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Archives: Oct 2007

I want to be like Bruce Kasden

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

 
“Make this thing good. I don’t want any of this Paul Ryan shit.”

That’s what professor Bruce Kasden was once rumored to have said about the Promethean, the University of Wisconsin-Superior’s student newspaper. I was ending my sophomore year, the newspaper was pathetic and tabloidish, and my column was the trashiest part of it.

Kasden graciously agreed to be advisor for the paper, despite being warned by every professor on campus that it would ruin his reputation. Kasden didn’t care. He saw kids who needed help. We needed an advisor to remain an official campus group and keep our funding, and Kasden was our last hope.

After a year under his guidance, the paper won second place in the Wisconsin Newspaper Association’s college division. The professors who told Kasden he was an idiot for helping us were now praising him. Kasden especially liked that part. There was nothing he loved more than watching mean people feel stupid. “You should’ve seen them,” he told the newspaper staff, chuckling and shaking his head. “You made them all look like fools.”

Real men go rollerskating

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

 
It’s amazing that roller skating rinks still exist. Who the hell roller skates anymore? Kids can use rollerblades or Heely shoes to skate anywhere for free, so I’m not sure why they’d pay $8 to skate in a circle at a dark, creepy 1970s-style rink. Yet all over the country, the roller skating rinks still exist.

I went to one the other night. My friend Mike is a referee for an all-girls roller derby league (let’s be nice and pretend his intentions aren’t obvious), and he wanted to practice his skating. Mike’s girlfriend was supposed to come, but bailed out at the last minute. So now it was just two dudes spending a Saturday night rollerskating together. Great.

The rink is located on Venice Boulevard, near the southern neighborhoods of Los Angeles. We were the only white people there. I usually don’t pay attention to race, but it’s hard not to notice when you’re a white person rollerskating with 40 black people. But our minority status wasn’t our main concern. We were also the only adults at the rink. We unknowingly arrived during the all-ages skate at 8pm. The adult skate wasn’t until 10pm. Aside from parents, the closest people to our age were a group of 14-year-old girls.

How the hell did I write 700 words about ass grooves?

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

 
Do you know what an “ass groove” is, reader? No, it’s not a naughty new dance all the hip kids are doing, though it should be. An ass groove is a large indentation in a couch, chair, or preferably a booth at a Denny’s restaurant. Ass grooves are made by fat people who like to follow a routine. Mainly, the routine of sitting down, farting a lot, and not moving all day.

The science behind this phenomenon is quite simple. If a seat is soft, it can only take so much constant weight before a slight crater develops. When the source of the weight is a person’s buttocks, the crater forms in the shape of the person’s ass. Hence the name “ass groove”.

If you are fat and sit in the same place often, you’re probably responsible for an ass groove. Congratulations. Much like how Clark Gable and Frank Sinatra have stars on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame, fat people with no jobs have ass grooves in their local Denny’s restaurant. If you’re disturbingly obese, smell like garbage, and sit in the same position of the same booth in the Los Angeles Denny’s near the 101 freeway every day, then I sat in your ass groove on Saturday night. Congratulations again.

My eyes are up here, ladies

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

 
Lovers have informed me on more than one occasion that I have a wiener. While I’m always complimented on my personality first, it’s clear that wieners are what ladies are attracted to most. Women love wieners. I’d have to say that without a wiener, I wouldn’t get nearly as many women as I do now.

I’ve had a wiener for as long as I can remember. I woke up one morning at the age of nine and, boom, there was my wiener. “What’s this for?” I thought. Then I remembered that I had been urinating out of it for quite some time.

In my freshman year of college I realized that while my wiener is sometimes unwieldy, I’m pretty glad to have it. I arrived at this moment of clarity in my first semester, when I attended a party wearing tight jeans. All of a sudden, ladies who had previously ignored me were buying my wiener drinks. It was like suddenly realizing that the lottery ticket you’ve been keeping in your pocket all these years is a winner.

Bus number four

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

 
The number four isn’t a good bus. The seats are covered with graffiti, the drivers are rude, and the people who ride the bus are a little crazy. Number four travels the entire length of Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles, transporting some of the oddest freaks the city has to offer.

“I once saw a homeless woman pee on that bus,” said my co-worker Ron, quite proud of his story. “Yup. She sat down in the back, dropped her pants, and peed right on the floor. I had never seen that before.” Ron has also seen a homeless man poop on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. “But that’s a different story,” he said.

Number four begins its route far to the east, in the Silverlake neighborhood. Beck and the Red Hot Chili Peppers used to live in this artistic urban neighborhood. Nowadays, more generic hipsters and burnouts ride the bus here, but not this early in the morning. Hippies and druggies tend not to get up before 10am, so the bus is empty during the morning rush hour. This is the only quiet part of the commute.