Pansy Drawings

I like name tags.

They make you feel like you're tight with total strangers, when really, you're not at all.

It's nice to be able to say, "Thanks for the slurpee, Jeremy. Yes, I'll see you tomorrow morning also."

Or, "You have a nice day too, Cheryl, thank you for letting me play the rock band demo until closing time."

The other day I was at a restaurant, and the waitress' name was Pansy.

I giggled.

Because the thing was, she kind looked like she would be a pansy.

And then I thought about how marvelous the world would be if all of us wore name tags that didn't just say our utilitarian name, and instead they proclaimed our most becoming personal quality.

Hopefully in my fantasy world the waitress' name tag would've read something like "kind," or "giving," or "great at sewing," but not "pansy."

I'm not sure what mine would read.

"Smart ass," maybe.

"Chill," perhaps.

I don't know.

I'm trying to think of one quality that I have that I portray so often, that it would belong on a name tag.

What is it that I do ALL the time?

It's a lot easier for me to make my friends' name tags.

Even total strangers.

I just have to overhear part of someone's conversation on campus before I make them a mental name tag and stick it on their back.

"Douche."

"Trick."

"Tool."

"Arrogant."

"Dork."

How often do we make assumptions about people's name tags based on one moment of interaction?

What are the chances that I'm catching them on a bad day?

Maybe they're cat just got run over and so they're taking it out on the grocery store clerk by not saying please and thank you.

Ha, sometimes I stick actual name tags on some of my classmates in my drawings.

I have a tendency to doodle in the margins during lecture, which usually turns into a cartoon commentary of my peers and professor. I've given almost everyone in almost all of my classes nicknames based on one or two features about them, and I draw pictures of our class discussions and socratic seminars.

"Visor Guy," is a 40 something year old Iraq veteran who is coming back to school and often has a word bubble next to his cartoon self that is full of "$(@%"s cause he tends to be really opinionated and cussy. He was originally name tagged because of the unusually large athletic visor that he wore the first day of night class last semester. Because he is such a strong personality, and makes such ridiculous comments in class on a regular basis, he tends to be the star of my classtime cartoons.

"Dwight," is one of my peers who looks and acts remarkably like Dwight Schrute, a character from The Office. His mannerisms are that of a Pennsylvania beet farmer and paper salesmen and his wardrobe is, on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at least, 100% short sleeved polos.

"Lesbian Dwight," who is actually admittedly named despite my ignorance of her sexual orientation, looks exactly like the other Dwight from behind. Same haircut. Same shirts. Same glasses. But a lady. The reason my margins have labeled her lesbian dwight is because it took an embarrassingly long time for anyone to figure out she was, in fact a woman, and not a twin.

"Mumble Kid" sits between the Dwights, and whenever he speaks in class discussion, though I sit only two seats behind him, I cannot understand a word he is saying. All I can make out is a low groaning sound and the occasional chuckle.

"Old Lady 1" is a white-haired grad student who has a rolley backpack and sits in the front left of the room literally with her nose in the air as she questions or commentates every last detail of the lecture with unusually large and obscure words.

"Old Lady 2" is a white-haired undergrad student who also has a rolley backpack and sits in the front right of the room. While she is as opinionated and chatty as Old Lady 1, their viewpoints almost never match, and so they argue with one another until the professor jumps in to save all of us from the pointless cycle of argument.

I guess this all started in Freshmen Biology.

All this naming business, I mean.

Yes, it started with writing haikus and drawing pictures that detailed my awkward and unwanted interaction with "Determined," a football player who had that word tattooed down his tricep. Oh, and "Bossy Girl," whose name is self explanatory would also make an appearance into my notebook margins.

"Red-Shirted Kid," "Scary Girl," and "Bean Nazi" were all in my Biology Lab kid, but "Guy who helps me if I hoover" was undoubtedly the best to keep around whenever we were forced to use microscopes, or touch dead animals, analyze bacteria, or do other pointless, sciencey things.

