establish a character' (which, I learned, is remarkably similar to 'get beaten up'), I had traveled to Harlem in a fully-buttoned, tucked-in white dress shirt, khaki shorts, knee-high argyle socks and a set of boat shoes. As if this outfit wasn't peculiar enough, Fanny was then introduced to fearless cameraman Jonny, who followed soon after me with a video camera and a set of sunglasses that could, if elevated high enough, completely eclipse the sun.

Ignoring Fanny's bafflement, I plopped myself into the barber's chair and announced that I was getting cornrows done for my wedding. Upon asking Fanny if she thought that my fiancee and every friend and family member that we knew would appreciate my wedding weave, she insisted "oh yes" much in the same way that a herpes salesman (Katie Holmes', perhaps?) would encourage the purchase of a raging case of sores.

The documentary quickly took a turn for the worse. Shortly after having started, Fanny really noticed the documenting equipment. Apparently harboring a burning hatred for cameras, Fanny told Jonny to stop filming. When she caught him covertly recording off the salon mirror (a move which, in retrospect, wasn't especially covert), Fanny erupted and insisted that my faithful cameraman bury the camera deep in his backpack. With massive chunks of my frail hairline clenched helplessly in her fist, we had no choice but to concede to the demands.

Of course, this now presented something of a dilemma. Having been forced to abort our cultural exploration, the question arose as to whether or not I should continue with the procedure. Unable to make such a decision on my own, I whipped out my cell phone and secretly asked Jonny, via text message, what we should do. He replied in similar fashion, inciting a flurry of back-and-forth text messaging. For as perceptive as Fanny had been regarding the camera, she seemed completely oblivious the cyclical texting habits of her only two patrons.

What emerged from this discussion was an idea so brilliant that I'm ashamed I didn't think of it earlier, or at all. Having whined to Jonny, "But I really want cornrows for [that weekend's] University of Rochester spring festival weekend," I received the response, "Well I really want a beer, so leave with a half-head of cornrows."

The idea was like original Nintendo: simple, yet perfect.

The suggestion was particularly welcome considering how tense the salon had become following the 'camera incident,' a debacle that seemingly led Fanny to pull my hair with horsepower-like strength. So - explosively, abruptly, half-corn-row-edly - I whirled around (which hurt) and asked Fanny how I looked with only the left half of my head in cornrows. Revealing wisdom that solidified her place as the worst wedding planner in the known universe, my thoughtful braider assured me that the half-cornrows were fantastic, and sure to be warmly received by all wedding guests. Satisfied with the answer, I paid a discounted fee and departed with my bespectacled associate.

In the end, I only kept the cornrows in for about 36 hours - half of which was spent either sleeping or with a winter hat on. Though the cornrows-and-costume received some good-natured chuckles from subway occupants on the ride back from Harlem, I soon found that when not dressed like a dork, I just made children cry and drew ire from everyone else. Plus, I didn't get the braids to be a permanent hairstyle. Rather, I had the cornrows done so that I could better understand them. And now, I do. I understand that they take an eternity to braid. I understand that African-American hair is better suited for 'rowing than thin and receding Caucasian hair. And I understand that a (half) head full of rows hurts like a grenade to the face. But, on a positive note, I also have come to understand that I am one dashing son of a bitch when my hair is half-'rowed up. Don't believe me?

Just ask Fanny.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-05-04 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248145">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:247354 What Kind of Pitcher Are You? Sat, 02 Apr 2005 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:247354 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
Of course, the return of baseball and warm weather coincide with another much-needed event: the spring fling. This refers not so much to your year-end high school dance (though it may very well serve the same purpose), but rather to the shoes-off attitude of youngsters everywhere once the weather gets talented. Guys sport shorts and gals rock skirts, and beyond the allure of exposed ankles, it's that much less material to tear off in the throes of sunny-season passion. Naturally, this discussion begs one question; a question that will tie this entire two-paragraph introduction together: "what type of position do you play in the big baseball game that is dating?"

"Ehhhh, juuuice?" you ask, confused. Simply put: when it comes to kickin' some game, everyone out there is a particular type of baseball player; more specifically, everyone is a type of pitcher. With opening day finally upon us, it's essential that you know your role, polish up your splitter and, if necessary, beg the manager for a switch. After all, it's a long season, and you don't want to be stuck in a role you hate.

