Rules of the Rec

Over my time at the Rec, (I don't mean to brag [I do] but it's a lot) I've noticed so many things that shouldn't be allowed or should be required. Whether it's the new freshmen who have no concept of gym etiquette or veteran douchebags who don't care, all users of our fine facility at MU should follow a few basic rules in order to be allowed in and/or back. There is a strike policy for some rules and a no-tolerance rule for others.

Let me explain:

1. If you're lifting anything under your body-weight, grunting is not allowed.

This is annoying to everyone and embarrassing to the perpetrators. If you weigh 120 pounds and you're curling a 15 while you grunt and grit your teeth like you're passing a kidney stone, then everybody pities you. (I had the part of my brain that produces pity removed and replaced with an additional "rage gland.") For the love of god, just keep quiet and be neither seen nor heard.

Strike rule: 5 strikes and you're out. This is a warning system because it's a new rule for many kids who are new to the gym and is a hard habit to break.

2. If you feel compelled to grunt, keep it to random noises of labor and not curse words or exclamations of pain. Also, don't drop weights on the floor. It's loud, annoying, and damages the floor and the weight.

Almost every time I go to the gym, I hear, without fail, a man yell "OH MOTHERFUCKER"when he fails to complete an exercise. Also common are "GODDAMN" and "JEEEEESUSSS." How about just a normal sound? And keep it quiet.

Strike rule: 3 strikes. This gets annoying too quickly to have any more tolerance.

3. All tribal tattoos must be covered at the door.

Do I really need to explain the rationale for this?

One warning and then you're banned.

4. Don't take your breaks while sitting on the equipment you're using.

This is just inefficient and annoying for everyone.

Strike rule: 3 strikes.

5. No air guitar. No pretending to play the drums. No singing along loudly.

This is really easy. Just don't do it. You're not Axel Rose or that one armed drummer from Def Leppard and you're really not 50 Cent. I wasn't planning on hearing an impromptu rendition of Disco Inferno today.

Rule: One offense and you have a week-long ban. Do not test the limits of my judiciousness.

6. No loud encouragement to yourself or others.

I've heard all of the following:

"COULD IT BE....A 405 DAY???"

"YEAH PUSH IT"

"GIVE IT ALL YOU GOT"

"OH FUCK YEAH"

You don't do this in any area of your life besides this (OH YEAH THIS ANSWER IS B) so why do it in the gym, one of the most public and enclosed spaces you can visit.

Rule: Two offenses and you are banned for the semester.

7. Don't visit the bathroom to flex.

Why isn't this just a rule of humanity? The only place it is appropriate to flex is in front of your own, private mirror or in a beach picture. (The latter is acceptable only because it's sort of a hobby of mine.)

Rule: One offense and you have a lifelong ban.

8. There is an application for cutoff t-shirts.

I see such tiny people that feel some absurd need to show off their tiny arms and backs. (IT'S FOR FLEXIBILITY!) Just like thongs, this is a piece of clothing that one should apply for before you are able to wear it. (I am the sole judge of each approval committee.)

Rule: Quit it. See my posted application (at the bottom), print it out, fill it out and submit it with a photo. You will hear back in 3 business days.

We don't have enough time and you don't have enough patience, so I'll stop for now.

Make sure you keep your manners about you.

-Max

Application for Cut-Off Shirts

1. Can you bench more than your body weight? Y/N

2. Can you fit your index finger and thumb around any point of your forearm or upper arm, besides the wrist? Y/N

3. Do you wear cut-offs at a place besides the gym? Y/N

4. Does your cutoff have A) An ironic slogan or B) A superhero logo? Y/N

5. On a scale of zero to five, how many tribal tattoos do you have? (Circle One) 0-1-2-3-4-5

6. Do you exceed 250 pounds? Y/N

6b: Are you less than 6 foot? Y/N

7. Do you exceed 115 pounds? Y/N

Spoiler: A "no" to questions 1 or 7. or =disqualification. A yes to 2, 3, 4, and 6b if 6 is yes=disqualification. Anything over a 1 on number 5=disqualification.

Application for thongs:

1. Are you male? Y/N

2. Are you over 200 lbs? Y/N

3. Are you over 6'7"? Y/N

4. Is your waist over a 52? Y/N

Spoiler: Any yes answer=disqualification.

So...Where's the Change I Was Promised?

