Fun Like This Should Be Outlawed.

This tank top is very low cut.
I had a professor tell me I should cover myself better.

[Hosting this story here while for the time being.]

At the beginning of the week, I wore a tank top under an open plaid button-down and a scarf on top of it. My fashion choice got some comments; some of them even directed toward me ("What are you wearing? Why?"). My chosen appearance is a carryover from Sunday, when I indulged in  of watching a World Cup match with a group of devout U.S. fans.

Last Tuesday, I did a report for class on the Syracuse chapter of the American Outlaws, cheering on the U.S. in their first match against Ghana from the (relative) comfort of downtown restaurant Small Plates. You would think the name may suggest that it's a rowdy bunch of soccer football fans, swilling beer and dutifully cheering on their team. You would be right—but there's more to it. The atmosphere was infectious. I decided, during the process of listening, interviewing, and documenting, that I would return Sunday to witness U.S. v. Portugal as a fan, not a journalist.

The problem with being a trained journalist with a keen interest in sports is that it's nearly impossible to be just a "fan." You may try, but this is a challenge; you have spent years developing an analytical mind, and it just doesn't translate into being a sports fan. The rest of the room is whipped into a ballistic (yes, they may actually throw things) frenzy when Tim Howard makes a dramatic save... while you're carefully breaking down why and how the defensive unit let Ronaldo and his perfectly coiffed hair weave almost entirely unchecked toward the goal, and why that relaxed effort will become a problem in, say, the end of stoppage time.

Knowing this... I tried anyway. I carefully selected the most only "American" shirt I own—a low-cut tank from H&M with U.S. flag print on the front, walked downtown to an "American" bar (Small Plates), bought and consumed one or two fine "American" beverages (not at all surprised that Americans largely don't care how "refreshing" their beer is during sporting events). Steve Haller (he leads Syracuse's American Outlaws chapter), Alex Cauwels (the group's secretary and de facto chant master), and Phil Carhart (a character and absolute joy to talk to), whom I had interviewed five days before, all recognized me, shaking my hand, clapping me on the back, and commenting that they were glad to see me out of my button-down shirt and black slacks—which I had worn despite knowing how many human bodies would be packed in one small space...thankfully that shirt's sheen masked the sweat pools on camera.

The Outlaws' aim is unity.
Nothing says unity like encouraging bar patrons to chant "U-S-A."

I arrived twenty minutes into the match. Portugal's Nani had already scored, so everyone was anxious to see the equalizer. My attention was divided initially; I was watching the game in the interest of being informed, but also observing the crowd reaction to the match. As a not-so-passive observer, I eventually found my voice joining in the anticipatory chorus any time the U.S. went on the attack, waiting for Jermaine Jones to find the back of the net, and in the exasperated sighs erupting whenever Portugal's defense repelled the Yanks. Slowly...and then all at once, I was part of this fanatic atmosphere. I sang "When the Yanks Go Marching In," chanted "U-S-A," and may or may not have participated in assorted jeers, most of which were directed at Ronaldo ("Pretty boy"). The entire scenario was brash, charmingly distasteful, and joyously American.

At halftime, I approached Steve to drop $20 on an "American"-motif scarf from the Outlaws, which I had promised him (and, more importantly, myself) last week that I would do. The soccer scarf is a time-honored tradition, and you will almost always wear it in a room that's already ten degrees warmer than outdoor temperatures. When I put that scarf on, I immediately began sweating profusely felt an overwhelming sense of community.

Countless examples in history suggest that the culture around sport is one of solidarity. For one: look at the way FC Barcelona serves as a nationalist bastion for Cataluña, and how its supporters historically regard Real Madrid as the symbol of everything wrong with Spain. Politics aside, fans of one team tend drop their differences and unite under one banner.

Not that this outing was anything like that—it wasn't at all—we just wanted to see our boys competitive in a sport that defies the American model for almost everything. American society has evolved such that in every situation, there is a clear victor. I'll come back to this.

An expected reaction to poor performance (perceived or actual) by FIFA officials.

Among the swelling and receding anticipation of a U.S. goal, Jones scored. I am no stranger to being showered with beer—I went to school where you are all but guaranteed to get wet after a home run—but I was caught off-guard by the celebration (even though I had shot video of this last week and adjusted audio settings accordingly). I feel bad for the employee(s) who had to clean that up... beer on the ceiling is like a fly buzzing around your head. It isn't going anywhere unless you make a concerted, obsessive effort to get rid of it.

