Freelance News Writer Application for Onion News Network

Story/segment ideas

1. Tech watch segment on EA games new sports game titled “The Playground,” rated E for everyone, where you build a character and lead him or her around a playground.
2. Human Interest piece on a Nobel Prize winning mathematician who devised a formula to equate the height of someone’s truck, their MPG and penis size.
3. Failing Actors hold meeting in West Hollywood to discuss whether or not acting in herpes commercials will benefit their career to the point where it outweighs the damage done to their sex lives.
4. Union representatives go on strike ending public relation campaign regarding current teamster strike, workers confused.
5. Barack Obama… boxer BRIEFS!
6. Meth addicts march on Washington demanding legalization.
7. Old satellite long thought lost rejoins earth’s orbit with strange bumper stickers.
8. Parking officer tickets himself to set an example.
9. Carpal Thumbal syndrome: one of the many hidden dangers of text messaging.
10.  Storm hits, leaves levee standing in rural Mississippi: Army Corps of Engineers baffled.

Rachel Ray Endorsement Proves Frighteningly Important.  Rachel Ray has endorsed a candidate and immediately that candidate's popularity surges a shocking amount. The power of Rachel Ray has some frightened about the state of American politics.

ANCHOR INTRO:

Food Network megastar Rachel Ray finally declared her support of Presidential Candidate Barak Obama this morning on Regis and Kelly, we join Onion News Network Political Editor John Torey live from the Race 2K8 desk , John?

LIVE INTRO:

That’s correct, Superstar Rachel Ray made the promise today on Regis and Kelly that, quote, “I am die hard Obama! In fact, if McCain wins, I’ll retire from public life completely and without a fight,”

LIVE VO:

As you can see this monumental promise has caused incomprehensible numbers of people to register to vote at local post offices, libraries and college campuses. Leader of the Rachel Ray  (go away!) coalition Travis Langness said it best at their news conference earlier.

(SOT – Travis Langness – Rachel Ray (go away!) coalition leader: If it takes four more years of awful leadership, lies to the American people, countless unnecessary deaths and an unfathomable national debt to get this soul leaching waste of social security off of our airwaves, we are for it!)

LIVE TAG:

We’ll stay right here at the downtown courthouse and monitor this situation closely, back to you in the studio.

Mexico 2004

Freshman year of college, I was about 275 lbs and about 6'2''. I drank a lot; it was the way to go. One day in January I get a call from Toby.

Toby: “Greg?"

Me: "yeah"

Toby: "it's Toby. From high school."

Me: "uh, you mean Toby from Claremont high?"

Toby: "yeah, I think we were pretty much best friends for like two years."

Me: "yeah."

Toby: "yeah."

Me: "uh, what's up dude?"

Toby: "a bunch of us are going down to Yo's at UCSD, and then TJ, you down?"

Me: "I guess, I mean, yeah, I’m down."

Toby: "catch a ride with the Eastons; they're leaving at like 7."

Me: "ok"

    so that was that. Mexico by way of UCSD, only I had a half a tank of gas, no passport, and 3 dollars to my name. It was Wednesday; I had until Friday to really figure things out. Step 1: psychology experiment. Two hours of sitting in front of a beat down Macintosh computer pushing the "up" arrow if the letters on the screen formed a word and the "down" arrow if they didn't. I’m not sure if the test measured my ability to discern words or my willingness to care, because after about 45 minutes I had my eyes shut and would just push randomly. That was 14 bucks of easy money.

    14 bucks would probably pay my way into the club and a good tip for the bartender, but nothing else... no meals, no drink'n bread, no cigarettes, no bus ticket, no bail money. I decided I had to take drastic action. I sold my math book; truth be told I never went to class, and the girl who was in my class who lived in my hall had her own book. Plus I sold it to my roommate, so I could always borrow it if I needed to. Bam, that 85 bucks brought the grand total to 99 dollars.

    Next stop: San Diego

    we get there about 8pm and hang out at Yo's place with his crazy suitemates (who are now inconsequential mainly because they were “partied out” and did not have the money to go to Mexico (because who has money after filling up the gas tank on an Escalade?)) and we decide to catch a bus to the border. Out to the parking lot, we get in line and chill when the bus of all busses pulls up. It’s a school bus, or it was a school bus, but it had been converted to a puke-trap on wheels. the bench seats inside were the hard plastic you see on city busses, and the large trashcans strategically placed throughout the bus made it perfectly clear that nothing was to hit the floor or the seats.

    I try and strike up some sober conversation on the bus, but every time I talk to a girl, or smile at her, some meat-head is either holding her hand or glaring at me. Not one for (sober) confrontations, I would move on, until there was no one left to move on to, then I just looked down at the floor. even if there were a girl within ear-shot of me who was willing to be yelled at, the bus was loaded down with unnecessary sound equipment, enough to make the windows mysteriously drop down a step at some particularly loud moments of a song.

    By the time we got to the border, I was thirsty, deaf, and craving cheap cigarettes. It would have to wait, because I was not about to pay 5 dollars for a pack of smokes when I could walk 100 yards and buy one for 2. so we walked across the border; for all intents and purposes, it was myself, my buddy jimmy (who by this point I had known for 15 years), Toby, Nathan, and a plethora of people who will escape mentioning and description (partly because I forget, and partly because I don't give a shit).

    Before I continue, I must describe the guys in question.

    Jimmy-aka dimesack- 5'11'' skinny, white, republican, heavy drinker. HEAVY drinker.