Trick question. I didn't vote in the 2008 presidential election because I wasn't eighteen.

However, had I been able to, I would have voted a straight Republican ticket. I've been a staunch anti-Democrat since my young days and this past week has been more kindle to my considerable, fiscally conservative ire.

I'll preface this by noting that I am not a harsh Republican by any means. I vote Republican out of a lack of options...I certainly don't want the Democrats to win, and the only way to help that is by backing the opposite candidate. I'll hear none of that third-party shouting, because that's not even realistic.

Obama, in his last contrived, dramatic address to the American voters, continued his presentation of a smoke-and-mirrors defense to further a vague, convoluted idea of "justice" to the quickly-shrinking minority of people who approve of his performance.

Obama repeated the phrase "a balanced approach" seven times in a speech that was just under 15 minutes long. It didn't present any new ideas or context to listeners-it just repeated the mysticisms that got him elected in the first place.

Harry Reid and John Boehner have now put two similar budget presentations onto the table for consideration. Both include no new taxes on the wealthy (something Obama is all for) and the raising of the debt ceiling by increasing spending cuts. They also include no major dilution of government programs, so they are seen as an acceptable compromise by both parties.

Obama's refusal to acknowledge either of these proposals in a very important speech has effectively taken him out of his leadership role in this issue. He now plays some awkwardthird-party observer, instructing parties who aren't listening with ideas that they have dismissed.

Why have they dismissed these ideas? Because they are faulty.

Obama's quotation of Reagan was taken out of context. He painted a great Republican leader and a great president as a support for his nigh-socialistic plans. A sector of Americans "isn't doing [its] part." What sector, and why?

The sector to which he is referring is the top 10% of tax payers, of course. People who move and shape industry and the economy, who innovate and produce new technologies and products and who control the state of the country through their incredible control over the economy. This is a menacing-sounding situation, but, in reality, it is how every world works, and how it should work. The highest-earning sections of American society rightfully take their place due to ability. The top 10% are the top 10% because we, as American consumers, have allowed them to be.

The people who make the most money in this country are those who provide the best service to the most people. Whether that's Bill Gates and Microsoft, hedge fund managers, or Katy Perry, American consumers justify their lives' works by paying for them, over and over again.

A new tax on the wealthy is nothing more than a tax on ability and productivity. It's, in a way, a punishment for success. There is no other way to slate this idea--the fact is, if you think the wealthy deserve to be taxed more on the basis of wealth, then you are saying their wealth is the fair game of the American taxpayer who raised them to the spotlight in the first place. A tax on productivity is like spanking a child who makes exceptional grades. Standards are provided in the ideals of society and those who meet or exceed them are "taken down to a more reasonable level. They take more, so they should contribute more."

Obama continues to preach this absurd ideology because it appeals to a disturbingly large portion of Americans who have an odd sense of "justice." I won't classify or stereotype this section of voters--they are rich and poor alike. The former are filled with self-loathing and self-pity. "I should give more to society. I'm so lucky to have gotten all of this." The latter are filled with jealousy and more self-pity. "This is a situation I was born in to. I deserve the spoils of productivity as much as the producers."

As much as this may sound insane to some people, it sounds just as reasonable to others. People who earn more should give more. And if they don't give more, society has a right, even a duty, to take it from them. Their profit and success is the property of the American people, and the American people (through their elected representatives) decide every so often exactly how much of their wealth belongs to them come that April.

Self-pity is the ugliest emotion in the universe. It takes the most incredible facet of humanity--the individual mind and will-and turns it on itself. Humans are not meant to hate or pity themselves, nor are they entitled to.

That takes an oddly philosophical turn at the end, but it's still topical. I am stuck in an odd world between humor and politics/philosophy on this blog. Eventually they may separate, but for now I'll consider this all a study in me.

-Max

Books to Cry Over

Note: There will be a depressing lack of my usual biting humor in this post. I like to be serious once in awhile; hopefully this will be up to my usual standard, just in a different vein.

Books Worth Crying Over

When I was 8 years old, I cried for the first time after reading a book. That wonderful novel is called "Where the Red Fern Grows" and should be a required reading for any human on Earth. To give a paltry summary, a poor boy in the Ozarks saves for three years fifty dollars to buy a pair of redbone coon hounds in order to hunt for raccoons in the woods near his house. Big Dan and Little Ann, male and female respectively, turn out to be a pair of fiercely loyal and incredibly effective hunters who catch many coons and other small game animals for the boy to skin and sell, and the boy develops a connection with his dogs that is so well described near the end. Big Dan and Little Ann also develop a brother-to-sister like affection towards each other--defending each other in fights, eating at the same time, and caring for each other after a tussle with a mean animal.