The starter: The pitcher with the draw. This player has the ability to get the game started. In a social setting, this is the person who will approach and successfully engage the opposition, locking them down for the majority of the innings. Sometimes they will tire and need relief, though may still end up with the win; other times, they'll leave the game in such a shoddy state that some high-powered relief will be necessary to salvage a victory. Occasionally, a truly gifted starting pitcher will come along and throw a complete game, perhaps even a Perfect Game. It's at moments like those when surrounding pitchers on both teams can do little but look on in admiration at a true star.

Middle relief: The beginning of the bullpen. What you'll find here are pitchers whose stuff is either sub-par, thus preventing them from achieving starter status, or so unique and specified that they're brought in for special situations. But make no mistake; being relegated to middle relief isn't nearly as bad as it may sound. Often times, the most difficult part is getting the game rolling or establishing a lead. If given the game with a few runs in the bank, many middle relievers can easily lock it down for the remaining innings; something that struggling starters would have otherwise been powerless to do. Still, even with a solid mid-game effort, most middle relievers can't seal the deal. Sometimes this is because they're an intentional set-up / wing man, occasionally because they're gay, but most commonly because they eventually have to begrudgingly hand the game over to the...

Closer: The true power pitcher on a team. The opposition has seen the closer countless times before, but that doesn't mean that they can do anything to overcome the closer's stuff. It doesn't matter if their team has a single run lead or if they're blowing the opposition out; the closer will nonchalantly waltz into the situation, do their thing and all but ensure another victory. Every team has one, and as Mariano Rivera proves with every passing season and frightening Nike commercial, it's pretty fuckin' nice to be the closer. Admittedly, some may question the value of a save in modern baseball's "ninth-inning-only" closer era, but one thing's for sure: no one cares about the stats when they're getting all the late-game action.

I think any lonely middle reliever will attest to that.

1. This update has been brought to you by CH Raw, the ad-free version of the site (with more boobs too).

2. We didn't really sell our site to Philip Morris Tobacco Company. Just an April Fool's joke. But we'll try to post some of the hate mail we got. It's so good.

3. Enjoy these hotlinks and have a glorious spring weekend. Yes, glorious.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-04-02 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:247354">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248121 Screeching to a fault Wed, 30 Mar 2005 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248121 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
With a name coined by the Japanese to describe the difference between a professional singer (such as Lindsay Lohan) and the average bar-going howler, karaoke has permeated our iron-clad cultural defenses and worked its way into a weekly gig at any number of local bars. Armed with midi-like instrumental tracks and binders filled with the cream of the 80s crop, the call of karaoke evokes sirens (in the Homer sense) and sirens (in the Ambulance sense); alluring and ear-piercing, all at once.

But most dangerous is the fact that karaoke is an equal-opportunity activity. It can be performed at any time, in any number of places, by any person who chooses. While this appeals to scads of songsters the world around, I fear that they do not understand the gravity of the situation. Fortunately, government intervention is warranted. Karaoke falls within the criteria of those things the government has to sworn to shield and protect its citizenry from; namely:

a. Anything that, though fun for many, would prove harmful to others
b. Anything that, though fun for many, would prove harmful to abusers themselves
c. Anything that, though fun for many, would have been discouraged in 1956

And though it's difficult to say how Ike and the baby boomers would've received the activity, one thing is indisputable: at any given moment karaoke, like Paris Hilton in an F-14, has the potential to inflict an astronomical amount of harm to a group of innocent and unsuspecting bystanders.

Nowhere was this more evident that at Manhattan's "Second on Second" and its mid-February karaoke contest. A flyer in the bar's window promised an iPod to the winner and I, perpetually convinced that I can do anything, expertly, immediately guaranteed victory to myself. I spent the next week practicing Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark"� at very low volumes while watching the music video, and when game night came around, I felt ready. So ready, in fact, that I dressed exactly like Springsteen had in the video. This, as has too often been the case, would prove to be a terrible, terrible idea.