    Nate-aka Steadman- 6'4'' brick house type of guy, we refer to him as our idiot savant because despite having a 4.4 GPA in high school he once said, "if we're gonna bone, we should prolly go out." drinks and smokes like a champ.

    Toby- aka Toby- 5'10'' regular sized, glasses could drink his fair share, but usually showed restraint (except on his 21st birthday, which will have to be another story all together.) he had a girlfriend who brought some friends with her.   (keep that in mind)

    So there's about 10 of us all together on the first bus, and another half dozen or so on the second bus, we decide not to wait, because Mexico is fucking sketch to begin with and no I don't want to buy any goddamn cheeklay. we saw some Mexican guy who was dressed almost dapper and was yelling "club safari" which is apparently where we were going to be headed that night, so we all walked with him to his cab.

    he gave us this look like, "uh, shit." but we were like "fuck it, it's Mexico, we wont get the ticket" and just like that 10 college kids standing on the curb became 10 college kids crammed inside a taxi. I refused to ride up front, because I hate riding shotgun with people I don't know, so Yo and Ryan jumped up there leaving me, Toby, Nate, Jimmy and all the girls for the back. We had 5 on the canvas bench seat sans seatbelts and 3 on the laps, and we were off.

    To say his driving was bad would be an understatement. It didn't help that I had a girl on my lap who was almost my size (truth) and who must have enjoyed my constant yelling "ow my balls" every time we hit a fucking pothole. By the time we hit the cab stand by the club, I was sure that my dick was dead. Thankfully it wasn't as I quickly relieved myself in a dark almost-alley crevice between two buildings.

    The ten of us got in line at the club and I bought a pack of Marlboro lights off this girl on the street who couldn't even have been 10 years old. I gave her 3 dollars and she smiled. The club manager came out and yelled some shit in Spanish, and the girl got scared and left with her mom and her sister. And my dollar.

    The club was empty when we got there, but we didn't care, we roll so deep that as long as we have some liquor, we'll be the spot. I jimmy and Nate and a couple others got two tables and we began drinking. Two beers at a time from the bar which was about 7 feet from the table I was sitting at.

                So we're sitting within a combat roll of the bar and drinking beers hand over fist as fast as we can pour them into our mouths. I take breaks every couple beers to smoke a cigarette or three and the college kids begin packing the place slowly as I get more and more drunk. Understand: I do not dance sober, and even though I do "dance" after a lot of booze, it only seems like dancing, that said, I was the designated table guardian.

I just sat there drinking beer after beer for at least two hours. I never had to wait in line, since when we first got there I put a five dollar bill in the guy's shirt who was pouring the Pacifico from the 40's in the ice chest into the college kids' cups. he was the first man I had ever purchased, because when he saw my giant head in behind one of the many sluts or bros in front of him he'd call me (almost by name) "gringo" to the front of the line for another two cups full and when I tried to put more money in his tip jar, he just said "no" and patted his chest pocket where Abe Lincoln sat alone.

By the time everyone got there from our little crew I was about ten beers deep and done with my first pack of cigarettes. One of the girls was tired, so I told her to "chill the fuck out. ima go find some cigarettes, you want anything?" but I left before she could answer, I didn't really care and would have either forgotten her drink or my cigarettes by the time I got to wherever the fuck I was going, and I was NOT prepared to give up the smokes. I started walking towards the chick-drink bar (aka bitch bar) where they were serving watered down jack and cokes to sorority girls, because it looked promising.

I made it to the bar and started making the universal sign for "smoke" with my hand, because I never took Spanish in high school or college and was, at this point probably too drunk to fake it. The bartender watched me for a good 10 seconds and says "we don't sell cigarettes inside, down the street."

Fuck that.

But God Damnit! I needed a cigarette, I made my way to the door when a guy in a yellow sport coat put his hand on my chest.

Guy: "heya, where you heading?"

Me: “cigarettes! Down the street!"

Guy: “come on, you serious? I’ll get you a pack; I wouldn't leave if I were you."

Me: “whatever, Marlboro lights dude."

The guy goes to the bar, walks behind it and comes back with a pack of Marlboro lights. I am now aware that he is a club manager or something like that and apparently college kids getting mugged or arrested would be bad for business, so he pulled some strings and sold me "the last pack." I paid him four bucks said thanks and walked back towards the table. of course I had to walk past the lying bartender, and I was drunk, and I like to shoot off at the mouth when I’m tipsy, but the club was too loud so I didn't waste my time. I stopped right in front of the bar and threw the wrapper on the ground, lit a cigarette and looked right at the guy who lied to me a 3 minutes before. I flipped him off, and returned to the table.

Fast forward to an hour later, because I don't really recall anything interesting besides a half dozen more beers and a cigarette with each one. I decide I want to go rub my crotch on some strangers, so I hit the dance floor. I was not easily missed, especially in my "club shirt." it was bright blue. Sky blue. I’m that guy. I was fat, but at least I wasn't the guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cabana hat making everyone dance and sing to stupid songs. You’re all welcome.

I walked around the club waiting for a decent looking lady to look at me and not giggle to her girlfriends. I saw a girl standing by herself on the other side of the floor, and I thought it'd be a good idea to go talk to her. She was wearing a bus bracelet like me, so I thought I’d strike up a conversation with her using that as an "in."

Me:"so's, yer wearin the bracelit for the bus?"

Her: "yeah." she smiles… interesting.

Me: "I realize my words are heavily slurred and I’m about 10 inches taller and easily 170 pounds heavier, but when I’m drunk I’m light on my feet."

