I recently made a deal with my girlfriend, and that deal was that I had to watch a chick movie of her choosing with her. It’s only fair, seeing as I made her sit through Cloverfield, Sin City, Saw, and sometime in the near future, Iron Man. It’s not a bad trade, all in all, because now I can probably make it halfway through the NFL season watching only sports and ultraviolent dude movies with her. Last night, though, in accordance with our agreement, I had to watch P.S. I Love You.

While I will admit that it was not bad as far as films go, and I even found it fairly enjyoable, it was possibly the greatest chick flick of all time. I don’t mean great as in “the most appealing to a wide variety of audiences.” I mean great in that P.S. I Love You is more effective at eliciting the desired emotional response from women than any other chick flick in history, which of course is hysterical bouts of sobbing.
Anyone that has seen it knows that film was meticulously engineered to make women cry from beginning to end. It had all the elements that girls go nuts over: a love story, the death of a loved one, and a hot Irish guy who plays the guitar. I bet most girls reading this right now are tearing up just thinking about it.

These movies are bad for a man’s self-image. I might even argue that they are bad for everyone’s self image. They set unrealistic standards for over the top romance that are more or less impossible to meet. Guys are made to feel like their romantic notions aren’t good enough, and girls are made to feel like their guys aren’t good enough either. We all get duped into believing that there are actually people out there that do this stuff. In P.S. I Love You, the freaking guy writes letters from beyond the grave guiding his widow through the grief process and ultimately freeing her to fall in love again. Not to mention he keeps showing up shirtless in her apartment and playing her Irish love songs. Are you kidding me? My wife will be lucky if I leave her the toaster oven and my old shoes when I die.

I get the feeling that a lot of girls grow up thinking that their first kiss will be on a snow spotted mountain top overlooking the ocean, or that their true love will chase them halfway across the world and propose at the base of the Eiffel Tower or something. Maybe for some people that’s how it happens; and then those people have books written about them, and someone makes movies out of those books, and all of the sudden my suggestions for a quiet dinner at Olive Garden just looks like lazy mediocrity. Now what am I supposed to do with my gift card?

It’s not that I don’t believe in romance; I definitely do. To me, romance is putting on nice clothes and going to a dinner you can’t afford, or still kissing someone even though they have a nasty cold, or watching ridiculous movies like P.S. I Love You because it will make the other person happy. That’s real romance… but, admittedly, it would make an awful movie.

My source of income for the past seven months or so has been delivering pizzas for a family run pizza shop in Parkville. When most people think of a “college job” they usually think of that or waiting tables. It’s a great gig for a guy like me; I can wear whatever I want, and I spend most of the night in my car listening to music.

I’m coming to the realization, though, that with gas prices going up, it’s not a good long-term investment. I need to get out relatively soon, but when I eventually do walk away from it, I will walk away with some great life lessons.

The first thing that I learned is that absolutely no one can do math. I am not exempt from that statement either. Here is a pretty typical scenario:

Jane Q. Pizza-Eater orders two pizzas, and the total comes to $14.69. She gives me a $20 bill, and I ask her how much change I should give her (you know, including a nice fat tip for me). Seven out of 10 people cannot answer this question in less than five seconds.

It’s easy on paper ($14.69 plus $2 tip equals $16.69, round up to $17, give me $3 back), but in application it doesn’t go down that way. I think it’s the cents that screw people up. You know all those kids that had trouble with decimals had to grow up sometime, and no one ever taught them. It’s sad, really.

Sometimes they will throw me a curveball, though, and tell me directly how much they want to tip me instead of how much I should give them back. Then I’m the one who has to do the math and my pride in being smarter than everyone else crumbles quickly.

The second life lesson I learned from delivering pizza is that the only people who ever answer the door in a towel are people you don’t want to see wearing a towel. It’d be great if life was more like the movies and every time someone answered the door they were either hot and naked or handing me a beer, but it just doesn’t happen that way.

I know this is a little specific to be considered a “life lesson,” but I think it’s capable of global application. Whenever you’re expecting a hot girl, it’s probably just going to end up being a fat guy. That’s college parties in a nutshell.