At the climax of the book, Billy, the protagonist, is attacked by a mountain lion while hunting. After a vicious fight, he kills the lion with his axe, but not before he is almost killed by the lion. He is saved only by the incredible loyalty of his dogs and their willingness to put themselves between their owner of 4 years and a mountain lion.

Old Dan is severely wounded from the encounter and a heartbreaking scene in which the boy untangles the dog's entrails from a bush occurs. This is where my eyes got wet.

Old Dan, the larger and hardier dog, dies later that night in his doghouse, despite the efforts of the family to save him. Over the next several days, the will to live leaves Little Ann and she refuses food, eventually crawling at night to Old Dan's grave, lying alongside it, and dies. The passage that got me was:

"The next morning I made another box. It was smaller than the first one--built for a smaller dog. Each nail I drove into the rough pine boards caused the knot in my throat to grow bigger and bigger.

My sisters came to help. They stood watching for awhile, then, with tears screaming, they rain for the house.

I buried Little Ann by the side of Old Dan. I knew that where she wanted to be. I buried a part of my life along with my dogs."

I was heartbroken. This was a story of triumph--the dogs being raised and trained with their young master and then the ultimate sacrifice of the dogs who fell protecting their master, for which they paid with their lives.

8-year-old Max was moved to tears. Just finishing the book (in its original paperback) tonight, I conjured up similar emotions as Billy cared for the mortally wounded Old Dan and then slowly watched Little Ann waste away and die alongside her brother. When he buries his dogs side-by-side in the Ozark foothills, I am not ashamed to say I felt my eyes water.

We the Living

I, of course, cannot get through any post without mentioning Ayn Rand. Her novel We the Living, set in 1920's post-revolution Soviet Russia, tells a story of family betrayal, hard economic depression and hardship, and love split by cruel Soviet law. Argue as you wish about the merits of capitalism vs. communism or the ideals of socialism being misinterpreted, but We the Living remains an amazing story.

The passage that always gets me is the following: A young counter-revolutionary, Sasha, is being sent to Siberia for 10 years. Due to the conditions, it is certainly a death sentence. His young fiancee Irina is given an identical sentence for harboring the "political criminal" in her house as he hides from the police. They will both die in a Siberian prison.

Irina's father calls in all his favors in order to have them married before they are left, so they may live as husband and wife as they go through the harsh conditions of Soviet prison camps, never to return to their families. He is successful and a small ceremony is held in the prison. The father is informed, however, that they are bound for separate prisons that are 250 miles away and will never see each other again. Though he attempts to have it changed, the government rejects his claims and Irina and Sasha board the same train towards different destinations.

As they ride towards the place where Irina disembarks for their separate train, they know they will never see each other again.

"Sasha held Irina's hands. She was smiling, her chin buried in an old woolen scarf. Her hands were cold and a white vapor fluttered at her lips as she whispered: "We must not think of it as ten years. It sounds so long, doesn't it? But it really isn't. You know, some philosopher said that time is only an illusion or something like that. We'll still be young when we'll...when well be free. So let's promise each other to not think of anything else.

"Yes," he whispered, looking at her hands. "Irina, if only I hadn't..."

"And that's something you've already promised me not to mention again, not even to yourself. Darling, don't you see that it's really easier for me-this way-than to have remained at home, with you sent here alone? This way, I'll feel that we have something in common, that we're sharing something. Aren't we?"

He buried his face in her hands and say nothing.

"When you feel the worst, just smile, and think that you're doing something for me. And I'll do the same. That will keep us together, it's very important to remain cheerful...we'll last longer."

"What for?" he asked. "We won't last long enough anyway."

"Sasha, what nonsense!" She pulled his head up, looking straight into his eyes. "Nothing is ever as bad as it's painted."

The wheels grated under the floor, slowing the train.

"Oh God!" Sasha moaned. "Is that the station?"

The car jerked forward and resumed its speed.

"No, Irina whispered breathlessly, "not yet."

There was a long silence as they held hands across the aisle.

A lantern swam past the window. Then there was nothing but the silent snowflakes splattering against the glass.

