Going Out With A Whimper

And so, the school year draws to a dramatic close.

Really. This weekend was Spring Weekend and when I stepped out of my dorm room, the hallway was littered with broken glass, someone was trying to set things on fire, the furniture was overturned, and I won't even begin to tell you what it looked like outside the dorm building.

So now, with the fun done and the merriment over, we, the college students, have one thing and one thing only to look forward to.

Or dread.

Or fear.

Okay, dread and fear.

The time has finally come upon us, and we are all wondering how, year after year, it arrives so stealthily and then strikes, sinking poisonous claws into our flesh and making us flop about pathetically and I'll get to the point right now, we have final exams now.

Finals. FINALS. Cue the organ music. FINALS.

Our educational value culminates in a series of two-hour long exams which are held at the end of the year. We are told when they are and at least three months in advance we go into long-term depression. We also study, yes, but the depression is more important. Anyone looking forward to them is ostracized and we drive them away with pitchforks and torches.

That explains, I guess, why someone was trying to burn something in my suite. We must have had a supporter in there . . .

Projects are due, also. That term paper? You didn't start it yet? Oh dear, you appear to be ABSOLUTELY SCREWED!!!! YOU'RE DOOMED! NOTHING CAN SAVE YOU NOW!

Also, if you are taking a lab, then eyour final thesis and your last experiment must be performed soon, and your final story is due in literature class, and your last photo project is due in your communication class, and your astronomy journal is due for your astronomy class, and your media critique is due for your newspaper analysis class, and everything is due, due, due, so you will suffer from due-depression.

Nope, not funny. Let's move on.

In a few days, we will establish quiet hours. This means that everyone who didn't study now has the time to, and they are done for anyway, but let us let them dream by forcing everyone in every dorm to be absolutely quiet and still and not play loud music, therefore enabling them to study in peace.

I dare you to press your ear against the wall when this happens. You will hear crying, sobbing, and the downing of Red Bull energy drinks like there is no tomorrow.

For some of us, that just may be the case.

I Scream, You Scream, No Ice Cream Involved

So, I've learned something. Apparently, today is National Stressed Out Day. As opposed to the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days we suffer through in a year, this day is special because we are ALL supposed to be

1) Stressed
2) Proud of it
3) Likely drunk

We can be happy today. We can stand tall and proud and say to those idiots who have patience and resolve and work ethics "We are completely stressed out and teetering on the very edge of critical mental meltdown, but we are PROUD OF OURSELVES!"

And what do you have to show for yourself, you calm, patient people? Huh? What good are you? We're stressed! We're out of it! And YOU, you quiet, efficient, successful lot - you are all LOSERS.

Nope. Doesn't make any more sense when you put it in writing.

So we're supposed to all be stressed today? Well, it being the closing of the school year, college students everywhere are likely in the death-grip of exams and realizing halfway through their algebra exams that the batteries in their calculators are about to run out and they've neglected to bring spares. Also, the IRS has probably rounded up all those people that have tried to bury the red envelopes in the backyard. Lastly, everyone graduating is probably in tears that their dress . . . sorry, graduation gowns aren't even the right size.

Mine made me look like some sort of tent. I was half expecting clowns and elephants to rush out from under my feet during my high school graduation. Would have certainly made the ceremony interesting.

So we're stressed. I'm stressed, you're stressed, he's stressed, she's stressed, everybody within range and out of range and in between is stressed.

I think this day has been successful so far, don't you? And look only, 8:24 in the morning.

But! What of those of us who are not stressed enough? That patient, quiet lot who think themselves better than us? Obviously, something must be done at once.

I propose that we deal with them quickly.

- Jam them full of caffiene. We're talking coffee, coffee, coffee, and energy drinks. And coffee.
- Lace any food they eat with pills. I don't know which, take your pick.
- Assess their current workloads, then triple them.
- Act spiteful and nasty towards them at all moments of the day until they break.
- Muss up their hair and put eyeshadow under their eyes to give the appearance they're wild-eyed and half-awake like decent, normal people.
- Ask them repeatedly "Are you stressed?" Given time, this will make it so.

We have an agenda, people. This is NATIONAL STRESSED OUT DAY. Let's make the best of it, and let's raise hell. Now get out there, and fall down.