Her: "are you asking me to dance?"

Me: "does that mean you won’t say no?" I grin, and she giggles. I grab her hand with my non-beer hand (I had switched from 2 to 1 so I could walk the floor.)

We dance for a bit in the middle of the floor and it's getting pretty hot. She is basically trying to fuck me through my clothes, and I don't mind. I finish my beer and toss it onto the ground, I’m really not caring about mother earth at this point, and it’s Mexico, so the litter bug song was not exactly ringing in my ears. Apparently she was really into me, and I was, well... drunk. She could have been hot, there is no certainty, but she was helping herself, and I dared not protest.

Until she unzipped my pants. Say what you will say about scoring, but having my dick out on the dance floor in a foreign nation with 500 of my closest and drunkest friends is definitely not my idea of a good time.

me:"hey hey hey. Hold it now."

Her: "what? You okay?"

Me: "dude, we're in a club"

Her: "no one’s going to see, come on, I don't mind..."

Me:" how about I get your number, I go get another beer, and we finish this back in the states after we get off the bus?"

Her: “ok."

She gives me her phone number, but I give her the phone to type in her name, since I don't know it... and she hands it back to me as I zip up. I head back across the dance floor and see Toby and Nate hanging out at the table with Toby’s girlfriend and one of her friends. I wink at them as I walk to the front of the line and get two more beers and bring them back to the table. I plop one down in front of Nate, who by this point is sweating like usual. Dancing with him was probably like having him guard you in basketball, except with a boner, I’d rather not think about it, but the ladies seemed to dig it, so more power to him.

It was at this time that I caught wind of a doings. “A doings” is how we refer to shady shit, usually perpetrated by myself or jimmy. Toby’s girl brought her friend to be set up with jimmy. Jimmy is an asshole, and I mean that in the best sense of the word. He has this charm about him that allows him to tell a girl that she's useless and ugly, and then inside of ten minutes be making out with her. (As an aside, I would like to point out that no one ever brings a friend to set up with me, which is fine, because I am an asshole in the bad sense, where I tell them they're useful and pretty, hook up and then tell them I lied.)

Jimmy finally stumbles back to the table, and by this time I’m dancing for fun with Toby’s girl because he is tired or sloppy drunk as is often the case; the real reason is for him to monitor the situation between jimmy and the girl, but jimmy is doing just fine, so Toby gets up and takes his girl back, leaving me to dance with another buddy's girlfriend while he is in the pisser. Which reminded me that I had to piss, and apparently so did my buddy's girlfriend. I didn't know where the bathrooms were, so I made her lead me across the now packed dance floor. It was trouble, a man of my size being pulled by a 5'0'' Japanese girl, and by trouble, I mean hilarious. She could fit through gaps I couldn't even see and not think anything of it, thus pulling me into unsuspecting people with each shoulder.

One guy had something to say about it.

Guy: “what the fuck man, I spilled my..."

Me: “they’re fucking free get over yourself." and I was gone, slipping in between more poor victims. it wasn't until we were halfway across the floor that she stopped pulling, and by the time I caught up to her I noticed her standing toe to toe and nose to tits with a black chick who easily went 5'9'' and a good deuce and dime. I could not exactly hear the words, or make them out in the darkness of the club and the haze of my intoxication, but all of a sudden, my friend let go of my hand and one punched this girl to the ground. I almost broke the seal in my pants, but instead I saw the door to the bathroom about 10 yards away and a pretty big hole, so I played fullback.

I grabbed her hand and jumped over her victim and pulled her to the bathroom line, which was about two or three girls long, but as we came up the bathroom door opened and I slingshotted her in.

Girl in line:"hey, we were in line! The fuck is that?"

Me: “she was going to shit her pants, she'll be out in a minute." and with that I ran into the men's bathroom. Or should I say the drain room, since the floor was sticky with piss and the flies buzzed like Japanese zeros in Pearl Harbor. I didn't wait for a position in the trough to open up, because frankly there was no fucking point. It was either get everyone's piss on my legs from the trough-splash or get mine on my shoes from the ground splash, and at this point pissing on my shoes was looking pretty good. I didn't even wash my hands, it wouldn’t' have done any good to touch those sink handles.

I ended up back at the table with another round of beers and saw jimmy making out with the girl. I turned to my left to hand a beer off to Toby, when I saw the girl to be set up with jimmy staring at him in awe. Apparently while I was taking a piss, jimmy had found his ex-girlfriend and began making out with her in front of his new friend. I looked at Toby who sat three feet from the brooding pair and he had his head in his hands, while his girlfriend stood behind her friend and rubbed her back.

This is when I hit scavenger mode. I tapped the girl on the knee.

Me: "hey don't worry, he thinks she is you, you should be happy."

Her: "thanks, but that really doesn't help."

Me: "after I finish this beer, let's dance; it'll do you no good not to watch, unless you're into that."

Her:" hurry."

I pound the beer and light two cigarettes, one for me and one for my dance partner. She doesn't smoke, so I end up having to tag team them both while trying to distract this girl from captain smooth and his ex. I look at Toby’s girl, and I give her the nastiest wink and smile I have ever given any human ever as her friend backed her ass up into me and stepped on my piss covered shoes. She half smiled and started talking to Toby again. Then it happened. (As I mention this, please note that this could be the first of the escape acts perpetrated by jimmy.) Jimmy jumped up and ran out of the club to the streets of Tijuana. It’s time to go. I look at my watch, it's 130 in the morning, and it’s fair to leave now after consuming so much alcohol. I smack the girl I’m dancing with one on her ass and grab my last beer. She grabs my wrist as I am leaving, but when I turned and looked at her, she was looking away, so I shook her off and kept walking.