Arriving at the bar with an unfortunately-large group of friends and my Springsteenian outfit concealed beneath a hoodie, I sidled into a corner booth and waited for my time to shine. When the first round began, a typical karaoke mix emerged. The eventual winner, Sara, had a voice that could stop a bullet mid-flight or calm a rabid jackal. The rest of the semi-finalists effortlessly carried their tunes. Even the MC and judges crooned with the best of them.

Then, on the other side of the spectrum, were a couple of painful, no-talent hacks. Or rather, just me. Other people were not good, sure. But I was bad. Real bad. And not in the funny, "what an entertaining character!"� sense. No, it was bad in the "this man is going to die penniless and alone"� sense, and standing there awkwardly in a soaking, unbuttoned white collared shirt certainly didn't help.

I still don't know what happened, and thus refuse to accept blame for the meltdown. I knew that song cold. I had the confidence. And the sleeves of my shirt were rolled well above my prairie-like biceps. But in the end, I was that jackass standing in front of the room dressed as Bruce Springsteen, showcasing to the world that I had actually prepared for this event and still performed that terribly. At that moment, one thing became very clear: I am not strong enough to coexist with karaoke.

That's why we need to rid the world of this disastrous pastime. Everyone says "it won't happen to me,"� but it can and it will. It happened to me. I practiced singing and dancing in my room for a week. I wore a costume. I dumped a glass of water on myself mid-performance to simulate sweat. I sang with all the musical quality of a dying air-horn. And I paid $10 to be allowed to do all this. Yes, I fell victim to karaoke.

And I don't want to see the same thing happen to you.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-03-30 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248121">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248106 It's just juice Wed, 23 Feb 2005 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248106 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
I know how this must seem, but please, I assure you: I didn't seek out steroids. I happened upon them one day while hanging out in the gymnasium of nearby Tommy James Middle School, which I find to be a peaceful place to bust out some writing and reps. Halfway through a set of preacher curls, I watched as a nearby sixth grader dropped the bottle of clear ointment he was carrying. The bottle cracked upon hitting the cement floor, and all of the adjectives in the English language, combined into one long word, would fail to describe the look of anguish, embarrassment and anger that splattered onto this young lad's chiseled face. Responding in my typical neighborly fashion, I crouched beside the substantial twelve year old and begin mopping the gunk up with my bare hands.

The change was immediate.

Within moments, I felt my fingers bulging. Not in a freshman-girl-at-college type of way, mind you. Rather, it was the type of engorgement that comes only from the gross investment of power. Put simply: my hands were jacked. That night I tried to ignore it, but the change was too overpowering. When writing, my previously-sluggish pen darted across the paper. Sentences that, just weeks before, would take entire minutes to write were appearing in mere seconds. I penned a novel in a week. My mind was alert. My fingers were adroit. And I was addicted.

Naturally, others took notice. Few commented, but the sudden spike in my production was hard to overlook. Friends and foes alike watched the horror unfold. Some contemplated fortifying themselves with similar supplements. Others just scowled in disgust. Remarked once-friend and fellow writer Streeter Seidell: "It became apparent, once he began . . . what he was doing . . . that I would never again be able to compete at the same level. And I hated him for that." As the accusations and criticisms became louder, so too did my denials. And I hated myself for it. But I just couldn't admit it.

As it turns out, I didn't have to. Six months of heavy steroid cycling had inflated my fingers to the size of small kayaks. Favorite pairs of gloves no longer fit. Small fruit and juice boxes would be obliterated the moment I grabbed them. My once fleet-of-finger pen-craft became sloppy and illegible, if I could even keep a writing implement grasped between my colossal carpals. I was still working as hard, and as long, but my frustrations and clumsiness were becoming apparent in the quality of my work. I had to cut back. It had gotten out of control.

Escaping from the nefarious clutches of steroids proved to be a more difficult task than I anticipated. I found myself weakened. Tired. Drained. My productivity fell to an all-time low. Exasperation reached an all-time high. And the gossip never stopped. My deflated hands were now regarded as a clear sign of my habit. Of my cheating. What options were left? Go back on steroids? Bloat my hands back to Disney-sized mitts and play it off as good conditioning? Impossible. Yet, I had no plausible story to defend the sudden decrease in the girth of my grabbers. Frustration and fury prevented me from even writing an articulate defense. I had nothing.