Irina whispered: "I think we're approaching."

Sasha sat up, erect, his face the color of brass, and his voice changed, firm. "If they let us write to each other, Irina, will you....every day?"

"Of course," she answered slowly. "And I'll draw things in my letters too."

"Here. I'll draw something for you now."

She picked a small splinter of coal from the window ledge and, sure as a surgeon's scalpel, sketched a face on the back of her seat, an imp's face that grinned at them with a wide crescent mouth, with eyebrows flung up, with one eye winging mischievously, a silly, infectious, irresistible grin.

"Here," Irina said," he'll keep you company...after the station."

At the station, another train was waiting on a parallel track. Guards with bayonets escorted some of the prisoners out. Sasha held Irina, and her bones creaked in his huge arms, and he kissed her lips, her chin, her hair, her neck, and he made a sound that was not quite a moan and not quite a growl. He whispered hoarsely, furiously, into her scarf, blushing, choking, words he had always been reluctant to utter. "I...I...I love you..."

A guard touched her elbow, and she tore herself away from Sasha and followed the guard down the aisle. At the door, Sasha pushed the guard aside, savagely, insanely, and seized Irina again and held her, not kissing her, looking at her stupidly, his long hands crushing the body of the wife he had never truly possessed.

The train roared away, the silver window glowing back at him. He did not look at the snow any longer, his glance clung instead to a tiny yellow square with a black dot that was a human figure, far away.

Across an endless waste of snow, two long caterpillars spread apart, two thin, silvery streads preceded each, the threads led, disappearing into a black void, and Sasha was left alone.

That was a long reference. Thank you all for reading it. I'm a sap for romance stories and coming-of-age tales. There's no story as satisfying as a young boy rising up to meet an incredible challenge and suceeding, or two people finding the values they treasure in another and bonding over mutual respect and connection, showing what they truly value and recognizing it in another.

/being a big old wuss.

Thank you everybody for reading. It's passed 4:00 A.M here, but, luckily, I am no longer employed, so I guess I'll sleep late. Hopefully some people stop by and read my sappiness-I planned to include Harry Potter and a few other choice selections but will have to save those for another time.

Yours,

-Max

P.S. Without the aid of sleeping pills, none of this could have been possible.

The 5 Most Frustrating Things People Do in Online Gaming

I was reading a little article written by cracked.com on the "7 Biggest Dick Moves in Online Gaming" that featured 7 ridiculous moments in MMORPG history. Having never been an MMORPG player (World of Warcraft, EVE online, Second Life, all things that people with 0 lives do) I decided to make a similar list to chronicle the five most controller-chucking, heart-stopping, keyboard-pounding moments experienced while playing games online.

If you don't play video games, there ain't nothing for you here. (Besides amazing writing and hilarity.)

5. The Zergling Rush

Many people who have never played Starcraft/Starcraft 2 use the verb "zerg" to mean "ultimately destroy." (I promise you this happens. I've heard it about...7 times.) This comes from a pesky strategy some players use while playing the race of Zerg in Starcraft, which are basically these evil little bug aliens that want to consume all life in the galaxy.

He looks like a douchebag, doesn't he?

Allow me to set the scene. You're working away in your tiny base. It's early in the game and you're feeling good. No defenses are up, because early defense is for pussies. You're tooling away at building your buildings and gathering minerals and feel hopeful and positive that you're going to win.

Suddenly, TINY BUGS RAMPAGE EVERYWHERE.

Remember that time you were having fun?

This strategy is the equivalent of, when playing chess, all your opponents pawns suddenly destroy all your pieces. Or it's like 12 3 ft. tall douchers punching a struggling man to death, or 200 toddlers attacking you as you walk down the street. It's a quick end to your fun for that game.


4. Being Yelled at by 7 year Olds

It can happen to anyone. You can be playing Halo, or Call of Duty, or anything you like. All of a sudden, a high pierced shriek cuts through your speakers and tells you he's going to do your mom after he kills you and burns down your house.

You may not know it, but this little chubby guy is the devil.

This can only happen online. People who have not entered puberty do not often threaten adult strangers with death and sexual violence in the real world. If this happened, I would definitely not be afraid to curb stomp his baby fat into the gutter. When it happens online, you're helpless. Thankfully, these kids usually suck and you can yell obscenities at them post-game.