We made it out of the club and were waiting for a taxi cab while jimmy sat on the curb un-digesting his dinner and desert. The club managers came out in the inconspicuous yellow sport coats and were begging us to come back inside until the cab got there. Jimmy, being the tough guy he is declined in very colorful language between purges, and we stuck by him. Our cabbie was nervous about letting us in his cab but I kept using my 20 beer Spanish

Him:"[Spanish Spanish Spanish]"

Me: "esta okay, no megusta, anda-lay"

Him: "Como"

Me: "anda-lay, speedy Gonzales, vroom vroom." I waved my hands about like I was aware of what I was trying to say, but I kept a straight face, so he believed me, or something, either way, we got into the cab, and after one and a half rosaries we were back at the border.

All the good friends were too drunk to remember to pay the cabby of course, so I got stuck with poor guy who no espeeka, and me who no comprendeme Espanol. I reach into my pocket and find my license and my cell phone but no cash. I yell at my fleeing friends but no one responds. It is at this point where I know what I have to do, and this is what makes me feel bad to this day. I began to cough violently in the back seat of the cab and stall while my friends got farther and farther away, and I got out, still coughing and double over in the gutter. He gets out and I wave him away, when his back is turned, I take one deep breath and let it loose.

By the time he turned around I was about 15 feet in front of the double-parked cab. He would be stupid to leave it there, running, with the keys in it, but he chased me for about fifty yards until I turned the corner and was in sight of the border area. By the time I got there, he was either tired, dead or pissed off and had given up. I caught up to my friends just in time for jimmy to regain consciousness and attempt to cross the border on his own accord. He stumbled, presented his ID to the immigration officer, and held onto the counter for dear life.

Guard: "reason for visiting Mexico."

Jimmy: "under aged drinking!"

Guard: "well, are you drunk right now son?"

Jimmy: "no, however I did puke after watching the donkey show." I and Toby were in stitches watching this, even though apparently it’s a pretty serious offense, or something.

Guard: "alright son, take it..." before he could finish talking, jimmy fell face down on the ground.

Jimmy: "U.S.A! U.S.A!" his chant echoed throughout the office and roused the sleeping marine in the customs office about a hundred yards into America. Of course Toby and I joined and the stunned customs official gave jimmy his i.d. back while he kissed the ground and kept the chant going. When I crossed I told the guard I had been fishing, he smirked. Toby, being half Mexican and fully drunk pretended to lose his license, but promised he was an American citizen. The guard did not find this very funny, especially since the chant was still going as strong as ever with an Indian family still on the Mexico side joined in briefly. Toby and I picked jimmy off the ground and firemen carried him to the bus past a laughing marine and an obviously scared detainee.

Jimmy wasn't done puking, but since it took place in America, it doesn't matter to the story. Just know that he never made it to the toilet, but the bag for his sleeping bag is surprisingly able to hold partially digested whiskey. I woke up next to the girl he was supposed to be with, spooning with her hair in my mouth. Needless to say nothing happened, we now refer to her as snaggletooth; not one of my finest moments. I never called the girl I met from the bus, who we dubbed the Club Hand Job Queen, or for short “hjq,” truthfully I still don't know her name because I lost my phone the next weekend and couldn't recover any numbers. Any girl who I talk to after a dozen beers is probably nothing to lose sleep over, so I just forgot about it.

And that is why I can never go to Mexico again, and why I hate it, and it hates me.

A cover letter where I actually got a phone interview

None of us have time for well-crafted nonsense, so I will skip it and get down to the brass tacks. I would be an asset to the page program. I have been in the industry for almost two years and have realized that time on the job is no match for experience. Currently as a production assistant in on air promotion I am regularly exposed to a side of the business I did not know existed before I showed up one morning as a temp, and while the network has been very good to me, I now realize that I need to make a step toward the experience that I need to realize my full potential.

Promo production is a delicate art. It is to the entertainment industry what poetry is to the literary world: under appreciated and painfully difficult. To be successful you need a natural set of abilities as well as a place to foster their growth. I have found the latter, which has shown me the absence of the former. A terrible shame, indeed but topping out early is not a bad thing. Time wasted is not time wasted if you emerge with a lesson. My lesson: move on.

The page program is set up for people like me; nose to the grindstone types with a ton of energy, discipline and determination to succeed no matter what obstacles lie ahead. I am a finisher, a go-getter, a smiling face and a kind heart, just waiting to be given an opportunity to show exactly how high I can soar. So much for leaving out the well-crafted nonsense, but aside from the border-line cliché, I genuinely feel like I will be an invaluable resource to any team, group or organization that cuts the leash and lets me run with the tools I have developed throughout my life.

I appreciate your consideration and hope to hear from you soon.

Dollar Beer Night

Applebee’s dollar beer night: Sunday through Thursday, from 9pm until midnight. Four good, young men descend from the other side of the tracks, the side of the tracks where the college kids live on their parents’ dimes. Four good, young men step out of the tan 1997 Volvo station wagon, walk slowly to the door and take seats at the bar. It’s dollar beer night.

            Even at such a bargain price, it is easy to run a sizable bar tab in just three hours; if you are dedicated; especially easy when you consider than none of the four young men are thinking clearly or rationally about how they intend to get home safely, or if.