Granted, this is hindsight. In the moment, I was just like every other fan; chanting with a renewed sense of hope ("I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN") that we would guarantee our spot in the next round of play, and that we would send Ronaldo, who is more altruistic than the average American fan would like to believe, packing. Mind you, Jones only scored the equalizer. I regard level-headedness as one of my greatest strengths, and I had my own tempered swagger for the next 18 minutes. Any notion I had of being analytical was mostly gone. Like everyone else in the room, I just wanted to see an American victory—assuming there were no Portuguese present, which none of us would have cared enough to look for anyway.

Most often, cheers of adoration were focused on
Tim Howard, Clint Dempsey, and Jürgen Klinsmann

If you know anything about Clint Dempsey, it's that the man is absolutely dedicated. I had just watched an ESPN feature about him; his family's financial situation forced him to sideline his career at a young age so his sister Jennifer could pursue her successful tennis career. After her death at 16 due to a brain aneurysm, he returned to a competitive level, eventually becoming captain of the U.S. Men's National Team and the highest-paid MLS player. This story had Dempsey lodged firmly in my mind, and seeing him throw his body at the goal to give U.S. the lead had me buying in completely. We all took a break from praising Howard, focusing all adoration on Dempsey—that is, until a man dressed as Theodore Roosevelt appeared onscreen. Americans love their former Presidents.

How did I get here?

I grew up a basketball fan, converted to a football aficionado (the kind where tackles are emphatically encouraged), and flirted with tennis on the side before using track and field as my social and fitness outlet while gaining media experience. Yet, here I am, reveling in the excitement of a 2-1 lead over Portugal in a sport that I played for a year in elementary school and generally don't give much thought to...and I loved every moment of this celebration.

Stoppage time begins, and we know that all the USMNT has to do is hold on until the final whistle. The USMNT knows this, too. That's where things fell apart on the pitch. Silvestre Varela made the U.S. pay for becoming complacent, tying the game with seconds on the clock to spare.

There was an unnerving silence as all of the bar patrons watched Howard hold his head in his hands.

This is when I realized something about Americans. We hate losing, but a tie is unthinkable. No popular sport in American society lends itself to a tie. Basketball and football go into overtime, baseball has extra innings, hockey has golden goal overtime and shootouts, tennis has a tiebreaker, golf has a playoff... We perceive everything bilaterally, and we favor dominance as often as possible.

As we all chanted "thank you, Small Plates," while somberly leaving the bar in an orderly fashion, I realized that I was in the middle of something beyond a story for journalism class.

Although... adding beer never hurts.

Watching sporting events in a group is a cathartic bonding experience, one to which the busy and over-stressed look forward and for which they cut short their work days. They live vicariously through competition, represented by a roster of players under the same flag, who sing the same national anthem. This makes the World Cup the perfect American bonding experience.

Skytop.

Living in Syracuse is sort of like living in a walled city. You don't want to venture too far out, because there's so much going on at any given time. The walls sort of appear when you're on the interstate and realize that going to far means running into a toll booth. If you turn around immediately after entering the toll booth and try to come back, they charge you the maximum. No bueno.

Anyway, if Syracuse is like a walled city, then the university feels like walking in the sky. Granted, Ole Miss feels like heaven on earth, but up here, you feel like a denizen of the astral plane itself. Maybe that's just me as a grad student talking—having ascended from undergrad. Walking up University Avenue presents a distinctive path; the steps leading up to the quad and the clearing between buildings gives the sense that, in the middle of this city, you've entered the inner sanctum. From any point on the campus, you realize that the campus is—literally—elevated above the rest of the city; you can look out across the city on one end and across a valley at the other end. I was given a crash-course walking tour a few weeks ago. All the while, I was in awe. This feeling of being in the clouds while on campus is heightened when the sky is overcast. Certainly, this feeling will be elevated further when snowfall besets the campus.

I'm quite literally in love here. The best feeling is knowing I'm in the right place.

Orientation happened today, and the reality of the program set in. It will be intensive. It will not be easy. It will require long hours. Most of all, it will be immeasurably rewarding.

I've met new people, made new connections... almost like freshman year again, in a way. We're all relatively eager to get to know each other; our group has become fast friends in a week. We already have our inside jokes (this took no time at all), we've already declared the banes of our existences, and we have all made the solidarity to suffer through our collective (and sometimes individual) challenges.

Yeah, I miss Oxford. I miss my old friends. More than that, I miss my brother.