3. Spawn Camping

For those who don't know, when you die in Call of Duty or Halo, you respawn .(Note: real life does not work like this.) You get a chance to take your revenge upon your murderers with your virtual bullets. Spawn camping is where people who hate all living things wait right outside your respawn area and riddle your fresh clone with bullets before you have a chance to move.

Allow me to murder your hopes of redemption.

Besides being unfair, this kills any hope of game justice. How can you expect to redeem your mistakes when you cant move any longer in the game? For people who have lives, imagine a grown person walking into the delivery room 3 seconds after your wife gives birth and punching your newborn baby in the face. That's basically what this is.

2. People who speak in acronyms.

This is disturbingly common. You can be having a nice time and still have faith in humanity, when, out of nowhere, someone screams "ROFL GG YOU R SOOOO DEAD NEXT TIME NOOB"

There's a reason keyboards like this don't exist.

It's true that people are this stupid, unfortunately.


1. Corpse Humping

You die in video games. It happens. Then, suddenly, your murderer (or just a bystander) crouches his little virtual character on your dead body as you wait to respawn. Is there no dignity for the dead?

Sometimes, death isn't enough.

This is like saying "If I killed you in real life I'd probably dangle my balls in your face right after just so you'd know who won here."


/nerdiness.

That's enough for now. I hope this was funny for people regardless of their taste in hobbies.

-Max

I Believe That:

Preface: This is perhaps my most interesting post to date, and possible the most interesting thing I will ever write. It will likely be disjointed and follow lines of logic that only I can understand. For once in my life, grammar and syntax will come second to explanation of my points. This was inspired by a 2:30-3:00 a.m. drive through Kansas City and a too-deep conversation with Matt Cox after a typical night at the Camarata Cigar Porch. Perhaps it's just the excessive nicotine in my system after burning down a 7'' cigar down to a nub, but I appear to have reached some sort of philosophical revelation which will be explained now. You have been warned.

These are facts that I know:
3/10 of the country's richest families live in Kansas City.
My father is the smartest person I have ever met. The smartest person in history is Ayn Rand, followed by Aristotle.
I am dropping a German double major and a Psychology minor to pursue a double major in Strategic Communications and Philosophy with a German minor.
Post college, I do not know my plans. I may go to law school or may pursue a career as a writer, depending on the economic viability of the latter.

I am confident, chauvinistic, and driven. I am selfish, dedicated, and single-minded. I believe firmly in my ideals and don’t believe in a life without them.

The societal, economic, and civil decline of the world is now more prominent than ever. Africa has collapsed, if it were ever standing upright. The Middle East, mired in centuries of radical religion and dictatorship, is quickly folding. Europe is declining. We all know that North America is declining quickly. Though East Asia is growing at an incredible rate, the pace of technology and consumption in the world cannot be sustained forever.

They say humans only use 10% of their brain power. I believe that this is the only time in my life I have exceeded this "limit." I don't know by how much, but I think that, if I ever will, this is the point.

The Earth's society is now entering a state where we do not see beyond our own homes, much less our class, much less our country, much less our planet, much less other planets, and not at all The Universe.

Eventually, everything on Earth will be destroyed. Whether it is in 12 billion years when the Sun goes into a Red Giant stage and everything is consumed or in 6 months when the nuclear option is realized, the state of life we have now will not be maintained forever.

We are not a blip on the Universe's radar, and I am not a blip on the Earth’s. If the Earth’s society is destroyed, the worst event possible (to me) is my death. If I die, I will have no concept of the state of the world or how I died. It shall be the end of myself and the end of my control on my life.

The images of stars we look up to every night are merely portraits of the stars hundreds or thousands of years ago and their light just now reaching the Earth. If we ever discover life beyond the world, we will never meet it without faster-than-light travel Besides that. I, certainly, will not see it.

If Earth were to be wiped off the face of the galaxy and the universe, A) none of us would ever know and B) the Universe would not change in any way. It does not matter to me if existence is expanding or contracting in size or if bacteria and amino acids are slowly coalescing into life somewhere else, for I will never witness it. If alien civilizations like ours are looking at our stars and wondering the same things, none of us are privy to their thoughts we likely will never be.

I am not a man of faith, so I don’t believe in an afterlife. I would only like to think of one in the sense that I could observe the events of time after my demise.