I lost count at double digits. By then the beer foam has flooded my mathematical intuition. I am not even certain how much the bar tab was, I just took it, looked, wrote down a series of numbers, showed it to the bartender and asked what she thought. She nodded yes and pulled her head back quickly, so I figured that the tip I left would suffice. Normally, I would wake the next morning, still in my clothes from the night before and search my pockets to find, with surprise, a receipt. But this night was different. Upon leaving the restaurant, I lit the paper on fire and tossed it at one of my cohorts as he walked to the car.

It sank like a feather, eventually landing between his foot and his flip flop, sending him jumping off of the curb in shock, while at the same time causing our designated driver to full onto the asphalt nearly in tears from laughter. The “sober one” now rolling into and around an old oil stain, gets up, still laughing and brushes himself off. This is when we all realized the awful truth.

We were all too drunk to walk without laughing or talk without fighting. From the door to the car was only a distance of ten yards, and already three punches were thrown (one from the flaming paper incident, two more from an argument about “Carmen Elektra or Pam Anderson) and our DD was covered in parking lot motor oil.

We all sat on the curb: three smokers and a man trying to convince himself that he was “totally alright to drive.” After about two minutes, he conceded. “forget it, ya’ll can smoke in my car.” None of us were in any condition to protest, so we complied; back into the car and up university, over the tracks and out of trouble.

A Cover letter where I tried lying for the first time

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Gregory Boytos and I am ready to move on to bigger and better things at a bigger and better place. To go anywhere else would be a mistake; a regression. I can only imagine how amazing it would be to work for the company that has so all encompassingly entertained me for most of my natural life; a place that can only be what it is by having a team of dedicated, hard working and caring individuals that believe in the brand.

Growing up with a Marine for a father and an entrepreneur as a mother, the idea was work hard, work well and finish. For eighteen years, this was the recipe for success at home, in sports and school. In college it was the same, but then nobody was looking, so there was this open feeling. What would happen if I abandoned everything that had gotten me there? I never found out. My parents were good.

Work hard and you get to go out on Friday night. Work hard and you get an A. Get a bunch of A’s and you get a good student discount on your car insurance. Work hard and long and get a degree. Then what? Find a job, work hard, you will be rewarded, work harder and you will be rewarded more.

This is clearly an overly simple worldview. I never asked anyone what would happen if the reward ran out. If the company has not the positions to reward hard work with, what does the hardworking kid with tons of dreams do? I had to answer that one myself, which brings me to this resume, this application and the end of this letter. Thank you for your time. I hope to hear from you soon.

Best,

Gregory Boytos

Education Vs. Catastrophe re: southeast Asia (2007)

Part 2

            It may appear to some that the race between education and catastrophe is constantly being won by catastrophe, especially in Southeast Asia. This can be explored in several different ways. First one must approach it philosophically, that is to analyze the inherent differences between the two subjects. Second, one must attack the historical aspect, delving into specific examples in which catastrophe and education directly compete. Lastly one must consider the original question and answer, is catastrophe winning the race?

            If education is a remedy to catastrophe, it can only be applied in hindsight. Who can say what a person or a group of people knew prevented catastrophe with any reasonable certainty? Who can list all the catastrophes that did not happen, the ones that were narrowly avoided and the ones that education beat so convincingly, that not a soul noticed? Take the example of the great Ebola epidemic of 1990 in Vietnam. Was this an example of benevolent divine intervention, or did some type of education prevent this from ever occurring? Take the Tsunami of 2004. What type of education could have prevented this, and would it have been enough?

            Today, people acknowledge the inevitability of certain natural hazards. Earthquakes in Japan, monsoons all along the coastal nations of Southeast Asia, and the freshest in everyone on earth’s mind: tsunamis. We, as humans now have seen with ample human examples how much damage can be done when the forces of nature are underestimated. It is common knowledge that tsunamis can be destructive even to the most advanced structures available and the only absolute safety is found on high ground or inland. Does that prevent people from rebuilding near the coast?

            Education seems to be the solution to this problem. If the people who needed to rebuild by the coast would have better educations, they would not need the sea to subside, be it through fishing or the thriving tourist industry. They could move to the larger modern cities with better buildings and more central planning to assist in the event of an unpreventable natural disaster. However, once everyone vacates the rural villages and vacation areas, they will flood the cities with increased need for support industries and cannot grow as easily as one might think. Overcrowding is another problem here, and without the fishermen, who would feed the people working in the cities? Importing food would raise costs for a population that has been stripped of much of its ability to be self-sufficient by the lessons learned from the European occupation (Emergence, 407). It is most certainly a delicate balance to say the least: a balance between risk and reward. Where some industries can be entirely destroyed by disaster or catastrophe in a matter of hours, those same industries can thrive for generations with little or no difficulty. This is another problem with disasters and catastrophes; the people who did not live through them cannot adequately explain the magnitude of the disaster, so the precautions that need to be taken are often skipped or half done.

It would seem that on a worldwide scale, catastrophe is winning and always will win. What lessons could have prevented the devastation that colonialism brought upon most of the Southeast Asian region? Was there any relevant experience that could have prevented the wars, genocides and general exploitation that resulted from the European occupation of the area? The colonization of America resulted in the displacement of the Native Americans, and later with the importation of African slaves.

