I'm Eddie. I'm a "GDI." I don't live with other "GDI's" like normal "GDI's." I live in a "Senior House." A "Senior House" is the house where privileged upperclassman members of a "fraternity" live. The "cool" bros in a fraternity. Though I am good friends with most of them, they are still "Bros." As you can bet, it has been interesting, and so for the time-being (until I move out?) this blog will have posts regarding my experience as a "GDI" in a "Senior House," as well as posts on other non-relevant topics. However, expect some great stories involving but not limited to: women, beer, women, "Greek-life," beer, beer, run-ins with the law, and flavored vodka. Also expect many pictures of the decrepit house I "live" in.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
As finals approach, inevitably you will have at least one final in which you must fill out a Scantron sheet. Well actually, I won’t. I’m a philosophy major. We write essays. But all of you people with majors which have higher earning potential probably will. To fill out your Scantrons you will need a sharp No. 2 pencil. Statistically, among the people taking a given Scantron test, at least 4% them will suffer from a broken pencil tip. Quite unfortunate, indeed.
However, fear not friends, for I have found your solution: David Rees, Artisan Pencil Sharpener. For just $15, he will send an artisanally sharpened pencil, or for just $12.50, you can send him your own pencil, and he will sharpen it for you. ”But, Eddie,” you say, “I use mechanical pencils.” My friend, I assure you: you are missing the wonders of a carefully hand-sharpened pencil. Writing with one is a scripturally subliminal experience.
But you know what they say, sharpen a man’s pencil, he writes for a day; teach a man to sharpen pencils, and he writes for a lifetime. Or at least until his pencil gets too short. Therefore, Mr. Rees has kindly released to us How to Sharpen Pencils: A Practical & Theoretical Treatise on the Artisanal Craft of Pencil Sharpening for Writers, Artists, Contractors, Flange Turners, Anglesmiths, & Civil Servants. So enjoy the artisanal craft of pencil sharpening, I know I will.
Someday
I’m going to create a website called “apocalypseorfireworks.com” that will allow you to type in your zip code and figure out if there are any fireworks scheduled in your area or if the world is just coming to an end.
It is entirely possible that the noise right before I hang up is a belch. Yes, Dad I was up at 4AM on St. Patrick’s day and already talking in an Irish accent.
Eddie left me a fantastic voicemail at like four AM on St. Patty’s day but it took me this long to figure out how to get said voicemail from my voicemail to the internet.
Spring is in the air in Ann Arbor and that can only mean St. Patrick’s day.
PHILADELPHIA
Gastropub
Ambience: Hipster
First of all, I have not just suddenly become aware of all the goings on in Ireland. I have been steeped in Irish heritage since I was a young lad: I Irish step danced for 8 years, and have gone to multiple Irish culture festivals every summer. Sympathizing with my ancestors is hardly ignorant. They are Catholic, I am Catholic. They were persecuted and continue to be oppressed. It is perfectly rational to “Take up their views.” Second, though my IRA comment was more facetious than anything, the IRA does not still exist. The Provisional IRA, which is a group of terrorists, has extremely limited activity, including a bank robbery in recent years. I have no interest in joining a terrorist organization. The real IRA, the rebel army which drove out the Black and Tans. They (or more correctly a different group of the same name, which claimed lineage to the original IRA), mounted a limited campaign during the Troubles but were effectively disbanded in 1979. The Provisional IRA destroyed the vast majority of their weaponry in 2005. So neither the terrorist PIRA nor the IRA have any further military presence in Ireland. Any activity that claims to be from the IRA, is usually some local group of hooligans who have radical political views and a few guns.
— Shiny Shirted Prick
Sorry to my other readers; I wouldn’t publicly feed the trolls if they weren’t so cowardly as to troll anonymously. Some people take everything too seriously. I also apologize for his/her factual incorrectness and vulgarity.
So in getting ready for St. Patrick’s day, (yes, I’m completely ignoring Valentine’s day), I began researching my roots in Hibernia, commonly called Ireland. And I found out that I hate the British. Go Figure. So I therefore began listening to Irish rebel music, of which the Wolfe Tones are the best example. I have also decided that I am going to move to Northern Ireland, restart the IRA, and live on in awesome folk songs as the man who reunited Ireland.
Frat Boys Can’t Pour Beer
A favorite hobby of mine is “culturing” my frat-roommates (In turn, they teach me about how to make this thing called “money” (?)). What I mean by that is getting them to drink beer that isn’t the same color as the unflushed toilet water in the so-called “Stankfactory.” Recently that involved my taking of my roommate, whom I will call “Dave,” to Ashley’s, a favorite Ann Arbor pub, known for it’s wide selection of non-urine colored beer. Last time I went to Ashley’s with Dave, he told me to pick the beer, so I selected a nice Schneider Weisse (though truth be told, if you are going to drink Schneider Weisse, don’t go to Ashley’s; go to Heidlberg. It’s $2 cheaper and if you go on Friday’s during happy hour they have free wings and nachos).
Normally, the kindly wait-person pours the Schneider Weisse, but being a Californian, Dave must have said something to her before we ordered noting her lack of expedience in service, for she did not pour the Schneider Weisse for him. So… He had to do it himself.
For the unlearned there is a specific method with which one pours a Schneider Weisse, which involves putting the glass over the bottle, flipping the whole thing over, and slowly raising the bottle. Dave did not quite get the flipping part or the slowly raising part right which resulted in beer all over the table and in my chips and salsa.
Alas, Dave paid for the foosball games, so I can’t complain, but salsa does not taste good with German beer in it.
Lesson: Fratboys = Good at drinking your beer. Bad at pouring your beer.
