Who's That Coming Down the Track?

IT'S THE MEAN MACHINE IN RED AND RED!

No, that's not how it goes, but that's how it will go come Saturday at the Georgia Dome.

When the players suit up to play the Boise State Broncos, they won't don the familiar silver britches with their red jerseys and red helmets. Instead, the helmets will be mostly silver, and everything else will be red.

Don't get me wrong, I bleed red and black with the rest of the bulldog nation (note: red and black). I just don't think anything besides the color red (which is not unique to UGA) and the "G" logo on the side of the helmet show that Nike was thinking about Georgia's rich football history when designing these uniforms as part of their Pro Combat Series.

I was very excited to see what Nike would give us ever since I heard my beloved bulldogs would wear a  Pro Combat uniform for the first game. Sadly, the result didn't live up to my anticipation.

The jersey is boring, but at least the sleeves are black. I figured the pants might have some streak of silver, black, or white; the classic red, white, black stripe on the side; the bulldog head logo; "GEORGIA;" or even the arch.

Nope. Just a lot of red.

I'll spread the red with some drunk, obnoxious Georgia fans, Nike. It happens to be my favorite color. I just hope the bulldogs play better than they'll look.

A White Michael Vick???

ESPN Magazine: How dare you?

I came across a commentary article, “What if Michael Vick were white?” today on ESPN.com, and when my browser finally loaded the page I was immediately appalled. Is there really a photoshopped image of Michael Vick – an outstanding black quarterback in the NFL – with white skin consuming my iPhone screen, or did I have one too many drinks Thursday night?

At this point, I didn’t even bother to read the article beneath the photo. I just knew I wanted to write about what I had stumbled upon – while I was supposed to be paying attention to the professor lecturing in front of me.

I definitely remember reviewing this thing in J-school classes called “ethics,” and I’m sure the same standards apply to journalists of all forms, whether one operates in front of a computer or in front of a camera – or behind a camera in this case. The fact that the art director of ESPN Magazine let an artist produce this ridiculous image is beyond me.

The writer, Touré, could have made his argument about how Vick’s circumstances and upbringing would have totally been different were he born to white parents without the eyesore – which fails to complement the layout anyway. The National Press Photographers Association is pissed right now, I’m calling it.

The NPPA’s code of ethics explicitly mentions that the editing of a photo should maintain the integrity of the image’s content and context. There is no white look-alike of Michael Vick, so the integrity of this particular photo was lost simultaneously with the artist’s mind.

Angry People on the Internet

The Internet is an amazing invention, and it has done wonders for technological advancement, communication practices, and simple entertainment. That being said, I believe that the Internet has worsened one aspect of our lives: courtesy.

It used to be that if someone insulted you, you could slap them in the face and challenge them to a duel. The consequences were amazingly high, which meant that people were actually careful about what they said lest their statement be taken the wrong way and they get shot or stabbed. Courtesy was used as much for one's safety as it was for the other person's ego.

With the advent of the Internet, communication has certainly increased, but the courtesy that used to accompany it seems to have fallen along the wayside. The Internet allows people to say nasty things to others from distant locales without fear of repercussion. This lack of consequences for the words that they type emboldens people and gives them a sense of invincibility, because the majority of them will never have to own up to what they have just said.

What do you think? Has common courtesy taken a blow from the usage of the Internet, or were people bound to degenerate into such mannerisms eventually anyways? Either way, if you think I've drawn up a relatively accurate picture of the Internet, or do you think that conversation on the World Wide Web is actually remarkably civil, please leave a comment below.

Smudge Me In Charcoal and Bitterness

Everyone remembers THAT kid in their 3^rd grade class; the one, loner kid that while everyone else was standing shoulder-to-shoulder waiting to be picked off for kickball, he was content being aloof and elbow-deep in muddy dirt and slimy worms.

That is the UGA Art school.

Much to my chagrin, I’m hardly the “art kid”, even though I am technically in the same college. Instead, I’m relegated to the first floor lecture halls, only to compose lengthy research papers while they shuffle above through the concrete hallways toting their trendy Art Bins and portfolios. All while they wear their hipster, burgundy tights, flannel shirts, and unintentional ripped jeans. I’ll never be one of them.

I suppose the appeal about an art kid is their mystery and intrigue. Is that fair trade organic coffee or loose-leaf herbal tea in your wheel thrown coffee mug? You sure fooled me. Plus, so many of the guys have that whole Robert Pattinson thing going for them. The brooding, sultry, and tortured vibe practically radiates from their charcoal sticks. Cue swooning from any slightly angry freshman girl.

After dating a Ceramics major for two years, I realized something: East Campus art kids are just as pompous as a North Campus Finance major. Maybe even worse. At least fratstars can accept that they all dress the same and that their parents alone secured them a stellar internship in Poland this past summer.

Scenester art kids try to defy the stereotype with the latest Urban Outfitter’s trend. Yup, that Aztec beanie is so original. They ban together over moody melodies and poignant poetry as if only they could possibly be this distressed. True, not all of them are attempting so adamantly to free themselves from a “predetermined mold.” Many truly do want to design graphics for Pixar or hurl paint onto innocent canvases forever.

