Iowa City PD

9 college friends. Iowa city. U of A vs. Iowa. Danger Will Robinson. Danger

Let's be clear about one thing: I didn't break any laws the entire weekend (with the exception of speeding). However, I was definitely in the ballpark. Breaking the law, I have found, is one of those things you always want to stay at least one step away from.

As my friend David says: Don't heat sugar cubes with a lighter on a spoon and drop them into absinthe. One step away from heroin. I hear that stuff is not good.

Encounter with the law #1

Friday. 5:30 PM

81 in a 65. Red and Blue. Passengers had a few road sodas. Those of you that live in progressive states with intelligent congressmen are familiar with a little thing called the "open container law" and you may be saying to yourself, "Whaaaa, illegal!" It is not. Missouri does not have intelligent congressmen. However, having open containers is one step too close to breaking the law.

"Mr. Buchanan, can you step out of the vehicle please?"

"Yes, sir"

"This here is a Breathalyzer."

At this point, I remember the pre-game beers I had at happy hour and my heart begins to race harder than when my first girlfriend kissed my neck.

Mom and Dad- don't read this next part:

.061

Phew!

I'm feeling good. I'm feeling invincible. I figure, "Let's go for the gold."

"Officer- I am so incredibly sorry for speeding. I have been doing my best to keep it under 80 the entire drive from Saint Louis and I legitimately thought the speed limit was 70. I promise that if you let me off with a warning, I will drive like a snail for the rest of the way and I will never, ever let a girl kiss my neck again."

"You're getting a ticket son."

Whatever. There is nothing that can happen to me in the entire world that will keep me from having fun right meow.

And for the record, he did knock the speed down, the points will not go on my driving record and I get to mail in a measly payment in the next thirty days. Let's party.

Encounter with the law #2

Game day. 10:30 AM

The boys and I high-jack a tailgate spot and set up our folding table from the Mart for a little beer pong. The tailgaters who actually purchased the spot arrive.

"You guys are gonna have to move."

Next spot over. Game on.

Encounter with the law #3

11:00 AM

New tailgaters arrive.

"Strike two guys."

"How many strikes do we get officer?"

"Two. This isn't baseball."

Next spot over. Game on.

Encounter with the law #4

8:00 PM

Sam barges in our hotel room and starts pouring vodka into plastic cups while rolling his tongue loudly like a Tijuana shot girl. Most friends oblige. Brad does not. All other five guys-pretending-to-be-in-college see this and the peer-pressuring commences.

Apparently, the folks in the surrounding rooms did not appreciate 6 guys rolling their tongues loudly like Tijuana shot girls and pounding on the wall.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"You guys need to keep it down. This is your first warning."

"How many warnings do we get officer?"

"One."

Smart man.

Encounter with the law #5

11:00 PM

I lose my group. I find two Hawkeyes and begin polite conversation even though most of their comments revolved in the neighborhood of, "Sorry you had to come all the way up here to lose man" and, "You guys showed up but your football team stayed in Tucson. What's up with that?"

Maybe it was my state of mind at the moment. Maybe it was the fact that I wanted to be hanging out with the people that I came all this way with. Maybe it was really true. The fact is, these guys, at the time, seemed identical to my friends Neal and Bryant who were having their own fun at the same time in this foreign city. I proceeded to call them "Replacement Neal" and "Replacement Bryant" for the remainder of the evening. In fact, they were so much like real Neal and Bryant, that Replacement Neal and Bryant thought this was hilarious.

Replacement Neal, Replacement Bryant and I walk through the town and have a grand 'ole time. Replacement Neal's go-to pick up line was, "Hey this guy lost his friends and we are trying to show him a good time. What are you girls going to do tonight?"

While Replacement Neal and I are giving this a go and striking out for the 900th time, we misplace Replacement Bryant.

We find him. Dude's in handcuffs.

"What did he do officer?"

"Public Intoxication."

"Have a nice night."

Encounter with the law #6

Sunday. 4:00 AM

Replacement Neal was kind enough to lead me to a nice little get-together. It's too late. Cops pull this oldest trick in the book: "Party's over kids."

My California ID is real officer. I swear.

Find hotel. Sleep. Not in jail. Back to the real world tomorrow.

I love college.