I have a tendency to pick out a few details about a person, and they're tagged.

But as funny as my cartoon college commentaries may be concerning the futile nature of lab sciences for non-science majors, and the awkwardness that is the very definition of the History department are, it is not okay for me to solidify these ridiculous opinions about people.

Who am I to write their name tags?

The fact that I've been trying to write them without actually getting to know anyone is indicative of what my own should say:

"pompous spectator."

It's not that my cartoons are way off-base, or that my nicknames are unreasonable and completely degrading.

Nay, in fact, I'm pretty dead-on.

Actually 99% of the cartoons' word bubbles are only filled with direct quotes.

The problem is not that that the commentary is wrong.

The problem is that I impose this commentary without getting to know these people.

Love People.

Don't Write Their Name Tags.

Root Beer Pong

Part of my job as an RA in the dorm is to facilitate "programs," which are basically events for my residents. They can promote community service, or be educational, social or academic. And while I've done everything from teach my girls how to properly spray paint, to tye-dying shirts, to freerice.com competitions, to throwing an outrageous 80s prom, my specialty is in alcohol awareness programs.

Last year I put together a program for Cross and Jones Halls called "Beer Goggle Dodgeball."

We borrowed these goggles that resemble swim gear, but effectively impair ability to walk or see properly. They're usually used in demonstrations by different Police Departments, and are used for mock sobriety testing. But we just had everybody strap on a pair and play dodgeball, hence the name of the program.

It was a great tournament.

The catch was, "when you're drinking and driving, it's not a fair to everyone else on the road."

So four people would put on thebeer goggles and they'd play against this guy, Justin, and I, (who, as it happened, didn't have to wear any goggles,) and they'd lose every time.

That's because "you have a better shot at being a winner when you're sober."

Yeah.

I could totally work for a lame school board somewhere making up assembly presentations. I'm great at being cheesy. I should probably get paid for that crap.

But anyways, this year, I topped even Dodgeball.

Drum roll please:

Root Beer Pong.

Cross Hall Main Lobby.

Wednesday Feb. 17

8 PM

This program is a spoof of a drinking game commonly used with the non-root type of beer and is played customarily by American College students. We also played flip cup, and kings cup.

Aye.

The A&W was flowing, and tummy aches were had by all.

I'd say about 45 dorks ended up hanging out pretending to be drunk with our red party cups.

What they didn't know was that I had the Cops agree to come fake Bust our shindig.

At approximately 8:35 the police stormed in and cut the stereo off (which was a shame because whitesnake was serenading us with the big chorus of "Here I go Again") and yelled at everyone, and chased the few that made a break for it, and wrote us all tickets.

They interrogated us about where we got the root beer, and they arrested the 21+ year old who brought it, and did field sobriety tests for those that claimed to only be drinking water.

It was a pretty sweet bust, and then alcohol awareness presentation ensued.

They gave a 25 minute presentation about the risks and consequences of underage drinking, detailed the possible fines and outcomes of a pull over, and answered the often wondered questions about what is and isn't usable in the courtroom.

For sure the best program I've ever put on.

Seemed like everybody partied pretty hard for it being a Wednesday, but they all left pretty happy. Especially the boys that took home the Walmart gift cards for winning the pong tournament.

The irony in it all is that while the program did raise awareness of the perils of underage intoxication, it also taught a lot of BSM and Wesley kids how to play drinking games.

Oops.

Oh well.

Other than the whole being a bad influence on the devout, I'd say I'm dang good at my job.

Do Stuff You're Good at.

Do Stuff You Like.

"Pleasure in the Job

Puts Perfection in the Work."

-Aristotle

Ben Bailey

My friend Garrett Luna loves the television show Cash Cab.

Our freshmen year we would sit in Jones Hall and watch driver Ben Bailey cruise the crowded streets of New York City surprising riders with the trivia game show that took place in the back seat of his taxi cab.