This led me, in turn, to my third realization: pizza delivery is solely responsible for the American obesity epidemic.

The shop that I work at isn’t far from Towson, but it isn’t in Towson either. We’re not talking about a customer base of college kids that are working this stuff off at the gym or by walking to class every day. We’re talking about people who order the same thing Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night. We’re talking about people who will order a small pizza, a sub, fries, a bag of chips, and a 2-liter of soda for their own personal dinner.

It really makes me want to change my own eating habits, but it all smells so good sitting in the back of my car that by the time I get home I have forgotten about the glimpse into the obese, grim future I’ve just witnessed.

I haven’t only learned bad things about the world, though. I’m not completely jaded about life just yet.

As much as I have completely lost faith in humanity’s ability to round decimals and not be overweight, I still have plenty of faith in the general good nature of human beings.

Almost every time I leave a house, the person tells me to “be safe out there,” or “be careful,” or “don’t step on my tulips you idiot.” It’s as if they truly care about my well-being. That right there is the greatest lesson of all.

Oh sweet, sweet Tigerfest. It’s been so long since we’ve spoken. I’ve missed you.

Do you remember the last time we saw each other? We spent the whole day together, frolicking in the afternoon sun like a couple of love-struck kids.

There was wiffleball on the hillside, there was swaying and holding up lighters as Dashboard Confessional played romantic ballads. Remember how people threw things at them so they cut their set short? I still remember seeing dozens of girls being carried away from the front of the stage in tears. I’m not sure if they were being pounded in the mosh pit or if they were just incredibly moved by Dashboard’s performance. It was a beautiful spring afternoon. I got so carried away with you that I forgot to eat anything all day. You do that to me.

Sure, we got a little crazy. You and I, we started drinking so early it was laughable. We were doing Jager bombs by noon. Oh you, you were so drunk, but not as drunk as I was. I know I may have had a few too many drinks even though you kept telling me to slow down. I know I promised we’d spend the night together but instead I stumbled home early and fell asleep.

You called me nine times while my phone was on full volume and I slept through all of them. Believe me, I felt awful about that when I woke up at four in the morning to eat Lucky Charms because I was starving, and I felt even worse the next day, but I swear I’ll make it up to you this time.

Things are complicated between us now, I know that. It feels like we’re one mistake away from never being able to see each other again. There are those that would keep us apart forever because they don’t like our raucous public displays of affection.

Some people can’t handle the whirlwind of passion we leave in our wake when we’re together, or the beer cans.

If you ask me, they’re just jealous. They’re jealous of our youth and our love and our alcohol tolerance. They’re jealous that we’re out having fun while they’re at work.

Look, I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re thinking. We don’t have a future together, right? I know that. You don’t think I know that? I’m a junior now. We’re lucky if we have two more years, but chances are I won’t be able to see you again after next spring even. Maybe I can have a friend sneak me in after I graduate, but we can’t count on that. Maybe the community will finally cancel you for good.

Even so, you’ll eventually move on and start seeing younger, drunker college kids, and I’ll start hanging out with older, more mature concerts, but I don’t see why that has to change anything between us for right now. Let’s cast aside our fears for one more day and relive the good times that we used to have.

I have big plans for us this Saturday, Tigerfest. I’ll stay awake past 8 p.m. this time, I promise.

There’s nothing funny about Mace. I’m talking about pepper spray, of course, and not the rapper (there are plenty of funny things about him). Sure, no one talks about it anymore because Tasers are the popular thing now, but Mace can still mess you up pretty badly. There’s something to be said about the old fashioned ways of hurting people; they might be outdated, but I’ll be damned if they don’t work. Just because no one uses enormous wooden clubs anymore doesn’t mean I want to be on the receiving end of one.

I have heard so many horror stories about people screwing around with Mace and regretting it.

For example, I have one friend who actually wanted his friends to spray him in the face on the condition that they surprise him and get it on film.

Of course, afterwards he realized it was an awful price to pay for a funny video, but at least now he knows. On Friday night I had the pleasure of witnessing yet another friend learn the hard way that Mace is nothing to play around with.

My friend and I were walking around Federal Hill with his girlfriend when she dropped her keys on the pavement. She carries Mace on her key chain, and when the container hit the ground it popped out of its casing and rolled across the sidewalk.