This is My Nightmare

You have undoubtedly heard a story with the following elements:

1. 5 hour flight that should have been 4 hours but plane spent and extra hour on the tarmac
2. Very last row middle seat
3. 400 pound man on right taking half of passenger’s allotted space
4. Young mother with 2-year old, screaming her intestines out, spoiled rotten child on left
5. Absolutely nothing to read or do

I’m there. The question is: How in the unforgiving world did I get there?

I don’t get obsessive, picky or precise about many things, but seat selection on an airplane is one of them. Especially if I book a flight that allows your to pick your own seats for every leg of the trip. I don’t necessarily care about getting a non-stop flight (I am finding more and more people that actually will not travel if they must stop and transfer). On one of the few occasions that I happen to book a non-stopper, I end up here. I don’t really care if I must sit toward the back, but please, in the name of all things holy, give me a mother truckin’ aisle or window seat- because if you don’t, I am going to be one cranky camper.

Exception: If I am placed in the middle by a cute girl (on Southwest-pick-your-own-seat flights, I go through extensive efforts to make this happen), life could get worse. However, this does not happen to be the case. Nope. I got the Incredible Hulk elbowing me in the jejunum on one side and author of “How to Piss Your Kid Off” on the other.

My prepared entertainment of videos on my new 17” lap top is completely irrelevant due to the fact that tight confines (mainly due to Hulk) do not allow enough space for the beastly machine. I immediately regret my purchase decision, wish I had foreseen this circumstance and bought the pocket sized, 6-inch, no CD drive, miniature keyboarded, extended battery computer. All I got now is Sky Mall and no-grit, family-friendly, airline-produced magazine which I am forced to read 2 inches from my face with my armpits tucked beneath my ears.

This is my nightmare.

If I could raise my arm enough to push the flight attendant call button, I would drink enough to make it all go away. Thwarted again.

Upon booking my flight, I went through drastic measures to select appropriate seating and prevent this situation. I went through each flight and picked perfect window seats 4 rows from the front of the plane. The system did not register the first try and I had to start all over again. I checked again two weeks later, and again two weeks before the flight just to make sure because of what happened the first time I tried to book the seat.

It somehow did not work. I wanted to speak with the counter lady as soon as I booked the flight, but I was already short on time and the security line looked longer than that of Harry Potter opening night. All I can do now is piss and moan in my head, act like a pompous ass hole to anyone I encounter and shop for the world’s largest crossword puzzle in one out of my only two reading options.

After the…longest…5…hours…of…my…quarter…century,…thus…far…happy,….but…
looks.... to…be…taking…a…turn…for…the…worse…life, I arrive. I call my bro because he is to be arriving in our hometown the same time as I and we figure out our meeting plan. While waiting for the shuttle, he shows up on the curb next to me with a jolly greeting and coffee in hand. He obviously had a better air experience than I.

We hop on the shuttle, exchange usual “how’s life” pleasantries and after about 5 minutes, he drops the dreaded question where this exchange takes place:

Mike: How was your flight?
Me (preferring to forget about the experience and move forward): Ehhh. It was OK.
Mike: Oh Yeah? How was your back row middle seat?
Me: How the hell did you know that?

The little weasel received my confirmation email that I sent him because I was being polite and wanted to let him know travel plans, went on to American’s website, used my confirmation number and changed my seat.

You are heaping pile of monkey crap little bro. I will never forgive you.

Oh yeah…and check your bag from the trip. There, you will find the cut filets of the fish we caught on Monday. I hope it rots in your bag and you smell like cat food when you see your girlfriend’s parents. Consequently, I hope they tell their daughter that they don’t like you because you don’t wash your clothes and make jokes behind your back for the extent of your relationship because you don’t take showers. For Christmas, they buy you cologne and bar soap to hint at your stench. They decide to have an intervention with you. You try to explain that you didn’t smell like deck hand because you don't bathe, but rather because you were the victim of a practical joke. They don't believe you.

Ass.

Do You Need Anything Else?

Humans are creatures of habit and I am no exception.

I go to the same coffee shop every morning and order a large iced coffee (hot in the winter).

I have a regular rotation of lunch locations- Penn Station East Coast Subs, Saint Louis Bread Co., Qdoba, etc.