Then the shame hit me. I realized how far I had fallen, and that's why I'm here today, standing before you. My hands are back to normal size. I have energy again. I'm writing consistently, and I'm happy with the results. I know this means little, if anything, to most of you, but you have to understand. You have to understand what it's like to be able to harness that type of power. It can turn an average writer into a great writer, and a great writer into . . . well, into a legend, frankly. And I was too weak to resist that.

I don't expect forgiveness or for the asterisks to be removed from my titles. All I ask, from anyone willing to grant a reformed abuser one final wish, is for everyone out there to please recognize one thing: Yes, the 'roids may have helped with my stamina and strength. I could sleep less, work on exercises more effectively and write endlessly. My characters and stories, as a result, became more evocative; stronger; moving. In short, the power of my work came from the steroids.

But the talent, the drive and the creativity . . . that came from within.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-02-23 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248106">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248087 Taking the free way Wed, 09 Feb 2005 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248087 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
There are also some things in life that just shouldn't happen, and topping that list - far above ill-advised foreign invasions and having intimate relations with "that girl"� (you know, "that girl"�) - is the bequeathing of a company van and credit card to a group of reckless youths for their proposed road trip to Mardis Gras. Yet, thanks to a blessing straight from the heavens - or Albany - that unfathomable situation occurred two weeks ago, when the parents of Mike the Roommate thought it was a great idea for Mike the Roommate, along with "Voetsch,"� Nate and I, to take their charge card into the international epicenter of frivolity and irresponsibility. After much deliberation, we agreed that this was indeed a great idea.

Now I really know what you're thinking: it was completely unnecessary for me to go to New Orleans for a third year in a row. And in many ways - namely, all of them - I would agree. But this was Mardi Gras, and I knew that the numbing amount of boobs being flashed around Bourbon Street was going to be different and more enlightening than the numbing amount of boobs I saw during my last two visits to New Orleans, for the Final Four and spring break. Add to this the fact that the unparalleled Nicole Kone, Loyola student extraordinaire and shameless plug-requester, put us up for free in her apartment, and our trip was completely free. As has since been established, you can't turn down a free road trip. It's not healthy.

I should clarify, though: the trip was free aside from my communications tab. As something of an avid text-and-picture messager, I long ago signed up for Verizon's "250 text messages, 25 photos"� plan. On a given month, those numbers generally last me a week before I start running up a staggering tab and wonder aloud, "why don't I boost my plan?"� This being a road trip, however, and with me having set up a camera-phone weblog, my monthly quotas almost made it out of Manhattan before I was in the red. But the cell phone bill won't be coming for a month. Road trip expenses are purely out-of-pocket. This little journey was still free.

Being that our goal for this trip was to have as much cost-effective fun as is possible, our first destination in New Orleans was the casino. Fortunately, the money lost there - $50 at the craps tables by your impoverished author, $60 and $100 at blackjack by "Voetsch"� and Mike the Roommate, respectively - was not "spent"� as much as it was "gambled."� There is a vast difference between spending money and gambling money. Spending money entails a purposeful decrease in monetary holdings in exchange for some product or service. Gambling money entails an unintentional decrease in monetary holdings in exchange for absolutely nothing. Though I lost some money, it was not spent on anything pertaining to the trip. Therefore, in a deluded and masochistic sense, our journey remained free.

Digressional note on Mardi Gras: if you gathered the most depraved, sexually repressed, alcoholic, immoral and deviant people in the world and put them on Bourbon street, they would be terrified and overwhelmed by the Mardi Gras revelers. The other Mardi Gras revelers. We're all good.

But at least being a perverted bead-waving degenerate is free, which is less than I can say for our lodging on the second night of our visit (the first and third nights were free thanks to Ms. Kone, though her impromptu trip to the ER after falling from a loft complicated night number three plenty). On that central evening the fellas, wanting to truly experience the French Quarter, talked me into getting a hotel room at a place so deep into the French Quarter that it was likely closer to Paris than it was the New Orleans downtown. If there's any way to judge this $30 expense, it's to say that I was against staying in the hotel in the first place. Thus, it was more a matter of extortion than anything, and the forced dispensing of money cannot be misconstrued as spending. $30 for the hotel stay, yes, but this trip was free as a bird.