My friend, being the gentleman that he is, picked it up for her and offered to try to fit it back into its shell. We watched nervously as he fiddled with the black plastic vile and finally pressed it back into place. It went in without incident, but we all felt the need to do a test spray to make sure it was working properly and also because we thought it would be cool. What harm could there be in spraying a little bit into the night air and then walking briskly in the opposite direction?

Probably not much, but when that went well, my friend’s girlfriend wanted a test spray of her own. That, too, went well and we were all on our way. We all stopped to urinate in someone’s backyard before the drive home.

Not five minutes into the ride, my friend turns down the radio and demands silence from everyone in the car.

“So… I don’t want to alarm anyone,” he began. “But my penis burns. A lot.”

We all laughed because there is nothing funnier than an awkward penis comment. As the laughter died down, though, his girlfriend spoke up.

“I was just getting ready to say, my nose kind of burns!”

We all laughed again. They looked at me, but I had nothing to add (thank God).

On the ride home, their respective burns kept getting worse and worse as we tried to figure out where we had gone wrong with the Mace.

Ten minutes in: “My dick is on fire. It feels like a dragon is eating my cock.”

That’s when it hit us. We realized that, obviously, our bathroom break before the ride home had probably been a bad idea. I guess playing with mace and then handling your junk can have consequences. Who knew?

Thirteen minutes in: “It’s so hot that I would fuck a polar bear. I’m not kidding.”

We made it home after a few more inappropriate animal references and everyone went to wash themselves clean of any Mace residue. No one suffered any lasting discomfort, but it really goes to show you how dangerous that stuff is. If a chance contact like that feels like being fellated by a dragon, imagine what a full blast to the eyes would feel like.

I was sitting on the couch the next morning when my friend and his girlfriend came downstairs.

“Not to be vulgar,” she said. “But we had sex last night. And it burned.”

Recently I’ve been trying to implement something that I should have started a long time ago: a budget. It wasn’t long ago that I didn’t particularly see the need for one. I had good money coming in and relatively little mandatory expenditures except for food and the cable bill. Now with car payments to make, automotive upkeep, rising gas prices, dating, and my frequent trips to South Africa to help the needy, money is starting to get tight.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out toward which unnecessary commodity most of my money was going. I have a feeling that many of you have the same vice as I do and are suckers for fast food. Let’s face it; I can’t cook. I don’t want to wash dishes, and there is a Subway 30 feet from my house. Alcohol costs chew up a significant portion of my money as well, but I consider that a mandatory monthly loss. Cutting back on eating out has helped relieve some of the strain on my bank account, and I’m staying in the green, thank God. Still, though, I miss having that financial cushion that I could fall back on or blow on lap dances. Furthermore, I can’t say that I haven’t grown accustomed to a certain type of lifestyle, one that doesn’t include Ramen Noodles and clearance aisle condoms.

I’m all about the phrase “work smarter, not harder.” In fact, the only thing better in my book than working smarter is not working at all. That’s why I’ve begun exploring options to supplement my income with minimal time and effort investment on my part. There are some great illegal options that, unfortunately, I had to scrap immediately. I’m glad I won’t have to resort to prostituting myself, but I have a feeling I would have been a great drug dealer.

My first (barely) legal idea was to start playing online poker. I figured I would log somewhere between six and 10 hours a week and pull in an extra 50 bucks (or more if I was lucky). I came up with this plan before I knew anything about poker. Once I started actually playing, I realized this probably wasn’t going to be the best way to get something for nothing. I enjoy playing, and I’m competent enough that I’m not going to lose a lot of money, but I doubt I can consistently pull in any sort of worthwhile profit at this point. At least, not enough to stop me from pursuing other ventures.

I considered playing the stock market, as well, and I hatched even more plans without knowing anything about what I was getting myself into. Once I started doing research on investing practices, I began to prefer when I had a lesser understanding of it. As I was reading the material, I felt out of place because I’m not 35, making a high five-figure income and saving for retirement. Apparently the New York Stock Exchange isn’t the type of thing where you just put in 50 bucks and pull out a hundred in a week or two. Go figure. I was hoping that I could eventually quit my job and have some sort of independent wealth. Since I’m still pretty young, I may have even gotten a Forbes cover story.