I go to the same grocery store at least once a week and generally get the same list- tuna, milk, dog food, sandwich materials, eggs and various random items.

I rob the same 7/11 every other day to pay for the above activities.

What really confuses me is why certain employees at these businesses act like they have never seen me before in their entire life.

I have been coming to this coffee shop almost every morning, including the weekends, for an entire year, and there are never more than four people in there including staff. You would think that my picture would be on the wall as the most consistent customer or something. Instead, certain baristas look at me, when I say hello, the same way they looked at the guy at the bar the previous night- "Do I know you?"

Don't get me wrong, many people at these places know me by first name, the car I drive (and the fact that I park it in front of the fire hydrant every morning), my beverage of choice and how much ice I want. Others, not so much.

The sandwich shop people much be trained to ask the same question every time they hand me my 6-inch Italian with fries: "Do you need anything else?" When I first started coming to this establishment, the question confused me.

The reason? They ask the question as if they are going to actually put something in the bag themselves, but they don't. Anything I could possibly need for my to-go order could be handled myself by the contents of the counter next to the fountain soda machine: plastic forks, knives, spoons, napkins (which were already in the bag), lemon slices, salt and pepper packets, mustard, containers of extra oil and vinegar, straws, and even individually wrapped tooth picks.

You may be thinking, "Well maybe they have that stuff behind the counter as well." They don't. The first week I ever bought my Italian from this joint, Sammy Sandwich asked if I needed anything else and I said, "Could I get some napkins?" He pointed me to the self service counter.

You may have noticed there is one KEY ingredient not listed as a part of the self service counter: Ketchup, catsup, catchop, kechup. And with those hand cut, perfectly seasoned fries, I am gonna need me some ketchup. Why is the ketchup behind the counter when everything else is readily available? Another topic for another post.

So, when Suzy Sandwich asks me if I need anything else, the only thing she can actually provide me of any substantial dining value is some ketchup. Why, in God's name, doesn't she just freaking ask me if I want some freaking ketchup? I have no idea.

Suzy and Sammy have to know me by now. They simply have to. I have been there at least 50 times in the past ten months and every time, they ask me "Do you need anything else?" And every time, I say ketchup.

Today I forgot.

Suzy put the fries in a cup, put the cup in the bag (all while acting like I was a complete stranger), handed me the bag, asked the pointlessly vague question and I said "No." I started walking out the door. What the hell was I thinking? I turned around and said, "Can I get some ketchup?"

Suzy, in the absolute most condescending and degrading tone you could ever give a customer without being too rude, said, "Well, that's why I asked if you needed anything else."

Yes, I know Suzy. That's why you asked me if I needed anything else. If you asked me if I needed some ketchup- the one service you could actually provide- we wouldn't be in this situation.

Thanks.

Faceboom

It's official: The baby boomer Facebook infiltration is complete.

In fact, I am even friends with some of my grandparents on Facebook. (As a side note, the generation before the "Baby Boomers" is apparently called the "Silent Generation." Seriously...see for yourself: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080731161621AAVLnyh)

Generation X members across America are frantically de-tagging incriminating photos and erasing inappropriate posts.

I personally love it. And I am pretty sure I am in the minority of Generation X. Facebook is not just a college social networking site anymore. It is now a true "Facebook."

My brother is fighting the losing fight by claiming he is not going to censor his facebooking practices just because the rents, aunts, uncles and cousins can now view his movements. I think he has purposefully made his messages more crude, inappropriate and politically incorrect to scare the Faceboomers away. This type of action did not occur nearly as often before the oldies joined. Just this morning, I received a message with not only the F word, but a homosexual slur- which received the obligatory "boys..." message from my mother. Now parents can voice their disapproving opinions by comments on status messages.

I also saw one of his messages inspiring my underage uncle to get "pants-sh**ing drunk" upon arriving for his freshman year of college. That's pleasant.

(Yes, I have two uncles that are younger than I am...long story.)

I will not be censoring my Facebook practices either, but I never was quite so...blunt...in the first place.