Which only leaves the ride home. Here it gets hazy, but fortunately I can invoke an ages-old road trip mandate: whenever traveling in the South, at least one trip to Waffle House is required. It is under that clause that I can write off the money spent at an Alabama Waffle House, and by association the beer we had at the neighboring Hooters. I was just doing my part as a road-tripper. A free road-tripper.

And there you have it. Aside from minor expenses on negligible incidentals (mainly candy, which is considered in the same vein as "air"�), I spent five days in New Orleans for free. It may have been hard to resist temptation, and even harder to justify it when I succumbed to temptation, but in the end I succeeded at both. That I'll barely make this month's rent, if at all, is completely irrelevant. I blame that on exchange rates. Foreign markets. Inflation. It has absolutely nothing to do with the five days I spent at Mardi Gras.

The trip, after all, was free.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-02-09 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248087">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:247327 Your Final Semester, A Guide To Sat, 29 Jan 2005 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:247327 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
Nevertheless, I set out to write the column that the editors wanted: a witty little number, detailing how second semester seniors should spend their remaining time in a drunken crawl, saving every ounce of energy for all the casual sex they'll be having instead of attending whatever blow-off courses they enrolled in. All of which is, of course, good advice, and as such I dispensed and expounded upon it with much glee:

Procrastination and extensions: Let's be honest: it's in the nature of college students to procrastinate. Why should this be any different when it comes to the love life? The scenario's about the same; just tweaked ever so slightly: your collegiate assignment was to copulate, desecrate and fornicate with every attractive person on your campus. Three and a half years later, all you've gotten down on paper is the intro. It's poorly written, far below what you're capable of and probably fat. Now you have four months to complete that assignment; I wish you the best of luck. Remember, though: just as how an extension saved your ass countless times in class, a sexual extension can be a godsend (though I doubt god would appreciate his name attached to such a pursuit). Keep in touch with all those missed opportunities. Find out where they live. Visit that city in a nonchalant manner, under the guise of a job interview or drug pick-up. Then, in a reminiscent moment of bliss, burn through all the obscene positions Cosmo has in the July "Cosmo Sutra"� or whatever the name is of the nonsense those depressed ladies put together.

Incidentally, don't be discouraged if you're in a relationship heading into second semester. No, actually, be discouraged. Somewhere, every male with a girlfriend going into second semester is smacking his head; possibly with a hammer. I know my forehead still aches (just kidding dear, I don't blame you for ruining my final semester).

Academics: If you're still scrambling to finish some degrees come second semester, you're either greatly over- or under- achieving, and thus, nothing that I say here is going to matter. This advice is for the middle ground folks: the one who finished their moderately-difficult social scene or humanities degree during the sophomore year and now have scheduling carte blanche. Should you take blow-off classes? I'm inclined to say no. Face it: you're going to have to attend once in awhile, so why not choose easy classes that are also interesting. Take that intro astronomy or music theory class. You can still roll truant all you want, but on those occasions that you're forced into attendance - say, an exam - you'll at least pick up some interesting tidbit, even if it is just a term in one of your blank multiple-choice questions.

Jobs: . . . are overrated. At least, in some sense. I'll explain: getting a job for the sake of getting a job is whacksa. You'll be miserable, you won't advance your interests at all, and you'll likely make less money than you could've made if you got a bartending gig and kept hunting for your dream job . . .

. . . and that's about where I was when a strange realization hit me: almost nothing has changed since the second semester I was detailing so fondly. Then it all became clear: the difference between the second semester and the real world really doesn't exist. Everything is simply amplified. You have the same kinds of responsibilities; you just have to be slightly more responsible about them. You spend more money, but you make more money - or you go further into debt. If you were the type that borrowed from your parents in college, you will borrow after college. If you were the self-sufficient type in college, you will borrow after college. Meanwhile, the folks you meet in the bars are hotter and more successful, but you'll probably go home with ones that are more heinous and depressing than any college fare.

Point is: the real world is only as real as you make it. I've managed on my own for six months now - a time frame that far, far exceeds the survival over / under set by oddsmakers in the Janowitz family - and I've got to tell you: it doesn't feel like I've done anything very "�real.' But that doesn't mean I haven't done some damn cool things. It's interesting what happens when you don't approach the real world as some foreboding abyss of responsibility and stifling maturity: you actually enjoy it. Somehow, through a string of projects and jobs that I've actually enjoyed, I managed to pay rent and avoid debt. Hell, I even found time to write a pro bono piece for my old stomping ground, the University of Rochester's Campus Times.