What lesson did the great nations of the world learn from this? They learned that natives are not able to fight at the level of the occupiers, a lesson that they understood when occupying Myanmar and the island sultanates and Spice Islands. The European colonists only needed to fight each other, and not with weapons. It was a trade battle with no losers, except the natives. They learned that free labor was extremely beneficial to the only official aim of the colonists: turning a profit. They learned that the natives could be worked almost to death, if not all the way as described in Tran Thu Binh’s memoirs (the red earth). The labor pool was almost inexhaustible and it truly did not matter how many died, it was almost more beneficial because if someone died before their contract was up, they would not need to be paid.

As cost effective as labor camps and plantations were, they could not last forever as new technologies came in to make certain things like rubber and rice less labor intensive. However, the lessons learned by the natives, who by this time were starting to get their independence, led them to fall into the same exploitative patterns as their former occupiers with the onset of sweatshops. Even if the shops were making things for foreign firms, the locals were still operating them like the Nike sweatshops described in Lecture 13. On the other hand, the reaction to events such as the sweatshops has shown a move by the Southeast Asian community away from such horrible practices as the Cambodian genocide under the Khmer rouge.

To be sure, there is never going to be a way to prevent catastrophe. Natural hazards and human nature will always be insurmountable obstacles. The major role of education is minimization; reducing existing catastrophes’ affect on the general populace. The worldwide response to the tsunami of 2004 is the best example of how this can be done. The Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) responded along with the United Nations (U.N.) and countless non-governmental organizations to cut the dead count and save those that would have most certainly died if left to fend for themselves.

Another example is outlined in David Chandler (et al’s) book The Emergence of Modern Southeast Asia, where he and his co-authors suggest another catastrophe, which is more difficult to measure. With all of the new technology available, it now becomes easier to get out of the place where you and your ancestors have lived for generations, if not by airplane, train, car or boat, then with a television, newspaper or book. De-culturization is a new problem that needs to be addressed not only in the Southeast Asian region, but worldwide. Chandler coins a phrase called “Coca-colonization” (Chandler, 406). This is one catastrophe that only education can prevent. In the future, governments will need to spend more time on developing culture in their constituents. Films like “At Home at Sea,” by Fruto Corre where such things were explored have been sponsored by government organizations for just this purpose.

All in all, catastrophe is unstoppable, and as previously stated education can only minimize catastrophe. When poor examples are set by occupying nations or by world super powers, all the countries that watch and seek to be like that great nation will emulate, leaving education responsible for catastrophe as well. In the future the races between education and catastrophe will be more and more narrow, but on the whole, catastrophe will always win. Education simply cannot beat human nature or nature itself.

Softball: A memoir chapter 3 "Time to get Serious"

            After uniting our top guys with the other team, we had to name our team. Since the Alpha Male – Taylor liked to drink and for some reason wore knickerbockers to every game we called ourselves the drunken golfers. We all liked to drink, actually. Or we all drank a lot, I can’t say who liked it and who had a compulsory need to embibe, but the line was never quite solid as far as I was concerned. Also, I wanted very badly to own and operate a set of knickerbockers but never did.

            The guys from my team were my Mexican math nerd roommate, Jose, our neighbor Austin “zoolander,” who was a volleyball player stoner burnout, Jason the boss,  Jason’s friend Matt who was in no way affiliated with the university, and myself, who we have met already.

Jose had never had a drink or smoked a cigarette or marijuana when I met him. He was a tennis player and a cross country runner and must have been part Dominican because he was better at softball than one would expect of someone with no official experience. The last time I saw Jose, he was describing to me how awesome credit cards were because you didn’t need to have the money to buy the things you wanted but you could still get them.

Austin was one of those natural athletes who was somehow good at everything seemingly without trying. He had to set an alarm in order to wake up in time for night time Laker games and slept on an air mattress because he kept his laundry on his bed. He would drop out of college a year later after telling his father that he knew he had to get better grades otherwise he’d be a forty year old loser working at a grocery store, which, coincidentally was a spot-on description of his step-mom, which his father took quite personally and cut him off financially.

Jason and Matt were from Chicago. Something about guys from big cities east of the Mississippi draws them to genuinely love baseball and everything related to it. These two were no different. They used to play ball, but as the talent pool got more and more competitive, they washed out, not by choice, and now they had something to prove. Jason was my RA’s boss, which, in light of the tone and name of the team, would complicate things in the future. His friend Matt was working as an accountant for a bar about ninety miles away and was crashing at Jason’s place for free until he could get on his feet and get situated. They were alright dudes.

The other team was, as best as we could tell, a grouping of mechanical engineering seniors. Taylor was the captain, Jacob, Shaun, Pete, Jorge and a few other guys rounded out the squad. They were nerds, but a new type of nerd, which I had never experienced. They had built a kegerator with an hydraulic runner board which made possible the one-man-keg-stand. Usually people use great intelligence for fun in comic books, so when I heard of this, their most notable creation I was baffled. I decided to stop judging before they turned it back on my fat ass. It was a sweet machine, too.

Taylor was a professional caliber in line skater. Jacob was a baseball kid who caught the smart bug and chose the more realistic path. Shaun was blond. I never really got to know Shaun very well. His girlfriend Myra worked as a cleaning lady in the dorms where I lived which was strange because despite my humble upbringing I had never considered “the help,” as rich people say, as someone who I would interact with, or respect aside from the obvious. She was a very nice girl and taught me to separate the person from the job. Not that there’s anything wrong with the cleaning industry, but firsts are firsts. Pete was the worst guy on the team. He was fat like me. He wore a hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. I went home and cut the sleeves off of my hooded sweatshirt because to me it seemed that his sleeveless hoodie was the source of his self esteem and I wanted some more; or it could have been a form of body armor to hide his body under baggy cotton but keep his arms free and I wanted that too. Jorge was a cross country runner for the school. He was slight and quick and insisted upon wearing those short running shorts for either comedic effect or just plain homo-eroticism.