The Faceboom movement has provided much entertainment for me. Many Faceboomers (and especially Silent Generation members) find Faceboom as a convenient replacement for the US mail. If Twitter's 140 character limit applied, many of these folks would have some issues. A recent post my one of my friend's mothers on his wall (names have been changed to protect the innocent):

"Hi Josh, It's mom. I forgot to ask you on the phone last night if you were impacted at all by the whole Michael Jackson memorial service. Are you close to the Staples Center? That was quite the event! Sad ending to a sad life - he sure could entertain though! I hope to see you two sometime over the weekend if you get the chance. I would like to go see Public Enemy, maybe Sunday. It's going to be so hot here the only logical thing to do will be to sit in a nice dark, cool movie theater. Join us if you can. OK, you're going to start making fun of me again for this post so ICFN - That stands for" I'll close for now." :-) Say hi to Deborah. Love, Mom"

I cannot wait until this Faceboomer joins the future Baby Boomer Twitter infiltration and must write in all acronyms.

The same mother- but posting on a wall of her son's friend (again, names have been changed):

"Hi Tommy! Thanks so much for adding me as a Facebook friend! I love this Facebook - it sorta lets you be a snoop without feeling guilty about it. Just kidding - I promise I won't be a pest on here. I will be looking at your pics though. Congrats on Law School. You have such a bright future ahead of you - be proud of yourself!! If law school doesn't work out, you could audition for the Frankie Valli part in Jersey Boys. I saw the play in Chicago and the lead looks just like you. It was uncanny, the resemblance. Josh told me you could sing so who knows?! Anyway, take care of yourself and please, I would love to see you the next time your home the same time as Josh - I'll make dinner. Take care for now. Love, Irene

I could write a book on this particular mother's messages. The Facebook Book. In fact, she wrote it already in the form of Facebook wall posts. Awesome.

Of course, both messages received "likes" from several of "Josh" and "Tommy's" friends which makes the whole situation much better.

I am very excited for the Silent Generation to get a hang of this thing and start writing even more formal and lengthy messages. Can't wait.

In the family of one of my work friends, Faceboom has become the source of conflict and argument. A new faceboomer, unfamiliar with FB etiquette, decided to tag herself in every photo that she liked and "wanted to keep in her own album"- none of which she was actually in. Grandparents also became upset when a photo was posted of a party they were not invited to. Oops. Apparently, Faceboom is the new Thanksgiving table- a wonderfully new, more polite and exciting way to get drunk and yell at Uncle Larry for buying the cousins beer.

A not so pleasant side-effect of Faceboom is the addition of younger family members to Facebook. I am definitely more scared of what a 12-year-cousin is going to see than my parents. I also don't think that they have quite caught onto the fact that everyone can see their messages.

Welcome to the brave new world everyone-where grandparents and infants alike can have their own web pages and post whatever they want without being judged. I am scared, confused, and entertained all at the same time.

GNot GNecessary

You can disagree. You can argue until you are blue in the face. You can bicker, squabble and debate but I will not give in.

"Gn" is the oddest way to start a word that the English language has to offer.

Sure, you have your "ps," "pn," "ll," "aa," "kn," "cz," "bd," and many more. But I still will not submit. GN? Nothing stranger.

Silent letters at the beginning of a word are God's way of striking an elementary school teacher for getting so much paid vacation. GN is the largest bolt there is.

It may have something to do with GNOSTICISM. A definite sign of confidence when you name your religious beliefs after a Greek word meaning knowledge- GNOSIS. I tried my best to find out what a GNOSTIC person believes, and succinctly summarize it here, but I found it confusing. See for yourself:

http://www.reference.com/browse/gnostic

Moving on.

A knot is a tree is called a GNARL. That's just mean English language maker! We couldn't just call it a knot and leave it at that. No, we had to give it a completely new name with an even more impossible silent letter. Knot=Gnarl. I give up. We could have at least called it a gnot. A tree full of GNARLS is GNARLY or GNARLED, the tree that has more knots is GNARLIER, and the tree with the most knots is the GNARLIEST.

So far, we have two examples of KN's changing to GN's. Probably just a coincidence, but interesting nonetheless.

In 2006, the song "Crazy" was released by GNARLS BARKLEY. Yes, it does make me crazy Gnarls. It makes me crazy to know that you named your band Gnarls. It makes me crazy to think that someone would be that ridiculous. I don't know how Charles feels about this, but I imagine he doesn't speak of you kindly.