When that didn’t pan out, my options started getting less and less glorious, now bordering on the pathetic. I went from being a high-rolling gambler, to becoming an investment guru, to taking my change to Coinstar and turning in my aluminum cans for pocket change. I’m not throwing in the towel yet, though. Instead of looking for a second job or working more hours at my first one, I’m going to use that time productively and try to find another way to make money for free. There is so much money to be made on the Internet, so I’ll probably focus my efforts there. If that’s not successful, I’ll probably try to invent something or get in on a big class-action lawsuit.

My kids are going to have a terrible work ethic.

I wasn’t able to afford to take a real trip this Spring Break, just like every other Spring Break ever. While my friends ventured out to Ocean City, Florida, South Carolina, and Georgia, I took a day trip down to Southern Maryland to visit my parents at their house on the lake. There may not have been a couples-only drunken beach obstacle course hosted by MTV and Tila Tequila, but I figured I could at least finagle a free lunch of some kind.

As my family and I made our way into the tiny fishing town for something to eat, we turned onto a small street called Carl’s Way. Carl’s Way, as in the Way that belongs to Carl. That was the first time I had seen an apostrophe in the name of a street, besides the short-lived Towson road named after Michael Phelps back when people still liked him. I didn’t know it was possible until just the other day, but afterwards I thought about how great it would be to have my own Way. One day, though, I’d like to move up to an Avenue and maybe eventually have my own Parkway or Boulevard. From there it wouldn’t be difficult to leverage my own neighborhood or suburb, and you can imagine how things might progress from there. Either way, having a Way would be a great launching pad to local fame and perhaps, eventually, national success.

Just as I was getting excited and making these grandiose plans in my head, an old, blue-collar fellow in a dirty jumpsuit rounded the corner. He walked slowly and underneath his worn hat brim, his eyes scanned the road in front of him.

“That must be Carl,” I thought. “Out keeping an eye on his Way.”

As we drove past Carl, he followed our car with his eyes and gave a solemn nod of approval, as if to say “You guys are alright,” with a hint of “Don’t try anything funny, ya hear?” The nod was so subtle you could barely see it. I guess he just didn’t have the energy anymore, or the will. I got the impression that keeping tabs on a Way for 40 years can be taxing on the soul.

Later on, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Carl’s day must be like. I thought about all the tourists he must meet and how all the locals must know him by name. I thought about all the trash he probably picks up and all the traffic lines he must repaint. I thought about all the skateboarding kids and jaywalking pedestrians that he probably yells at. I thought about where he might place his rocking chair so that he can sit and drink whiskey out of the bottle and not cringe at all when he swallows it. I thought about how he probably wears that jumpsuit just in case anyone’s car ever breaks down on his Way and he has to crawl under it and get to fixin’. I thought about how some county inspector in a suit and tie probably comes out a few times a year to make sure everything is in order, and how Carl probably doesn’t even get out of his rocking chair to greet him.

“I reckon everything’s alright here,” he’d probably say without looking at the inspector.

“Great, I just need you to sign this document then.”

Carl would sign it, then he’d spit out some chewing tobacco as a signal for the man to leave.

I imagined that Carl was like the sheriff of his small Way, and that one day his son Carl Jr. would take over for him. He had to name his son Carl for obvious reasons.

It wasn’t the glorious image that I had imagined when I first read his street sign. It turns out that having a road named after you isn’t all girls and parties and red carpets after all; it’s hard work and sacrifice. I wondered if there was still a place for people like Carl in our time of bureaucracy and traffic lights and the moving pictures, and if he had trouble keeping up. I hoped that Carl Jr. might be able to bring Carl’s Way into the digital age when the road became his.

Of course, maybe there is no Carl and the man I saw that day was just some guy in a jumpsuit. I’d like to think that that was really him, though, or at least that there was a Carl a long time ago who kept watch like I had imagined.

“Man, that’s backward’s walkin! Yesterday talkin”!”

I don’t know what that means, but that’s what the fat man was yelling as I sat down next to him, leaving a few buffer seats between us of course. He was angry because they were taking too long to change the tires on his Volkswagen. On top of that, he had just wrapped up a conversation with another customer about his diabetes and how the doctors had to remove his kidneys; another good reason to be angry. The manager was angry because he was getting yelled at and there was no reasoning with the man with no kidneys. The workers were angry because they were getting yelled at too, so they yelled at the manager and he yelled right back. I sat there reading “Cat Fancy,” and waiting for everyone to stop yelling and start working on my car.

On Saturday afternoon I had discovered my car had a flat tire. All I had wanted to do was go to IHOP and eat pancakes until my hangover subsided, but I had a flat tire. I still went to IHOP and ate pancakes until my hangover subsided, but I had to ride in a friend’s car and take care of mine later. On Monday, the spare tire blew out on my way to the tire shop. Naturally.

The tow truck took more than an hour to pick me up from the gas station that my car had barely made it to. The driver was nice enough to let me ride with him the rest of the way to the shop, and we made awkward conversation in the heavy traffic. It wasn’t too long until he turned down the Clay Aiken and started telling me about his business of bailing people out of situations like mine. I told him I should take his card because I don’t own any tools and I promised to enter him in a free-lunch raffle or two.

The tiny shop parking lot could barely accommodate the tow truck, but the driver got my car down safely anyway. I walked inside the office and listened to the diabetes conversation while waiting to talk to an employee. Right as I was learning about weight loss as a result of kidney failure, the manager showed up to help me. He said they had tires that would fit my car and that he would take care of it for me if I took care of him. Then he winked at me.

On the waiting room television, New York Governor Eliot Spitzer was on every channel. My regularly scheduled programming was being overwhelmed by the prostitution scandal. Some people were so shocked that they refused to comment. The fat man with no kidneys was also shocked, for a different reason, and he had no problem commenting on the workers’ incompetence. He started using crazy rhyming slang, that I didn’t understand, to communicate his frustration.

“That’s backwards walkin’! Yesterday talkin’! It don’t make no damn sense!” he yelled to no one in particular. I wasn’t sympathetic because my day had sucked equally, minus the diabetes. When they finally finished with his car, he paraded out the door with a loud, “never coming back to this ridiculous place.” He had been reading a better magazine than I was so I grabbed it from his chair. Better Homes and Gardens, if you were wondering.

His typhoon of rage had left the shop in shambles in its wake. The manager was arguing with the workers and the workers were threatening to quit. Meanwhile my car was up on a jack with the bad tire off, but no good tire in sight. This was a bad time for a mutiny.

Like any good captain, the wily manager calmed the uprising in the interest of customer satisfaction. He looked like he could have gone on yelling at people all day, but it was almost closing time and everyone wanted to go home. My car got the treatment it deserved and I was on my way, but not before a few more nuggets of bad news. “You need a new spare tire. Get it from a dealer for $120 or go to a junkyard.” “One of your lug nuts is stripped. Need to replace that.” “Sir, you can’t drink that in here.”

“This $35 refurbished tire had better be worth it,” I thought as I left the shop with their copy of Cat Fancy. I had already read that Better Homes and Gardens.

I just bought a new car because my old one broke down a few weeks ago. The make, model, year, color, and mileage are really inconsequential; the only thing that matters are the bench seats up front, and those are all I want to talk about. Most of you probably already know where I’m going with this.

Late last week I was sitting at my computer, writing an article about my car. I was debating what would be the best way to bang it out on the bench seats and give the car a proper christening, because my experience with hooking up in cars is, admittedly, limited. I should warn you, if you are offended by the concept of drunken pre-marital sexual activity, you should probably stop reading now. In fact, you should probably stop reading my column all together.

I’ve never had sex in a vehicle before, and frankly I haven’t felt like I was missing out on much. That’s probably because all the cars I’ve owned have been pieces of crap. No one wants to make love in a junky 1996 Ford Escort… Wagon. Be that as it may, the whole idea has always seemed a little forced to me. Why maneuver around the steering wheel and gearshift when I have my own obstacle free bed? My bedroom also has the added benefit of having a place to fall asleep immediately afterwards, and room to stash all of the whips, chains, blow up dolls, and other accessories.