Though, if they wanted to pay me, I wouldn't complain.

Neel has a thrilling commentary of last night's OC Episode. Also, Matt has a new column out today, so check that out.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-01-29 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:247327">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248073 Chivalry is badly wounded Wed, 26 Jan 2005 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248073 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
The group is known as the Order of La Mancha, and it is lead by a man who, like Ghandi, Gallagher and countless other heroes before him, goes by a single name: Victorino, Knight Commander. According to his website, www.chivalryisnotdead.org, Victorino, Knight Commander - who was vacationing in St. Thomas at the time - received a "Founders Call"� that instructed him to found the Order of La Mancha on September 1st, 2004. In the five months since then, the site has faced an unfathomable influx of traffic. At last check, the counter read 468. That's nearly 500 visitors in just five months (3.3 a day), kicking down the door to gain entrance.

Though some might be discouraged by the seemingly low turnout, Victorino, Knight Commander, has faith in the inherent draw of chivalry. The stated goal of the site, and Order, is one million knight-members by 2025. With 57 members after just 5 months, our good friend Math estimates that the Order will have around 3300 members at the end of 2025, thus narrowly missing their target enrollment. Even so, 3300 card-carrying knights - and there is a card, as you will see - is a pretty hefty arsenal of chivalry. In what may be the most comforting number on the site, the roster reveals that 48 of those members hail from our very own United States of America. This only confirms what I have long believed: the US is far and away the most chivalric country in the world.

Once at the website, visitors are introduced to a wealth of information and pictures detailing what the 12th century would've been like if everything weren't covered in feces and cholera. The site uses a clearly labeled series of banners for its navigation, and the large purple font found in each section is both engaging and easy to read. In fact, the site is so well-composed that is has been awarded a Golden Web Award, which is an award created by Victorino, Knight Commander, to honor the best sites on the web that have less than 1000 hits and are about knights.

After a few moments on the site, one question will arise: how do I become a knight? Conveniently, there are two options. One is to become nominated by someone who finds you worthy of a knightly title. That person, having read the website's code and believing you to possess the required 12 virtues, can then go to the "nominate"� scroll and enter your name, at which point you will receive an email inviting you to join the knighthood. The other option - if you're short on friends, or none will vouch for you - is to go to the "join"� banner and pay $39, which is the approximate cost of endowing you with a knight's sense of chivalry and paying for the lamination on your membership card.

The perks of knighthood are limitless; this I now know firsthand. Deeming the candidate worthy, I quickly nominated myself for knighthood. When Victorino, Knight Commander, contacted me, I struck a chivalric deal: in exchange for a free membership, I would boldly spread word of the knight's honorable code around the world with my pen. Or, if nothing else, I would write something for the supposed quarterly newsletter, "The Lance."� Grateful for the offer of my talents, Victorino, Knight Commander, accepted my deal and dubbed me Brother Knight Neil. Within the week I received my knightly membership package, which contained all the tools a chivalric knight will need: a certificate of knighting, the aforementioned membership card and a copy of the code. There was also a chivalry bumper sticker, for whatever worthy means of conveyance I may choose.

But there was something else included in that package: an entire shipment of responsibility. Right now, the world needs knights - and their chivalrous shield against evil and corruption - more than ever. Historically speaking, my chivalric forebears have fought bravely, treated their wenches honorably and, if current connotations are to be believed, held lots of doors for people. Now is my time to shine, from the internet. Yes, our country and our world may be in disarray. It may be polarized and skeptical, even pessimistic, about the future. But for as bleak as everything may seem, there is one thing that can be counted on: my brother knights and I, in the name of the Order of La Mancha, will do our part to ensure that chivalry is not dead.