Thou shalt not GNASH. Have you ever grinded (ground?) your teeth together? Well, you have committed the sin of GNASHING. One GNASHES their teeth when they are nervous or sleeping. It makes sense considering GNATHIC is "of or pertaining to the jaw." Or does it make sense? No, it absolutely does not. If the doctor to me I had a GNATHAL fracture, I might just give him one. Don't you dare tell me about my GNATH (OK, that one isn't real.)

Now, knowing that GNA___ has something to do with jaw, it makes sense that we have the word GNAW. No wait. Again, it makes no sense. Just say chew. GNAW seems to be a relatively more common word than the other examples thus far. People often refer to dogs as GNAWING on something or food as GNAWABLE...or not. Come on. Haven't you ever heard someone say, "Wow. That GNOCCHI looks GNAWABLE!!"

A blood-sucking dipterous fly, of the genus Culex, undergoing a metamorphosis in water. The females have a proboscis armed with needle like organs for penetrating the skin of animals. These are wanting in the males. I will always call a GNAT a mosquito. I don't care what you call it. But if you tell me you are a GNATCATCHER, I may go ballistic if you spell it with a G.

Is the GNAT related to the GNU?

I have attempted to resist astronomy references on this forum since my Physics-buddy Ricky called me out on a previous post about Pluto (See: "The Order of Things"), but this one is too good to pass up. Plus the word "Physics" sucks too. I will use the exact definition I found in order to prevent future scolding:

GNOMON: n. - A style or column erected perpendicularly to the horizon, formerly used in astronomical observations. Its principal use was to find the altitude of the sun by measuring the length of its shadow.

If you need further explanation, please contact Ricky. He is a Fisics guy. All I know is that if you add an "i" in Gnomon, it is an anagram for "mooning." That has something to do with astronomy right? Hehe...mooning.

If one only uses the previous examples, the "GN" is completely unnecessary. It doesn't need to exist. All of the above words can either be substituted with another, more common and useful word (gnaw=chew, gnat=mosquito, gnu=antelope) or they are so old and outdated that they can be erased from the dictionary and no one would be any worse off.

But, there is one glorious use of the GN that will not allow the above to take place:

The GNOME

The Gnome is GN's "Get Out of Jail Free" card. It is it's saving grace. All of the GN displeasure I have experienced in my life is greatly outweighed by the joys that I have received from gnomes. Gnomes are on the same rung of my awesomeness latter as ninjas. If I had three Genie wishes, I would wish for three gnome servants to wait on me for the rest of my life.

"Fetch me a spirit gnome!"

"Gnome. Change the channel to ESPN!"

"Take the day off gnome! Go sit in the garden."

I love gnomes. I love that they are small. I love that they are good with finances. I love that they waddle and I love that they are old. I love everything about gnomes.

Except that they live in GNARLS.

Wig Snap

Dear Hair Cut Lady-

When you ask me "what I want," I am polite and say "just a little bit off- same style but shorter."

Translation: I have no idea what I want. The only thing I know is if it looks good to me when you are finished. Does it look good to everyone else? Truthfully, it doesn't really matter.

Please, cut it however you want. Just don't make me look stupid. You are a girl. You and your kind care far more about what it looks like than I do. Even if I did know what I want, I wouldn't know how to verbalize that to you people. Because, here's the thing: I give that same answer every time I sit down in the spinny chair and it looks different every time I walk out the door.

When you ask me, "So just scissors then?," I say yes.

Translation: What the hell is the difference? If you were to say, "So just clippers then?," I would say yes as well. I do not care. Just please get me out of here as soon as humanly possible without a shaved head or a fohawk.

When you ask me if I "use product in my hair," I give an answer like, "sometimes."

Translation: If I get up early enough in the morning to do anything but brush my teeth and throw some clothes on, it is a miracle. On those few days (usually the weekend), I may throw some random stuff on my quaf.

When you ask me if I "want it washed," I will say yes.

Translation: What is that supposed to mean? Do I need it washed? Nevermind. I know I need it washed. I am not trying to impress you. Just cut my hair.

When you try to make small talk to me, I will respond and be polite.