There were two leagues in the intramural softball all male category: student groups, for fraternities and clubs; and independent for people whose only connection was the fact that they wanted to play softball together. Our main competitors were the Walruses, a group of middle aged professors. Second to them was the History Department whose name nerdily rotated season to season, one oblique specific reference after another including “The Mensheviks,” “Gaius Julius Softball,” and the ever popular “KMD,” which I thought was a bit insensitive but never said anything outloud because I was a history major and they were all my professors and TAs.

I say main competitors because these were the only teams who consistently showed up beyond the first routing we handed to them. Usually it would work like this: we would show up to the field ninety minutes before game time, or as close to that as possible, with beer or beer money. We’d pool our resources, assess the supply and either start warming up or go on a run. By the time the other team showed up we’d been on the field for an hour taking grounders and batting practice, mistakes punishable by taking a drink. It wasn’t psychological warfare, or it wasn’t intended as such. These guys worked so hard at school that when they cut loose they cut hard and I was along for the ride because they were older, hence cooler.

Jason and Matt always showed up right at game time because of their grownup jobs. I never drank in front of Jason because I was only eighteen and he was directly in charge of my living situation, which could be negatively effected in the light of such laws being broken. Either way, it was a don’t ask don’t tell situation. Until one night after some Christian group didn’t show up, we headed over to a local pizza joint for some dinner.

Taylor was a regular here, and one of the guys, Gus worked at the place. I sat down across from Jason and wasn’t paying attention until Jason and I both made to take a sip at the same time. The tension was palpable. Here I was sitting across from someone who’s job it was to supervise the people in charge of my general health and well being, part of which was enforcing the rule of a dry campus, and reporting any laws being broken to the proper authorities. We both froze. Jason was more panicked than I. He put his beer down and looked me right in the eye. “I’m just a guy.”

He was just a guy. He was just a guy having a couple beers with some pizza because the other team didn’t show up to meet his challenge. I was just a guy too. A guy who could have been twenty-one for all this other guy knew. It was the duty of the pizza place to check my ID, not his. This pizza place was near where this guy worked, and where the other guy lived, but not at either place. I shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and I took a sip. I call this night the birth of the softball mafia. Now softball wasn’t just a sport I was good at or a place I fit in, it had transcended my newest reality and was now more important than the rules I had just spend months learning.

It was understood that I should not say anything. I would never. But as an Italian I knew that not saying anything was different than not knowing anything. I knew now that while I still owed this man my respect and still had signed a contract to obey the rules of the building I inhabited, things weren’t so cut and dry any more. After that night my behavior never changed, but my attitude did. Softball had suddenly become a common denominator that was more important and relevant than his job or the laws of the state of California. Softball let me demonstrate that I was mature in context. I still abused alcohol on and off the field, but as a testament to my character, or cleverness I never got to out of control. Or he looked the other way if anything I ever did came up because he feared I would sink him, which I doubt because what formed that night over those cheap domestics was a friendship, an unlikely one, facilitated by softball.

Later that year, I applied to be an RA for the following year. I made it through group interviews just fine on my own, as I was well regarded in the housing community for my active participation, thanks to my heightened self esteem. When it came time for one on one interview signups, I was summoned to Jason’s office. I was given a time and location. When I showed up, expecting a panel of interviewers to pour through my qualifications and ask all the bullshit questions, I found only Jason. I don’t know if I nailed the interview or not, but I got the job.

This was my first lesson in nepotism; or it should have been. I am still working on that whole concept, but this was my first real experience in it. I am sure I was qualified enough to be an RA, but the fact is clear that my softball prowess and the maturity I showed that night, and every subsequent night of softball and boozing, had given me an outside the box advantage which I was not consciously aware of.

So by the time I had my second championship softball had given me a job, a place to live, fourteen meals a week, two t-shirts, strengthened my relationship with my roommate, made us and our neighbor into a strange multi-cultural triumvirate, introduced me to the concept of cool nerds, taught me how to interact with males who I hadn’t grown up with, given me a sense of belonging that I lacked after leaving the place and people that had shaped my existence, and most importantly I think, I had lost about twenty-five pounds. After all that softball had given me so far I still didn’t have the love for the game as I do now looking back.

What I knew I liked was the camaraderie, and the winning, which we did a lot of. We didn’t win our first season as a team. The Walruses edged us out in the championship game. We were undefeated until that game. It was a bummer. Luckily it was the winter season so we only took a two week hiatus before we were back out there for the spring. The spring of 2003 would end with one of the most intense softball games I have ever been a part of in my entire life.

It was the championship game. We had beaten the Walruses and KMD in the quarters and semis respectively, and I mean that as a correlational device, not as an adverb. We were hungry and out to prove something so we ran up the score on both of them and invoked the mercy rule. The tournament was held on one day in June. June in riverside is hot. I mean triple digit hot. Couple that with the binge drinking and the lack of shade on softball fields in general and there was definitely an element of danger involved. So we made the smart move and ran up the score to minimize exposure time and conserve our energy for the team we expected to meet in the finals: the team we hadn’t had a chance to play all season because they were on a different night; the team we would never get a chance to play again because they would return to the student group league as soon as their suspension was lifted at the end of the year.

