Every night, before bed, I brush my teeth with gingivitis toothpaste and watch videos about serial killers.
It’s a great routine. I prevent my gums from bleeding, and then I prevent myself from going to sleep by thinking about a man in a flannel shirt and dungarees sneaking into my bed chamber with an ax, a hatchet, or a combination ax-hatchet, giving myself the heebies and the jeebies until I realize that I’m not in a bed chamber (I’m in a dorm room) and that combination ax-hatchets don’t exist (I hope and think). Continue Reading…
Welcome to Brown, Class of 2021. By now, you’ve probably slurped vodka from a ladle on the roof of Metcalf, slept through your 3 P.M., and peed on the fire you started with three Ratty to-go boxes and an iClicker outside of the Anne Marie Brown Crypt without any consequence. “College is great!” you exclaim, pouring an entire bowl of pho into your backpack. “No parents, dude!”
Did you really think you’d be free from parental clutches at this institution? Sucks to suck, but your mothers have given me custody of all 1,791 of you. That’s right; I am your legal guardian now. You have all been reborn from my womb and you better believe that I have some serious rules for you to follow around here. Continue Reading…
Married at First Sight is a reality show masquerading as a “””social experiment””” to conceal the undeniable fact that is crazy, nutso, and overall, bonkers. A team of experts matches three couples who meet at their weddings and live as “hubby” and “wifey” for at least six weeks, at which point they can choose to divorce. It is a show for people who like extreme blind dates, don’t want to kiss their spouse at the altar and dream about honeymooning with a perfect stranger. It is a show for people who want a partner who keeps them guessing like, “exactly how much in debt did they say they were?” and “will I ever feel comfortable scratching my butt with them around?”
It is a show for me.
I am crazy. I am nutso. And yes, overall, I am bonkers because I applied to be on the latest season of MAFS–and here’s the proof. Continue Reading…
Image via Sarah Clapp.
Sabrina the Teenage Witch is the best television show in the history of motion pictures, the moving image, and humankind. It’s the best show because it combines teenage girl problems (studying, sneaking out, what to do when your boyfriend gets two cartilage piercings) with young witch problems (getting your Witch’s License, traveling through a vortex in your linen closet, what to do when your furniture starts talking during your Halloween party), thus making it highly relatable.
If this premise doesn’t convince you of Sabrina’s excellence, let me remind you that the school mascot was the Fighting Scallions, and that Ru Paul, the Violent Femmes and Jerry Springer were guest stars, and that in one episode the family’s talking cat Salem dons a suit stuffed with dollar bills and orders sushi from two very confused chefs. Continue Reading…
As everyone knows, rock ‘n’ roll is the devil’s music and many rock ‘n’ rollers have relayed satanic messages through backmasking, a recording technique in which a message is recorded backwards onto a track that is meant to be played forward. There are many famous examples of well known rock ‘n’ roll music bands using this method to send subliminal messages to their fans about all kinds of freaky stuff, but I have found many more secret messages from other famous songs, speeches, and other assorted noises. Here’s what I found… Continue Reading…
Last year, I came to the conclusion that Keeney Gym is a nexus for strange happenings after witnessing two bizarre events there. These stories could be surmised as “the time a boy jumped in through an open window, lifted one weight, then leapt back out” and “the time a group of pot-smokers inexplicably walked through the gym with lit joints while I watched on from my stationary bike, most likely listening to Bet On It from the High School Musical 2 soundtrack.”
I’ve since wondered—is Keeney Gym a place of cosmic significance? Does a high density of exercise equipment just invite shenanigans among college freshmen? Are Keeney Gym antics becoming a rite of passage, akin to eating your first spicy with, completing a Sci Li challenge, or breaking an exit sign? I’ve also wondered—what hijinks have I been missing out on this year!?
So as an amateur comedy writer investigative reporter with decades of experience in the field, I decided to go undercover to see if I could witness more tomfoolery. Perhaps, I would gain a better understanding as to why Keeney Gym is a reoccurring locale for mischief. Perhaps I would gain a hilarious tale to tell. Perhaps I would make actual gains.
After all, I hadn’t worked out in awhile and figured, ya know, two birds one stone.
On a warm Wednesday night, I went to the gym-in-question with sharp focus and ASICS sneakers on. You could call me Woodward and Bernstein, or also Adidas Just Do It (I don’t know anything about athletics). As nonchalantly as possible, I strolled over to an elliptical with my headphones on, queuing up the tunes for my workout. I should also note that aside from window-jumping and pot-smoking, I will forever associate Keeney Gym with the Velvet Underground because I have such a distinct memory of listening to them for the first time there. Your typical Velvet Underground song was not written to accompany intense exercise (which begets the question: why the hell did I workout to them in the first place?), but nonetheless I found it imperative to put the band’s discography on shuffle so I could recreate the circumstances of my previous experiences as precisely as possible.
Three minutes into my workout (a.k.a. the moment I realized I was in over my head because of my excessive panting), I decided to take in my surroundings. Most of the treadmills were occupied, which made me hopeful that a flash mob would break out. All of the windows were open, which made me hopeful that a drone would fly in to deliver food or a tiny dog. And there was a suspicious looking phone on the wall, which made me hopeful for a prank call.
Eight minutes in and I was slowing down, which I attributed to the slow, sultry voice of Nico that had just entered my ear canals. But wow, I had not worked out in a long time. Was the last time I went to the gym really that time I did the most gentle yoga sequence ever in the midst of a group of intense squatters?
After “running” one mile on the elliptical, I moved over to a stationary bike for a different viewpoint. Everyone was doing pretty standard gym things: stretching, flexing, watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy on their iPads. Since everyone had the nerve to be normal, I let my mind wander and started devising scenarios I really wanted to happen. Here is the list I came up with:
- a trap door opens to reveal a secret laboratory
- the boy lifting weights grows a tentacle
- someone is Prom-posed to
- one of the weight machines transforms into a human man
- the walls start to close in on themselves and I have to escape
- the ghost of Richard Nixon floats through jangling chains with his hands raised in double V signs
- someone runs through in the nude, and I belatedly realize it is Rod Stewart
- free ice cream
Once I had Rod Stewart on the brain, I realized my efforts were futile. Everyone was going about their run-of-the-mill routines and no one had tried to jump in through a window and the quad didn’t even smell like weed that night and I couldn’t keep biking because I lack defined calf muscles and I had to throw in the towel, reasoning that Keeney Gym had just lost its eccentricity since my Jameson-tenure last year.
As I emerged from the gym onto Benevolent street, which was warm and shiny and slightly sticky like a puddle of Hawaiian Punch Vodka on the floor of an Everett double, a wave of realization washed over me. Could it be that, perhaps, I was the strange thing all along? Me, a sophomore in a freshman quad whose sole purpose in that space was to anticipate a weird happening (yeah, yeah, yeah and work out too I guess). Me, with my crazed eyes, my highly alert posture, Lou Reed’s voice emanating from my earbuds, was it me all along?
Sweaty and content, catching my breath under streetlights, bursting out in a joyous rendition of “Pale Blue Eyes,” I left the gym with newfound knowledge: I am weird, Keeney Gym isn’t very weird, and I need to work out more.
Image via Sarah Clapp.
Images via Sarah Clapp.