Pretty soon, I'll travel beyond the invisible walls of this city. There's a lot more to see.

Start Today With A Laugh.

I was reading articles this morning about notable public figures who dumped their twitter accounts for whatever reason. Among them—Chris Brown, after a vulgar word feud with a comedienne; Alec Baldwin, for no reason; Charlie Sheen, for no reason; Adele, for arbitrary murder threats against her then-newborn child...

And then Kendrick Perkins. Which didn't really ring a bell, until I looked it up. He plays for the Oklahoma City Thunder (#who?), and was apparently so odiously ridiculed after a run-in with Blake Griffin's nether regions that he needed to shed his online presence altogether (and that's fair—I wouldn't want to be dunked on by Blake Griffin, either). I submit this video of the nastiest dunk I've seen in a while—we've seen it before, but I can't get enough of it.

Now, granted, this video is old. It's no less awe-inspiring, though. Perkins looks like he has the I'm-gonna-beat-my-puppy face...

That aside, I've settled in nicely in central New York. I won't drive too far in any direction, because they force you through toll booths eventually, and you wonder how you got there. I can navigate the city—I don't live far from SU's campus. I've met some awesome people. I've run to Walmart countless times (it's not a short drive), and I'm supposed to go to Wegman's eventually. It's apparently something of a religious experience.

I had a crash course tour of Syracuse's campus. Obviously, yes, it's not Ole Miss. However, they don't fit in the same class by any means. Ole Miss is situated in its own corner of Oxford, with its own zip code. Syracuse is more or less integrated with the city, and tries to expand that integration. The campus is downright beautiful. No, there is no Grove, and the density of flowers is not quite near Ole Miss (I think... I don't really look at flowers). Glass is to SU what columns are to UM. I rather like the look. In lieu of the grossly abundant springtime pollen, we are subject to overwhelming amounts of snow and frigid conditions (again, don't know, haven't experienced it). Looking over a wall near the law school, you can see a valley to the west, and hills in the distance. I fell in love with this view instantly. This brings me to the next point. Apparently, some SU undergrads feel privileged (yep, never have seen this before) and believe the university is the center of the city universe—this is false, of course. The doorknob to the universe, in fact, is on the Ole Miss campus in Oxford, MS. We know where the center of everything is, of course.

There's a disconnect between students and the less-affluent areas of the city—UM's Big Event, UMS Fusion... I believe these would have a place here. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has ever thought of such a thing.

Northern culture is radically different from everything I'm used to. It's exciting. I miss my friends, but they're coming to visit at some point, and I'm making new ones, so I'll survive. The only universal constant is change.

Happy Friday.

A Man In Time.

Question for you, dear reader: Look at your music library. Do you have the Tarzan soundtrack? Of course you do. Find "Son of Man," by the incomparable Phil Collins. Give it a listen. Go ahead, I'll wait [Achievement: FOURTH WALL BROKEN].

"In learning you will teach, and in teaching you will learn..."

That line resonates with me more than ever now. Since I'm going to be an instructional associate, my duties will be to assist professors. I don't really know, but I'm prepared for the possibility that I might be actually teaching.

That line carries a lesson: I can be taught theories and concepts until I get tired and flee to the bar, but the real learning emerges when I have to make sense of them and reteach them. Inherently speaking, it's undesirable to be teaching something that's incorrect (or so I hope—I know some of you have had some professors who couldn't be bothered to care). It dawned on me that the professors who encouraged discourse understood the concept that learning is a two-way avenue.

There you go. Wisdom brought to you by Phil Collins.

Functional Independence.

My family helped move me into my apartment a few days ago. This apartment, situated right on the edge of downtown Syracuse, gives me an excellent view of the downtown skyline, which I love. It's a five minute drive to the positively gargantuan Destiny USA mall, and Armory Square (Syracuse's version of The Square—can't be beaten, by the way) is a short walk away, with all the bars, Starbucks, Subway, and ice cream that an urbanite could ask for.

It's a studio apartment. One room. Can't really get away with not cleaning it. That's what I've been doing today. Cooked food for myself for the first time; I have pretty high hopes for my domestic abilities. Got my wifi network set up ("Bill Wi The Science Fi"), got cable, got my wine/rum rack set up, hanging up some artwork. I still need to put speakers in here.