As much as it might want to be.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-01-26 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248073">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr /> http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248065 Cancellation of second semester goes unnoticed by inebriated students Thu, 20 Jan 2005 00:00:00 -0500 http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248065 <table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
"As much as we'd like to continue with the tradition of second semester for outgoing seniors, our study has shown that absolutely nothing enriching or otherwise productive is accomplished during that time period by those students,"� explained one anonymous administrator from behind the recently-fortified door of his office. "That's why, effective immediately; graduation will take place over the second weekend in February."� Perhaps coincidentally, the registrar's office reports that Take Five application submissions jumped from 72 to almost 1100 in the days following the announcement.

The cancellation marks the end of a collegiate experience that ranks among the most eagerly-anticipated by students. By combining the completion of academic obligations with a crippling fear of impending real-world responsibilities, the second semester of senior year has historically provided outgoing seniors with a safe haven in which they can completely "switch off."�

School-sponsored senior nights, a perennial favorite among second-semester enthusiasts, have long been touted as the perfect opportunity to reminisce with old friends and to meet classmates that had gone . . . unmet, all while trying to hook up with as many people as possible. "Around here, students don't start papers until the day they're due. Obviously that procrastination carries over into our love lives. I thought I'd have four months to hook up with all the babes that I've been oogling for the past three and a half years. Now it's more like two weeks,"� complained tall senior Seth Hauben, who had his massive wingspan wrapped around the shoulders of five striking co-eds.

Though the social elements of the second semester will be most notably missed, a fair share of seniors' complaints regarded the inability to spend their final semester in college taking those classes that, while perhaps purely elective, had fascinated the scholars from the onset of their undergraduate careers. "Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to find four different 100-level courses that don't have attendance policies?"� griped frustrated senior Kevin Crawford. "Now I won't be able to not attend those classes."�

Likewise, the abridged college tenure may greatly jeopardize the seniors' opportunities to find a satisfactory job before graduation. By removing the final four months of their collegiate experience, students allege, Rochester is effectively forcing seniors to find jobs four months earlier than they would have otherwise begun their search, which was already at least four months earlier than when they actually would've found a job. "I expected to have at least another four months worth of procrastination and excuses,"� sighed senior Dana Mittelman regarding her job hunt. "What am I supposed to do now? Other than find a job?"�

Sharing in Mittelman's frustration has been an unexpected majority. The alumni, who look back on their own senior-year second semesters with a hazy fondness, have voiced the sharpest criticism since the decision was announced. "This wouldn't have happened on my watch,"� remarked former Speaker of the SA Senate Alex "Voetsch"� Voetsch, '04, who has, since graduation, accepted a full-time position on our living room couch. "That Nabozny shmuck really dropped the ball."�

Similar sentiments have been expressed in the cascade of correspondence that Rochester has received from other enraged alumni, who are quick to defend the merits of their own second semesters. The majority of the letters focus on the unrealized opportunities available to Rochester students. Second semester, the alumni insist, provides a carefree timeframe during which the seniors can finally take those classes in which they're actually interested, participate in any clubs or organizations for which there previously wasn't time, and attend any of the many museum exhibits or theatrical performances that enliven Rochester. Plus, a handful of letters chimed in, you can drink before, during and after those activities.

Bolstered by the alumni support and driven by the desire to finally get drunk and hook up in the stacks, a number of somewhat-motivated seniors gave a fairly passionate plea to university policy-makers, with limited success. "Hey, I just got here,"� said recently-installed university president Joel Seligman, who then put his hands in the air and made the "�I don't know' face. "Don't look at me."� Dissatisfied, the senior class resorted to non-violent means of protest.

"They want to move graduation up to February to prevent us from partying too much? That's fine. I'll just squeeze four months of drinking and casual sex into the next two weeks,"� maniacally pledged senior Travis Figueroa, whose last name contains all five vowels.

In light of the alumni efforts and the frightening threats / goals of students, the administration has alluded to the idea of rescinding the decision. "If we re-instate the second semester,"� Dean of the College William Green said in a recent press conference, "you have to promise to take advantage of some of the valuable opportunities that Rochester has to offer."�

Green's words were met with an enthusiastic confirmation from the crowd of seniors, most of who were already drunk.

]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237"><img src="http://1.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/6/6/collegehumor.48d3408606f2ac7f5d6d3aa66a4242ce.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written 2005-01-20 00:00:00 by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:237">Neil Janowitz</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> likes so far. <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/article:248065">Be the first!</a> </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr />