You Arrogant Bastard

How To Make Something Out of Nothing, Part One

This Series is made up of three parts, each contributed anonymously by a different source.

Sweet motherfucking spring! Like most of the Saturdays between March and May (inclusive), my sleep state was brought to a grinding halt by the soft-spoken but blisteringly loud anchorpersons of WRC-TV’s NBC NEWS 4 at 4 in the fucking morning, which lasts until 7, at which point they begin a carefully choreographed dance with the national network’s Today program which consists mainly of uninformative interviews and twenty seconds of Al Roker bumbling about outdoors at speeds all too high- the man is used to carrying freight, and now his own skin no longer fits him, thank you modern medicine- before he announces the current temperatures in four or five major US cities, sometimes opting to announce the temperature in a small town outside of a major city, to make the residents feel important, I suppose (“It’s 68 in Dulles… Dulles… Airport, outside of Washington”). The fact that they mention what major city the town is near bolsters my already bloated but absolutely unsubstantiated sense of self-worth that I have been nursing these past 17.8 years living within DC city limits. They then pass it off to the local guy, who sits next to his 12-inch monitor wearing no brown sport coat, and yeah, he does a good job, keeps his tone light, tells you whether or not it is raining, but set him up next to an institution like Roker, with or without his vast reservoir of fat, and he comes off looking like some Douchey McWhite.

My destination was the ballpark. My garb was that of a ballparksman. Yes, it was time for the Saturday spring ritual. I was to meet the Wilson baseball team at Wilson at 8AM, so I could warm up with them, run drills with them, and then suck it up for a few innings on the field before I get withdrawn, for reasons good or bad, whatever, I still get to wear the shirts, and you all know how meager my wardrobe would be without those omnipresent shirts with their illogical numbers and inaccurate baseball diamonds. If you gave a shit, the opponent was Sidwell Friends, and despite their… formidable… ultimate team… THE ULTIMATE TEAM, shit, I don’t know how to italicize that to make it sound the way I want it to. Anyway, we kicked the fuckin’ oats outta them. GET IT?! Two shillings to the human who gets the joke. I sat for most of the game, but then again so did The Tom, so I had company. Alright, I exaggerate, I was the DH, but that’s just layman’s terms for “too out of shape to play a real position,” and I’ll tell you now how depressing it is to see the few parents that show up at the games are the parents of the kids that suck and sit on the bench, or go out there and don’t produce and get pulled, but they’re out there whenever they can be, god bless ‘em, even if it gains them no entry into the dusty storage box of their son’s acronym-cloaked social life. They’d get their taste of it later that night. Silence! You’ve told them too much already. Enough of these somber mumblings. Tell them tales of free ice cream.

The game was finished. Attire was converted. Burrito! At Chipotle I encountered the Freewheelin’ Himself, who was on the phone anxiously arranging plans for the evening. He promised me action, and provided me with a contact number that I was to call later that evening. The Freewheelin’s record was still questionable, but recent history and records of merriment in my photo album urged me to believe him, so I did, the charming bastard.

We traveled uptown for a share of free ice cream. An agent had alerted us to the event, taking place at the Ben and Jerry’s near the Avalon. There was a line, but it moved fast. Publicity stunts always get the crowds through. Outside the shop was Ben, one half of the lucrative name, smiling and pinching kids’ cheeks or whatever the fuck millionaires do. Anyway, the portly gent was spectacularly kind to all who approached him- I remember this distinctly, almost one month after it occurred. But I needed to eavesdrop on a conversation to determine that it was really him- he looks just like any other aged stoner.

I imagine that Jerry is a real bitter bastard, and that they balance each other perfectly. Jerry wasn’t around, though. Somebody said he was waiting in the car, later described by a curious onlooker as “an old blue sedan.” That doesn’t surprise me, though. It is easy to picture two happy young guys from Vermont blowing millions of dollars on high-grade hash and humongous birds made of hand-crafted porcelain. Its also easy to picture them getting completely swindled by whatever crafty Jew manages their corporation (“Yes, Ben, the money is coming, now go back to Discovery Zone, you high bastard. This is a meeting for big people. Did you finish your pizza already? Yes, go back to DZ. And for fuck sake put some pants on. Ishi, make him put some pants on.” Ishi is his Filipino babysitter). Anyway, I’d like to assume that Jerry was waiting in the car looking bored, turning around periodically to see if Ben is coming and then, when he sees Ben, he scowls and pouts so Ben thinks that he was really pissed off all along, and then he will be able to guilt Ben into paying for his dinner. That douche Jerry. While imagining this I ate a free cone of ice cream, and boy did it feel good to equalize for all the times I overpaid by actually buying their ice cream. Score one for the common man.

Next stop was Foggy Bottom, DC’s most ludicrously named collegiate junction (not counting Filthy Asscunt, which actually straddles the border of DC and Maryland). Careful sleuthing had revealed the time and headliner of George Washington University’s annual spring fling (3pm, Kanye West), and after a successful day out for this GW Student-only event last year, the fellows and I figured we’d take a shot at it again. It had required a blue marker, careful reconnaissance and a quick wit to sneak into the heavily guarded ‘quad’ to catch last year’s show. The procedure went something like this:

I: Good afternoon, my fellow Colonial. Nice to see you here at our beloved Quad.
Guard: You got your GWorld?
I: What the fuck are you talking about?
Guard: Your GWorld pass. You have to have your GWorld pass.

I looked around. Sure enough, all these chattel had with them some sort of crude identification. Yes: A GWorld Pass.

I: I…You must understand that I left my ‘GWorld pass’ back at… the Dorm.
Guard: Sorry, you gotta have your GWorld pass.
I: Well met, Guard. [thought process: I could snap your neck right now but etiquette prevents me, you five-foot-tall whore!]

It’s true: the kids working the gates, the security personnel which at any reputable concert venue would have been overweight or at least overtattoed, were frail and soft, nothing more than students on work-study jobs, or, failing that, they were just in it for the free t-shirt. How ironic it is that some kids wind up working at an event like this, the whole point of which is to make the students of GW feel like they are getting something for free, when really it is just a paper-thin slice off of the 44,000 dollars per year that most of those kids are already paying just to hang out in downtown DC and brag about their proximity to the workplace of James Carville. But one paper thin slice off of the tuition of each kid adds up to a whole loaf of slices, because, fuck- we know how paper can stack up. Remember what happens when you successfully fold one piece of paper in half ten times? (Answer: You fucking suffocate)

So anyway, no GWorld, no entry. The phrase resonated in my mind like an oft-referenced slogan of the great Mr. Moss. I noticed that the kids were getting marked off- standard X’s on the hands of those who had been granted entry. Our roving band made our way to a nearby shopping center, bought a blue marks-a-lot, and marked off our hands. When we approached the Quad again, we noticed people filing in and out of the a law school building that flanked the eastern side of the field. We entered the building and slipped out into the quad completely unnoticed. I had wasted 1.29 on this marker. It was shockingly easy.

This year I brought that same marker with me, anticipating similar entry procedures. We were turned away again at the main gate. “No GWorld, no entry.” You novice. Do you have any idea who you are dealing with? I could have snapped the neck of your predecessor and I could do the same to you, if your neck wasn’t so fat. I’ve broken into this quad once and I will do it again the exact same way! We went over to the law building. Uh-oh. Signs upon the doors! “Do not enter.” Had our efforts been thwarted? Lo- a biker climbs up to the doors. They are… unlocked. Again, we gain entry with little difficulty.

We reveled in the free expensive-looking party games and drank free tepid soda. There was a mechanical bull, there was diet Sprite. GW, we were rocking on your dime. There was a giant obstacle course constructed out of moon bounce material (plass..tic? rub… bber? These words are just technical jargon for ‘moon bounce material’). Some kids with a booth gave me a brochure about “Make fun of GW week” or something lighthearted like that. I have no time for this tomfoolery. To tell you the truth, I was attracted by the life-sized cardboard standee of James Carville.

The Kanye West performance was delivered in pristine condition. He played a bunch of the songs that he produced (does that count as a cover?), and most of the playworthy songs of his recent debut. The lame shouting that makes voices indistinguishable and is prevalent at most mainstream rap concerts was notably absent in Kanye’s delivery. It was hot that day, so Kanye and his crew were dropping it accordingly.

We filed out with the rest of our GW classmates (among them was Christian Washington, whose rich baritone voice defined years of meaningless announcements in the DC public school system), and headed back to the metro stop.

When we got back to town, the call came. After a day of free stuff and easy access, there were bound to be challenging hours ahead. But, I was blinded foolishly by past successes and triumphs. We had beat the system too many times for one day, and the system was about to bend us over again the way it has always loved to.

Back to town; the phone call came in. The Freewheelin’ had kept his word.

Stay tuned for Part 2

Posted by sw at May 20, 2004 01:38 AM