Because I'm still partially an introvert, I actually can survive living here without being in contact with anyone. I don't really get lonely that easily, since I see it as banking the alone time an introvert requires before going into all-out extroversion (thank you, past job as an orientation leader). It slipped my mind that I'm not the only Oxford export here—just remembered that while typing that last sentence.

The first thing I learned was that Newhouse is a big deal. Dad likes to brag about his sons, so while in the Doubletree Hilton Hotel's restaurant, he started talking with some strangers people who hadn't met him yet (there are no strangers with Dad) and telling them I was attending SU for grad school. When I told them I was a Newhouse master's student, they groveled at my feet were impressed; it's not an easy school to get into, I've found out. You must be smart and you must have an impressive track record of involvement in and outside of your field and you must have sterling recommendations and you must contend with 850 people who have the exact same qualifications (or thereabout). I joke about having a large ego, but in reality I have to extend my gratitude to every instructor I've had since the 11th grade (and most before then); they all had a hand in helping my parents raise me.

One thing I've learned about myself is that I can very easily detach and move on. On one hand, it keeps me from becoming stagnant. On the other hand, it means I can leave people behind with frightening efficiency. Being at Ole Miss, however, has made that very difficult to do. There are so many awesome people I got to know. I've seem some of them hit the ground running, commendably pursuing their dreams and careers or traveling the world and enjoying their lives. The truth is, I miss those people dearly and I'm elated for them.

As for me, I'm excited to take on this next step. I receive my orientation (and Newhouse-branded iPad mini) on Monday, and classes begin Tuesday. The best thing is that should I ever feel that I am faltering, I always have the encouragement of those I love to keep me going.

Unsealed.

You know,  I didn't realize people still read this. I happened to check on the view count today. Anyway, a week into 2013, and I'm getting my mind back into shape. Grad school applications, thesis work...and I've started feeding my dream of becoming a producer (bedroom producer, but essentially all the same). I've become interested in EDM as of late; nightlife and nighttime culture have held my interest pretty much all through undergrad.

I've been trying to regain my drive. Sort of lost it during the fall semester. Came home after the dust settled, and felt positively listless. I've been barely able to motivate myself to do more than two major things in one day (workout, grad school application, thesis progress, composing). Some days, I feel the spark again, but it takes far more willpower than I seem to have these days.

I'm out of shape, and that probably contributes to my diminished will. That, and my sleeping habits have been horrible.

At the end of next week, I'll be returning to Oxford for my final undergraduate semester.

That's all I've got for now.

On Being Unrestrained.

We all seek to find our place in the world. Or in our world, whatever that may be. Our high school friends, our college environments, or even the guys we meet up with at the bar.

We make sure we're the best we can be or, at least, the best we can be in our own microcosms. While this isn't a bad thing in itself, I'd like to challenge this line of thinking. It can cause us to do things we don't like, for a time far longer than we'd prefer, to impress people we generally cannot stand. It's a phase we all go through.

Eventually, though, we face the idea that the miniature world we live in will eventually end for us. We graduate, find a new group of friends, start frequenting a different bar, going to a different gym...and making major changes in our lives. Of course, this revelation tends to come later rather than sooner for most. When it does, a radical shift occurs (hopefully).

That organization you've devoted ludicrous amounts of time to suddenly falls from its pedestal into the superfluous areas of your life. That girl you tried so desperately to chase, impress, and win over instantly becomes just another relatively unimportant human being. That person whose achievements struck you with awe, overnight, loses that luster in your eyes.

The illusions we built for ourselves instantaneously vanish as we come to understand what our true desires are, freed from our narrowed perceptions. We regard ourselves as the oft-maligned #1 that we have so grievously neglected to satisfy the wants of those around us. We can understand that our egos have been malnourished; our desires improperly fed.

We then recall every instance where we held back for fear of offending another with our brilliance, overshadowing another with our talent, upstaging our peers with our own excellence. Perhaps we'll feel anger and resentment toward ourselves; perhaps we will regard these memories as learning experiences.

Regardless, we begin a period of apathy and rejecting everything that isn't aligned with our pursuits. It's empowering, and it makes us realize, once again, just how far we can go beyond our perceived limits. We no longer will undertake a project that we are uninterested in. We refuse to change ourselves so egregiously to be acceptable to another. We cease to censor, by others' standards, our own personalities and gifts.

Then, we feel that the world is at our feet. From that moment, we are forced to answer the questions we have put off for so long:

What do I want in life?
What dreams do I want to pursue? Can I pursue more than one of them?

When these questions (and vastly more of them) are answered, then begins the road to our own futures.