There is so much (an infinite amount, even) to see, and I will never see it. There are things on Earth I will never see, and there are things in the solar system I will never see, and there are things in our galaxy and beyond that none of us will ever see. I cannot perceive 99.999 to the infinite digit of the events of time and there is no hope for further progress in that number.

That being said:

The thoughts above are depressing and true, but, in a sense, heartening. Humanity is granted significance through our insignificance. Our control over our world is just that—our control over our world. We each have a small bit of it and we alone determine the future of our species. Because we are not a blip on the radar of the Universe, then the radar of the Universe is meaningless to us. The limits of our horizons only make the things within the boundaries that much more powerful.

The events in my life are acted upon by forces outside my control, but, ultimately, I have the control over everything that happens to me, and, therefore, so does everyone.

My life is the limit of my means, and I am my own end. The same goes for everyone and everything in existence. Our time on Earth or wherever we may be is all we can ask for and expect, and the quality of our lives is the only thing about which we may be concerned. I will go to law school if I am happy there. I believe in the upholding of law and its principles. I will be a writer if I am happy. I believe in the force of sharing my views with others and the impact I can have through that medium.

That is the ultimate point of this post—we all must do what we can to be happy. Whether that is marriage and love, wealth and foreign cars, or heroin is up to the respective person. My own life is the only thing I am given, and what I can do with it is the limit of my existence.

I believe firmly in the ideals of productivity, selfishness, and internal motivation and focus for these reasons. I was not put on Earth to make other people happy.

“The man who speaks of to you of sacrifice speaks of slaves and masters. And he intends to be the master.”

That is another point entirely. My main point to communicate is: do what you can to be happy and satisfied with the time you are given. That is not justification to hurt others or worship your small whims. What you do to further your life is your own concern and only yours, but it is not reason to step over a mound of bodies to achieve it.

Again, rambling. I am going to sound completely unlike myself, but do what you love. What you love makes you happy, and happiness and satisfaction should be your ultimate goal.

Whether you confess your love over Facebook in gut-wrenching, sickening displays of affection (you know who you are) or keep it private between the people involved, though it may be just as serious and devoted, is the choice of the respective people. One is not superior to another, and whatever makes you happy is the right choice.

/ramble.

That was perhaps intense. I’m definitely having a surreal night, and hope I can actually stick to these beliefs. I also hope people may read this and care about it, but, then again, if they don’t, it made me feel better to write, and, sticking to the above principles, that’s the important thing.

I wish I could expand this further, but I wanted to get my thoughts out as soon as possible. Also, it’s quite late, and I have simulated galactic battlefields to conquer before bed. Expect returns to normal posts after this—my insistence on seriousness is blessedly limited.

Thank you,

-Max

P.S. If anybody has any opinion on the above, feel free to share it. My logic makes sense to me, but may not to most.

P.P.S. Florence + The Machine is my soundtrack to my deep thoughts and is one of my favorite bands. Check it out.

P.P.P.S. That's some heavy dope.

I've Got the Blues

This blog post is incredibly personal. It's not something I share with just anyone, so count yourselves among the blessed to deserve such a glimpse into my private life. Anyone who doesn't want to delve into the darkest places of my mind, leave now and forever hold your peace.

This post is about my favorite article of clothing ever. It is not a Ralph Lauren shirt or my sky blue Vineyard Vines shorts. It is not even my Croakies or my very fetching Sperry Authentic Originals.

This post is dedicated to my true favorite article of clothing-a 16-year old pair of blue Adidas sweatpants, also known as "My Blues."

I cut quite a dashing figure in my Blues.

Somebody in my family had the bright idea of giving this pair of sweatpants to 3-year old Max. Not several things about these pants:

1. They are now a dull purple do to over-washing.

2. They fit me almost perfectly NOW. Imagine these pants on three-year-old Max. I rolled up the cuffs five or six times and tightened the elastic all the way and still I couldn't wear them out of the house.

3. "Blues" is always capitalized.


My Blues are not just an absurdly comfortable, unbelievably fashionable, and ludicrously attractive piece of clothing. They have been worn on many a special occasion.

I wore them to Wal-Mart when I was 4, (and just a tad bigger, so they didn't fall off my waist completely.) and bought (with 13 dollars that I had saved and a generous donation from my parents.) my first Gameboy Color. Since it was the mid-90's and I was 4, I also bought Pokemon Blue version. (Though Charizard is superior to Blastoise in every way, the Blue version is easier to play as the red tone of the Red version is harsh on a young boy's eyes.)