Before I could finish writing what would have been today’s article, I decided to learn by doing. Trial by fire, if you will. Let me say this, there is a right way and a wrong way to hook up in your car. While I’m still trying to figure out what the right way is, I can now definitely say that I have discovered the wrong way.

My partner-in-crime and I snuck out of a party at my house on Saturday night. Instead of disappearing into my bedroom like normal people, we headed for the car (because I have been talking these bench seats up like a used car salesman). I was a little worried because there were people hanging out in the parking lot 15 feet away from where it was parked, but it’s amazing what a little alcohol and a persuasive female will make you do.

The car was cold and needed a minute to warm up. As the engine heated up, though, so did things in the front seat. A little light music set the mood along with the cackles and screams of drunken people in the distance.

Just as I started to really get into it and forget that there were people outside, probably watching us, that all-too-familiar white light shining in my eyes blinded me. Startled, I looked up to see a dark figure looming behind the glare outside my door. The police officer didn’t waste any time; he gave a few sharp knocks on the window and opened the driver’s side door so fast I almost fell out onto the pavement. If I hadn’t left the doors unlocked I may have been content to just let him enjoy the show and get arrested afterwards, but I wasn’t smart enough to think of that. As we both scrambled to collect ourselves, and our pants, the officer gave us his decree, “You know, she’s doing a hell of a job but you guys have to find another place to do it.” I swear he actually said that.

He walked away before we could even offer a reply. When I was finally able to sit up and look out the window, I saw THREE cop cars surrounding us. Each car had an officer hanging out the window and laughing. I’m glad the Baltimore County Police had a productive evening. We got out of the car and ran back to the house, laughing hysterically, eager to tell everyone what had happened.

I’m not ready to give up on the idea just yet. It’s just that next time I am going to have to pick a better place to park, if I park at all.

And now no one I know will ever want to ride shotgun in my car again.

My desirability peaked somewhere around 9th grade. I had a pretty good run in elementary school as the hot guy that all the girls wanted, tailed off a bit in middle school, and then blew up in ninth grade. I was going through my “punk” phase and had blue hair and spikes in my Chuck Taylor’s and tee shirts from Hot Topic. I’m sure I looked like an idiot but I guess I made an impression when I first walked through the door. Plenty of girls, and even a guy or two, took notice. At the end of 10th grade I settled down with one girl and basically ceased to exist to any others until I resurfaced at some point in college.

I think it’s pretty interesting, looking at who’s hot and who’s not at different stages of life. It’s easy to break it down for girls. If you were hot, guys wanted you, and if you weren’t, then they didn’t. Pretty simple. It hasn’t been so easy for guys.

In elementary school, I have very little knowledge on what made certain guys more attractive than others. I guess if you weren’t disfigured and you were fairly popular, then there would probably be a couple of girls that liked you.

Another thing I remember is that back then, tall was bad. If you look back at your old class photos and look at the kids in the back row, I guarantee those guys weren’t getting any love. Also, being in the “advanced” reading group was definitely a big help with the ladies.

Middle school was all about rebelling and basically being a huge pain in the ass. That’s when the distinction between nerd and cool became a little stronger, and being the teacher’s pet no longer got you popularity points. This was the beginning of the “liking older guys,” movement. I remember the kid that every girl at my middle school wanted to hook up with. He was like 16 when we were all in eighth grade; he had been held back for truancy or murder or something.

Here we all were, fresh faced 13 and 14 year olds, and this guy comes in smoking cigarettes, getting drunk in homeroom, and fighting anyone who looked at him the wrong way. One time he offered to take a bunch of girls on a joyride in his dad’s car, which he crashed into a telephone pole a few blocks from his house.

There was another guy who used to hang around and get a lot of attention from the girls. I say hang around because he didn’t actually go to our school. Every day he would ride over on his goofy little roller blades from whatever high school he went to so that he could hit on 14 year old girls and show off his beeper. Then he would blade off into the sunset before his shift at Giant started. The girls loved him at first, but eventually (with a lot of help from me and my friends) they realized he was a tool and he was shunned.