If a traveler is lucky enough to climb into Bailey's yellow car, they have until their destination to win money by answering various questions correctly, but three strikes and they're out.

Quality television.

Yes, Luna Loves to watch Cash Cab.

And while I do too, I think that playing Cash Cab in my Pt. Cruiser is ten million times more awesome.

Yes, this is what we do for fun: I drive my friends, who insist on sitting in the back seat, around our town and ask them any question I can think of.

"What physical structure, torn down in 1989, separated the ideological differences between Eastern and Western Europe?"

"The Berlin Wall."

"What One-hit-wonder song was released by the band "Right Said Fred?""

"I'm Too Sexy."

"Which United States President is also known as the Father of the Bill of Rights?"

"James Maddison"

"The character 'James' on the hit sitcom How I Met Your Mother is played by what actor?"

"Wayne Bradey."

(I think you can tell by the questions I mustered on a moment's notice that I'm an entertainment-loving History Major.)

In the real Cash Cab, if you get the questions right then the interior lights up in checkers, and blinks obnoxiously.

Whenever my friends answer correctly, I recreate this sensation by flashing my brights, flipping the overhead light on and off, and yelling, "DING, DING, DING!"

In the real Cash Cab, if you get stuck on a question then you may partake in a ritual called a "Street shout out" where you may avert the question to a presumably smart-looking person walking near the cab along the crowded sidewalks of the Big Apple.

But since Canyon, Texas and New York, New York do not share similar population density patterns, we usually resort to stopping at a gas station and shouting our question to the least-stupid-looking cowboy filling up his truck with diesel on his way to the hoe-down, instead of a corporate business man walking from his important meeting with clients back to his important looking tall building with windows.

I also really enjoy making fun of grossly incorrect answers.

"No, it's not George Washington Carver, because he invented peanutbutter. Drop the Carver. It was just George Washington."

In addition to Cash Cab making us smarter, playing Cash Cab is Fun.

I love having friends that play with me.

They are the best.

They'll climb in the car, and answer my ridiculous questions.

They'll have dance parties with me, and play air instruments in abandon classrooms.

They'll go along with my bits about Pocohontas and John Smith so far as to refer to a tree as Grandmother willow.

They'll play video games with me until our eyes are watery.

They'll dress up in cloaks and throw me a Harry Potter Birthday party, despite the fact that I'm probably too old for that sort of thing.

They'll pretend to be spies with me and go on secret missions with airsoft guns.

They'll wrap everything I own in foil.

They'll talk about TV show characters with me as if they're a real part of our lives.

They'll shove couch cushions up their shirts and play sumo wrestler with me.

They'll write poems and draw pictures of our adventures.

They'll eat popsicles with me, and color with crayons, and watch cartoons.

They'll laugh with me until we cry.

But when all the laughter is done they know be better than anybody.

They'll say what needs said, in love, and they don't bail when things get sticky.

They're there in the good times, duh, but they've got my back in the bad ones too.

I sure do love them a lot.

I wonder if Ben Bailey has friends as awesome as mine.

Probably not.

Point for me.

a friend is someone

who knows the song in your heart

& can sing it back to you

when you've forgotten the words.

Chronicles of a Junkie

Of course I'd be refering to my addiction to adrenaline.

Enjoy.




And to answer a previously posed question...
I'm afraid to break my hands, so ever since childhood I've taken falls, and hits to the face. Without my left hand I wouldn't be able to paint, or draw, or have good penmanship. Without my right hand I wouldn't be able to throw a snowball, or shoot a basketball, or aim an airsoft gun. I like to use both to type papers late at night in the HELC.
I need my hands.
My face...
meh.
It's kinda useless.
So, the reason I fall the way I do, on my face, with my mouth in the dirt, is really just a matter of priorities.

You Gotta Know Your Priorities.