The Fijis. Phi Gamma Delta. They were our only shot to prove ourselves. They were in the independent league for one quarter and they were as dominant as us, if not more. They brought fans. They brought a lot of fans. They brought so many fans, they filled up two bleachers. The fans were as drunk as we were. The fans were fijis too, but not adequate ball players, just gym rats and meat heads. I hadn’t much experience with fraternities at this point in my college career because I was still into punk rock and got my friends for free, whatever that meant.

They thumped us for three innings. At the end of the third it was 17-4. At the end of four innings, if one team is up by ten runs or more, the game is over. The pressure was on and the sun had set on the day. We were playing under the lights like normal. The only thing different was the dried sweat from drinking all day in the sun and the amount of time we’d already invested on our benders. We settled into our small ball strategy and got a run and a guy on base. It was Jorge’s turn to bat and the crowd started jawing at him. His shorts were gay. His shorts were really gay. I don’t know how many dicks he had to suck to get those shorts either, but the homerun he hit should have shut the crowd up because it extended the game.

It would have shut the crowd up had he not jumped onto the backstop like a lizard, humping air and yelled “Who’s the faggot now?!” Because if there’s one way to rile up a bunch of half drunk douchebag frat boys it is to jump onto a backstop like a lizard, hump the air and yell “who’s the faggot now?!” It was like a scene from a gnarly prison movie. Lots of giant white dudes yelling and pounding on the fence separating them from a little brown man in tiny shorts.

The tone of the game changed at that point to one of spite and animated violence. Everyone smelled the blood in the water and the feeding frenzy was on. Every batter of ours had something to say to the crowd and the crowd gave it right back. Their team left their dugout to stand with the crowd and be rowdy, our team stayed in ours, but we were dehydrated so the alcohol in our blood was running wild and made us loud beyond control.

By the end of the sixth inning when we scored the go ahead run, Jorge, who had told us on no uncertain terms that he didn’t care where Pete played and was going to play catcher, had whipped the crowd into a frenzy. I began to fear for my safety. There were about sixty people over there to our twenty, and our twenty were mostly flops and drunks and all nerds. Their fans had now spread onto our side of the bleachers. We were surrounded. We were winning but at what cost. Clearly our drunkenness had gotten into the heads of our competitors and their fans, but now they didn’t care about softball and sought personal vindication.

I had only invested a year in softball, and at that only one night a week. I was not looking forward to getting my ass kicked for such a new interest. I had never been in a fight, or a proper fight at least, so the chance that I would come out on top was especially slim. I imagined myself panicking, tucking into a ball and catching a beat down, then subsequently losing the respect of my fellow troops, making the previous year a wash as far as all of the things I’d gained. I projected shame on myself and stopped participating in the yelling in the hopes that it would somehow translate on the back end to less of a beating.

At a certain point in the top of the final inning, Jorge was taking time between every pitch to bang on the fence or throw the ball at the fence or yell at the rapidly angering lynch mob, or all three, and that coupled with their response was slowing the game down. The umpire threatened a forfeit for the next team that delayed the game in such manner. Not wanting to win or lose in that fashion, everyone pretended to calm down.

We won and shook the other teams’ hands. We beat them fair and square and drunk. We stood in the middle of the field and celebrated modestly. We were worn out. All of us were more than capable of drinking all day in the heat, or playing a bunch of softball games back to back, but few of us were capable of both plus what was about to happen. We turned to the stands expecting a rabbling wall of pitch forks and torches, but instead saw the stands empty into the parking lot slowly and orderly.

Everyone was calm but me at this point. I was a ball of anxiety. I had essentially planned my own beating and prepared for it. I withdrew from the present into the future and had already made a negative decision about the outcome that was still only a distinct possibility. I had panicked. It was a reaction based on my residually low self esteem and my lack of control of the situation and my impaired judgement. I didn’t get a chance to celebrate initially because I was so wrapped up in my imaginary worst case scenario. I was incomparably relieved when I saw that this all was going to end peacefully and I enjoyed that feeling more than the feeling of winning the tournament, more than the two home runs I hit during the game – but not more than grabbing my crotch as I crossed home plate for the second one.

Ten years of baseball and I had never seen a fight on the field or about the game. Well, I saw one, but it was between two coaches and I think it had a bit more to do with their intertwined histories than whatever happened between innings to make one of them wrap his hands around the others’ throat. Plus I wasn’t at risk in that fight. This fight saw my ass on the line in a way I had never experienced before. Softball was more intense than I had ever imagined.

I was happy we could win that game and that championship. Because as far as I knew, the bulk of the team was graduating, and Jose and Austin had neglected to secure a place to live for the next year meaning they’d never come back to college which left just Jason and me. It was triple catharsis. Going out on a high note this time. The past wrongs were righted and I was at peace with my baseball shortcomings. I had successfully compensated for the inequities of my past and accomplished so much more than I ever thought I would when I signed up at the hall meeting nine months previous.

I said my goodbyes to the field, wished everyone could stay in college forever so we could keep winning at softball and I could keep this feeling, then headed to the after party where I rode the high all the way into the hot blond chick’s pants, or shirt. I grabbed her boobies but the sun was coming up and we were pretty sure Jose’s alcohol poisoning was serious so we cut it out, but I had secretly wished all year to squeeze those cans and for it to happen on that night made that night the best of my life to date. I hadn’t hated myself for awhile at that point. Some would even suggest I was happy, and while I’d been happy my whole life, this happiness on this night was a more copious brand that was yet unfamiliar and extremely welcome.