I wore them to sleep for many years. I wore them when I woke up and lounged around in the summer. (Most of my summer activities in grade school start with an "S" and rhyme with BarCraft.)

I have, all joking aside, worn them every Christmas morning since I was 3.

I wore them under my jeans when Mizzou beat the Jayhawks in Arrowhead Stadium in 2007 to take the #1 place in the BCS.

I wore my Blues to every day of lacrosse conditioning I attended. (All six, I think.)

There are many more instances, but on to more important things.

Rules of the Blues:

1. Do not EVER leave the house with the Blues on unless it is a special event.

2. The Blues must never be worn twice in one washing cycle.

3. The Blues can only be worn to bed when I have clean sheets. (As in, never slept in.)

4. If the Blues are worn post-shower (they always are) then they are never donned while wet. 5-10 minutes of air-drying is vital.

5. The Blues cannot go with me to Mizzou. (They will next year, but I wouldn't dare to subject something so close to my heart to the washers and dryers of Mark Twain.)

6. The Blues can never travel outside of Kansas City. (Soon this area will include Columbia. They may never go on vacation for fear a jealous bottomfeeder may steal them.)

7. Anyone who attempts to touch the Blues with anything besides a freshly washed hand will draw back a bloody stump.

8. The Blues will never be used as shacker pajamas for any reason. When I am eventually married, my wife is not allowed to wear my Blues. (If she is lucky she may look at me while I wear them.) When my body returns to the loam and the cities are but dust, my Blues shall survive, unworn by any other person.

/rules.

I am quite serious about all of this. (No I'm actually not. But a little I am. Nah....but I am a little.)

Anyone who is privy to the glory of my Blues next year should consider themselves lucky. I believe it is time to paraphrase the poet Shelley:

"Look upon my Blues, ye mighty, and despair!" (I said paraphrase which means, in journalism, I can change whatever I want.)

Thank you all for sticking through to the end of this extremely personal confession. If you're thinking about commenting, please do. (And if you read that sentence, you automatically are thinking about it.)

-Max

P.S. Next on A Study in Max: I defend frattiness.

Finally being positive?-Part 3: Starcraft and Mark Twain Memz

Each time I have finished an article in this continued series, I tell myself: "Well, you've about exhausted that line of reasoning."

Not true, apparently. Beneath my layers of sardonic mannerisms and general cynicism, I am actually a positive person. Lots of things make me happy; beaches and quality seafood are two things that quickly come to mind, and who knows how many more exist! I even enjoy writing about them, most of the time. (Unless the plebians at work kindle my considerable ire.)

I am slow to anger but furious when it happens. Now that I've substituted punching and kicking for writing angry blog posts, everything seems to be a little brighter. (Bright enough for Croakies, even.)

But that's enough about me. Let's get on to more me. Don't read a blog titled "A Study in Max" unless you want to hear about Max.

1. The Demon Inside of Me

I refer, of course, to my insatiable love for Starcraft. This all started when I was a young lad of 6. During the summer, my cousin Sam (who lived in Wichita and is two years older) would wake up at 9 a.m. and rush to our respective computers. We'd get on the phone and then start a heavy day of Starcraft. Pausing at midday to eat a Lunchable (I was quite fond of the Taco or Cracker sandwich varieties) we would resume our intergalactic domination until the early afternoon. Then I would start reading. I was quite the party animal back then.

Starcraft, like all things, lost my attention after a year or two. I moved on to bigger and better things--namely Halo, The Lord of the Rings, and why my voice started to crack uncontrollably. (Unbelievable as it may seem, I was not always the perfect specimen of the male form that I am today.)

That all changed, however, when Starcraft II, a sequel long in the making, was released in early August of last year.

I, being the social butterfly I was, had eagerly followed the development of my favorite series throughout the decade-long debacle before it was sprung fully formed from Blizzard's loins. (I am ashamed to admit that I support the company responsible for World of Warcraft.) When the game emerged, I was in Mexico. I returned and barely allowed myself time to carry in my bags before the Manbrid and I shot off into the night to the nearest Wal-Mart (at about midnight) to fulfill my life's dream.

I eagerly sat down to play in my room. Chris Camarata, one of my good friends from home, played a game with me online. Installation included, it was about 2 a.m.