Translation: Oh my God. Stop talking to me. I didn't come here to hear about why you just moved from Portland to be a hair dresser. I really don't care that your dog peed on the floor last night and how much it costs to rent a steam cleaner. It seriously makes no difference to me that your child just started Kindergarten and the teacher has the same hair as I do.

When you ask me if "that is the right length," I will usually say yes.

Translation: Shoot, that's too long. I am going to have to come back in two weeks. Whatever, let's get out of here.

When you ask me if I "want anything in my hair before I go home," I will say no.

Translation: If you do that, I am just going to run my hands through it as soon as I get out of your sight. And I'm definitely going to shower as soon as possible so I don't have hair under my collar for the rest of the day. No need for fancy creams.

When you ask me if I "want any product to take home," I will say "no thank you."

Translation: Do you guys sell two dollar Suave or bar soap here? If not, then no, I have no need for any 20 dollar shampoo or 13 dollar pomade. Who do I look like? Uncle Jessie?

Here's your 20 percent tip. Thanks for the snap. Have a nice day. Hope the dog pee comes off the rug.

Tweet Me

I did it. I fell into the fiery Twitter abyss.

I learned my lesson about things like this when I resisted Facebook for my four years of college. U of A was one of the first universities to test Facebook and I simply did not get it. By senior year, I had already established that I was too cool to join and would have received quite the load of grief from facebooking friends if I did. I found myself stealing friend's passwords to see what other friends were up to, or see if the cute girl I met at the bar that night was "in a relationship." Yes, somewhat stalker. But, definitely a good way to prevent further embarrassment when ,upon asking her out, receiving the "I have a boyfriend" line. It does prevent a problem, however, when you ask her out and she says "no" even when you know she doesn't have a boyfriend.

I digress.

Twitter was not going to play me like that. I am not a 90-year-old unsure of whether I need to call the cable company because of the digital conversion. No. I am still young. I embrace technology. Old ladies at work always ask me to fix their computers even though I have no idea what I'm doing. But the fact that I know how to attach an email, or connect a keyboard makes me Bill freaking Gates.

Following my brother's lead on the eve of one of golf's four major championships, I saddled up on the Twitter horse.

I could not live with Mike seeing what Ian Poulter (http://twitpic.com/aix78) or John Daly (http://twitpic.com/aiypx) were wearing in the first round of the Open before me.


I will never again be able to live without Shawne Merriman's (of the Chargers) grammatically incorrect, every-5-minute updates on his daily activities.

"@shawnemerriman: im still up because i had a VERVE at midnight..what you think?"

"@shwanemerriman: and i didnt get the pic of kobe yall wanted got stuck in a crowd of people and had to get out of there before i gave somebody the lightsOut!"

How could I survive without knowing that Chad Ochocinco is starting his own Twitter fantasy football league??!! (On a side note, I had no idea a football player would actually start his own league. Is that even allowed?)

"@ochoNFLcinco85: it says somthin about you have to wait 1 hour after the league fills up for the draft to start,but if it dont work out im startin a new 1!"

Davis Love and Boo Weekly are eating together after round one?! I like to eat after golf too! Pro golfers watch cricket?! Maybe I should watch cricket!

"@Love3d: Eating dinner with boo watching cricket, life is good at THE Open!"

No way- Stewart Cink changes his own spikes?!

"@stewartcink: Do it yourself spike changing...in locker room at Turnberry. I use the ones on the back row. May take some home to resupply too!! http ..."

Lance-freaking-Armstrong commenting on every pedal of the Tour de France? Can't get enough!!

"@lancearmstrong: St13 done. Wet and cold. And slightly boring. Can't remember a day this cold in the TdF. Ever. Team was solid and controlled things well."

About amonth ago, Kevin Love of the Minnesota Timberwolves broke the story on Twitter that his head coach, Kevin McHale, was fired and would not be returning next year. I repeat: he BROKE THE STORY. Not ESPN, not FOX, not even TMZ. An actual player on the team was the first one to report to the public that his own coach was fired via his Twitter account. The journalist middle man is being pushed out of society slowly but surely. Why do I need to hear an anchor say something that I can just hear straight from the source?

Although satire, it is a matter of time before our society turns into this:

P.S. This online show is hilarious - especially if you ever watch ESPN. Watch more episodes if you get the chance.

Tweet me: @blakebuchanan