When we got to high school, it was like someone had hit the reset button. The girls we went to middle school with were all sick of us by this point and now there were eighteen year olds with cars and alcohol to hang out with. I mean, I had awesome blue hair and super cool Hot Topic tee shirts but even I couldn’t compete with that. I’m convinced that high school dating was pure chaos. There was no rhyme or reason to anything; all of the most random couples I’ve known hooked up in high school because they got detention together once or both listened to The Aquabats or something. No one ever knew how people got together, it just happened one day and became accepted as fact the next.

Good news is that everyone has a shot at love in college, depending on how high their standards are. Dating in college is, generally, even more chaotic than it was in high school, though. People still get together for really stupid reasons (alcohol), but instead of turning one commonality into a three year relationship, they just make out or have sex. It’s more efficient, but it also makes campus way more incestuous than your typical high school.

After a few years of playing Six Degrees of Evan’s Bacon, I’m curious to see what dating is like after college. I should probably get started on my eHarmony compatibility survey.

Throwing parties can be a risky hobby. Opening up your home to dozens of people and then letting them all get wasted can have consequences.

There are the obvious things that can go wrong, like the time my laptop got stolen. I called a few friends and next thing I know some guy I have never seen before is at my front door returning it and saying that he saw “some dude walking down the street with it.”

There’s the time some moron tried to steal beer from my house and that night almost ended in a huge brawl.

There’s the time a homeless woman wandered in from off the street and kissed my friend on the cheek, because she thought he was her dead son. That was the first time I ever called the cops (you can read about that one on my old blog at www.life-in-towson.com). I had another bizarre party moment this past weekend that I’d like to share.

Last Thursday night I threw a party at my house, and it was one of those nights where it got bigger than I had originally planned. I’m not against big parties by any means, but the more people there are, the more likely it is that some crazy shenanigans are going to go down. This night was no exception.

Two of my girl friends came running upstairs at about two in the morning, laughing hysterically. Tears streaming down their faces, they told me there was “some old guy downstairs dancing around.” Normally, I’m all for old guys dancing. But if an old guy is going to shake his shit in my house he had better be my granddad or Mister Six from the Six Flags commercials.

I headed downstairs to investigate. Lo and behold, right there in my living room was some 46-year-old creeper guy with one of my beers. He had long, dark hair and a weathered face, almost like Prince Valiant after a few years of crystal meth. Some of my friends were already escorting him towards the door, and he went without a struggle. On his way out he shouted something about being “Larry, from the neighborhood.” There’s only one house on my entire block. Once Larry from the Neighborhood was outside, we shut the door behind him and watched for his next move. He sat there on my front porch for a minute, holding his beer and looking around, before he made his way down the steps. At the bottom of the steps, he paused, shut his eyes, and leaned forward. My friends and I all looked at each other.

“Is he…. is he taking a piss?”

In case there was any doubt, Larry from the Neighborhood swung around to face us and presented his junk proudly. Yes, Larry from the Neighborhood was definitely pissing in the middle of the sidewalk. He finished up and put his garbage away, still facing all of us staring out the window at him. With his bladder empty and his confidence restored, he marched back up to the front door and started staring in through the glass.

“What the hell are you doing? You need to get out of here,” we yelled at him.

He kept his composure, and very calmly proclaimed, “If I should find you unacceptable…”

“What the hell man? Are you insane?”

“If I should find you unacceptable!!” he repeated.

We never did find out what would happen if Larry from the Neighborhood found us unacceptable. I guess he decided we were all right. After jawing back and forth with us for a minute, he took his beer and his bruised ego and left, defeated. Larry from the Neighborhood has since been spotted in and around Towson several times, walking around like nothing happened. How dare he.

I found out later that before I came downstairs he had gotten the beer by threatening to trash my house if his demands weren’t met. Also, apparently, he loves Jesus. Or so he told everyone. I wonder if he’s completely crazy or if just a drunkard. Maybe he’s just a down-on-his-luck guy who needed a cold beer, some good company, and a vulgar public urination session. So if Larry from the Neighborhood shows up at your place some night, it might not hurt to indulge him and listen to his story. If he whips it out, though, make sure you steer him outside.