At 2:45 I was admitted to the hospital. Amazingly, the incident in question was not excitement-related. It was actually E. Coli. Turns out Mexico is not only filthy economically, but also hygienically.

You bet your ass I brought my laptop with me. The hospital's meager WiFi could not support the ever-hungry bandwith monster that is my addiction, but I played single player to my heart's content. (That is, when I wasn't passing into pain-medication induced comas and wishing for death in my unclean hospital bed.)

It may not be fratty, or even cool in the slightest sense of the word, but nobody can take Starcraft away from me. There is a certain satisfaction you hold when vast armies respond to your very click and you see your forces hold against wave after wave....

You know what? Next section!

2. Shitty Residence Hall Filled with Awesome People

Despite the unforgiving linoleum floors (The interior designer of Mark Twain specialized in industrial bathrooms before his first big [And, God willing, his final] project) the crumbling, pockmarked, and scuffed cinderblock walls, the random pipes that ran across the ceiling, and the eternal filthiness of the floor (dirt was actually ingrained chemically into the aforementioned linoleum), Twain had a certain quaintness about it, much like a Dark Ages British mud harvester.

Besides the room quality itself, which, if I were an English nanny, would dub "simply dreadful," Mark Twain contained a large proportion of pretty amazing people. Shout-outs will be given individually, if you aren't included then please submit your concerns here: they will be taken by my receptionist.

In no particular order:

Natalie "Natty" Cheng: AKA Ping: What can I say? She's completely crazy. Whether she's wearing puffy sweaters or artsy hats or cleaning her eternally messy room, she's a delight. She also balances out our group ethnically, as we appear to be almost exclusively white.

Steven "STEEEEVEEE" Scheller: AKA The Mechanic: He fixes stuff. He drives a cool car. He's always chill. He's always there to get things off a high shelf. What else needs to be said?

Dylan "Catty" Chapman: Always there to provide us with cutting humor and stereotypical love of America's Next Top Model--two crucial things.

Laura "Ice Queen" Willenbring: If Laura didn't exist, I would seem like the biggest douchebag in the world. (I don't already....right guys?) She balances out my cold exterior with her even colder exterior. There's a reason Minnesota is the way it is.

Bethany "Methany" Christo: She is clinically insane and also a hobbit. Hobbies include sleeping on floors and doing homework in the perfect times to make me feel like a worthless turd.

Theresa "Bro" Beno: What can I even say? She knows how to eat a chicken wing properly. She will, on occasion, punch things without warning. She will never take any of my shit and I love her for that.

Katarina "What are you, like Russian or something?" Sostaric: I wonder if clinical insanity is a trend in our group, because we have another example. Couldn't pick a better roommate and shares my love of Jersey Shore, chill music, and Asian Zing Buffalo Wild Wings.

Jessica "Artsy as Shit" Smith: Though she may appear to be insane as well, she is actually more stable than I can imagine. She kept our entire group fed and alive during Spring Break and is the most sensible person out of a group of people who, on occasion, make poor decisions.


Garrett "Garolly" Richie: The true King of the Jeeds. Always helpful, always kind, always cargo-short clad. Outdoorsy enough to make me jealous. Unfortunately he is already married, ladies. (Wait, he isn't yet? What are they waiting for?)

Jimmy "Homos should be Homeless" Hibsch: One of the most talented writers I've ever met. Obsessed with powerful minority women. Also, this one movie was totally filmed at his high school.

Winn "This isn't even a thing" Duvall: If I elaborate on this, she'll wring my throat with her tiny hands or crush me to death with her gigantic...force of will, but, suffice to say, I'm a fan. Charming, delightfully weird, and perfectly Southern. Her body is powered exclusively by McNuggets and Sweet Tea and she has a tendency to slap things I enjoy out of my hands to fall on the pavement and then laugh in my face. Maniacal? Perhaps. However, if we don't interact viciously in public, we may fall into a pit of public affection that will wrench the sanity from either of us. She's also my girlfriend, I guess.


That's all for now. I hope everybody enjoys this. More to come. My cleverness knows no bounds!

-Max

P.S. I am legitimately sorry if I forgot anyone from the list. It is approaching 1 a.m. and I have to dedicate 9 hours of my time tomorrow to giving boat rides to the serfs of Kansas City. We must act quickly, before they discover movable printed type, circulate fliers, and rise up against the landed gentry.