But for the large portion that try so hard to “be different”, go dig up another worm. I’ll kick it out of the playground.

Pop-lit is for punks

I don't judge books by their covers. I judge you.

I may not be a hipster in many aspects of my life, but my vehemence about what constitutes "good" literature definitely has a indier-than-thou aspect to it. I haven't read The Hunger Games — how good could a novel that popular be? I scoff at Nicholas Sparks, because The Notebook was a dribbling piece of romantic hogwash, not a cinematic piece of art. And the very idea of Chelsea Handler bores me. No, I haven't read her book, but I've see YouTube clips, and she's about as entertaining as Kathy Griffin.

But I'm not sure I like my book-bound snobbishness. It's a cultural barrier. Yeah, I get along great with fantasy geeks with a taste for Tolkien and Bradbury. But I feel distanced from the modern reader. My belief that an Oprah Book Club seal of approval diminishes the value of the work is exceedingly arrogant. In no other area of my life do I feel superior to millions of people.

Still, I don't want to let go of my standards. Justifying popular reading habits would be a slap in the face of literary artisans everywhere. Stephanie Meyer's blood should be demanded for the death of the vampire. House of Leaves should replace John Grisham on every required reading list. Chuck Palahniuk and Neil Gaiman should write more, and bell hooks should be a bedside adornment.

My mental great debate rages on. In the name of social interaction, what would be better? To entomb myself in Plath until Sapphire writes again? Or to give Jodi Picoult a cursory chance?

Black (Shirt) Sabbath

I wear only black t-shirts because there is no god.

Let me explain.

I am Greek….let me explain further.

When I say I am Greek I don’t mean I live on Milledge and drink shit beer.

No I mean I am legit Greek. As in feta cheese, shit music, hairy women, hairier men and questionable histories regarding soldiers and their young wards.

As such I was raised Greek Orthodox.

Many moons ago I lost my religion. I say that like it fell out of my pocket on during a lovely jaunt down yonder road. Actually it was more like a nasty breakup with a young lady who liked gold and perfume way too much.

While I never have missed the faith, I have felt some kind of hole in my (black) heart.

You must understand, the Orthodox don’t fuck around. They have a whole set of rituals and procedures. Its Jesus meets LARPing, with a whole mess of incense (I said INCENSE, this isn’t Game of Thrones).

As such, I felt the need to supplement those old religious rituals for some new ones, and about three years ago I found my ritualistic replacement, black t-shirts.

What started as a like for the feel and color a particular shirt has become something so much more.

To be specific St. Johns Bay Black Tee’s, no pockets. This strict adherence to just one type of shirt is akin to the adherence to one sect of dogma.

Any other shirt would be heresy.

Moving on, here is how the rituals work.

I have approximately 14 of these black beauties. Every two weeks I do Black T-Shirt Laundry (This is a proper noun to me damnit!). The washing machine cleans away all the dirt in grim the same way baptism cleans the soul. The dryer then acts as confession making the shirts dry and wearable the same way confession makes the weight of one’s sins bearable.

Then I fold my shirts very neatly. This is my supplement for the Stations of the Cross, folding the shirt over onto itself.

When the folding is done all the shirts go on little table right outside my door.

I grab one from the top of the pile and put it on as I walk out of my room. Placing the same exact type of shirt on every day replaces me lighting a candle and kissing the icons every day.

When the pile is gone, I know it’s time to “re-affirm my faith” by starting the rituals all over with a new “baptism.”

In only a matter of hours, with the fresh stack of St. Johns Bay Black Tee’s, no pockets sitting monolithically outside my door, I am born anew.

They Come in Threes

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one in the world that has unlucky happenings. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of you have even experienced the unluckiness in threes. You know what's the scariest part about that?... when you've already experienced the first two situations and you're just waiting in anxious anticipation for the ominous third event.

Right now I'm waiting for unluck number three. And it's killing me because the last time the wrath of threes happened, I ended up with two-thirds of a thumb and no appendix.

Since returning to Athens two weeks ago, I've already experienced two annoyingly unlucky car mishaps. (Yes, that's twice I was stranded or nearly stranded in two weeks!) On my first Saturday back, I went over to a friend's new apartment to catch up and reminisce of recent years. On my way home at 2 a.m., when I was still two miles from home, my tire blew. And I'm not talking about a slowly seeping whistle, I'm talking near-explosion and embarrassing noises only semis should make. But don't you worry. That didn't stop me from driving all the way home on my rim. Oh no-sir-ee, I made it home alright.

Then exactly one week after that, I was selected as the DD for Terrapin Brewery, which would have been fine if "unlucky number two didn't strike. That's right, my battery died without a single spark of spirit left, and it seemed everyone in the world who owned jumper cables didn't make it to Terrapin. My friends and I did catch a ride from another friend, but it was another 24 hours, purchased jumper cables and $150 before my car was back in its parking spot and looking pitiful.

So now I'm waiting, and I'm scared to even drive my car. Can the next event be worse?  Does un-luck come in threes for you too? What do you think? Should I even be worried about number three?