We Have A Major Malfunction

We depend on our technology. It depends on us. See, we had to turn it on in the first place, and now that we have, it is hard to both turn off and keep from climbing into our brains at night and hardwiring itself into minds. But this is besides the point.

Technology. Technology. Tech-nolllll-oooooo-geeeeeee. Say it with me.

Okay, that's enough of that.

It has come to my attention that the average person leaves the house in the morning with several pieces of technological nonsense on their person. I, myself, usually leave my room with three.

- Cell phone
(enables people to reach me at all times, giving me no escape whatsoever, therefore I leave it off nine out of ten times and say, "Oh, darn, forgot to turn the little rascal on" when mother leaves five voice messages telling me the purpose of a phone is to let others call you)
- Mp3 player
(enables me to mouth out the words to any song I wish, and even create a little dance as I move gleefully about my day, convincing everyone who catches me lip-syncing and dancing that I, yes, have succumbed to the madness)
- Laptop computer
(enables me to connect to the internet, share my thoughts, download my files, finish my work, store my photos, and to generally allow myself to drop all self respect as I am that nerdy guy who has to carry his special computer everywhere or else he feels part-naked)

Others have more than me, I'm sure. Some carry those weird little personal computer pads you write your notes on, as paper is so yesterday. Then there are those with the cell phone earpiece always in, and appear to be talking to themselves.

Admit it. Those people are hysterical. They say the strangest things out loud and we get to laugh.

BUT (yes, there is a but) what happens when it all goes down?

Recently, my mp3 player has fallen on hard times. Possibly dropping it several times has something to do with it. And my laptop's wireless has also taken a hit. Possibly due to dropping this several times as well. And my phone . . . well, no, that's fine. Just greasy.

Don't ask.

There comes a time when our bag of cybernetic tricks and tools spills open and, oh dear, technology seems to have failed us.

Actually, we dropped it, left it in the rain, forgot to turn it off, or surged three thousand pure voltes of electricity through it, so the argument can be made that WE have failed TECHNOLOGY.

Are you not glad you're reading this? Have a paradoxical day.

What do you do, at any rate, when this happens? Not the three thousand volts thing, but when technology breaks?

There's a gap. You're nervous. Because your phone won't ring incessantly, you feel lonely, don't you? You may even have to use . . . a HOUSE PHONE! The agony! Or perhaps you will have to content yourself by humming your own music. Let's hope you have a sense of tune.

There's nothing I can do about the laptop. Get over it.

Point is: we are dependent on technology. It is an integral part of our days, but not because we use it. Technology is like that pesky thirteenth finger that your mother and father gave you when they made love in a puddle of toxic goo - it was unwelcome at first, but now that it has shriveled up and vanished, you miss it.

If your phone doesn't ring, if your laptop isn't weighing down your back, and if your ear isn't clamped with a clip-on ear phone, you realize there is something missing from your day, something physically missing from your ordinary appearance.

And that worries us.

Red Tape Gag

I'll be honest with you - this world was made by God and then the people came and wrapped it up in red tape. It is there, the protective layer which shields us from the sun's ultraviolet rays, and gives us a nice comforting feeling (sort of like being suffocated, but slowly). And in time, we've all come to accept and even cherish it.

I say, the hell with it.

Red tape. Red tape? I don't even know where the phrase came from. Yes, I could actually sit down and do some legitimate research on the issue, but I don't care to. I'll remain ignorant so I can remain angry.

Nowadays, especially on this campus, things are done only with red tape attached. You can't send an email, you can't write a paper, and heaven help you if you sneeze without red tape. Policies, rules, regulations, and hidden meanings are on every last surface.

For instance: the theater group this year was told by an excited new member that his mother's friend was throwing out a sofa, and we should go get it because it might make a good prop or just another place to sit on backstage.

The fallout:
- The Elected Student Board sprang into action
- A committee was elected to discuss the benefits of getting the sofa
- A subcommittee was elected to discuss the faults of getting the sofa
- A debate was held over who would get a truck to get it and whether it was far away or not so the gas would make the couch unneccessary
- A debate was held over whether, since the couch was free, we should pay compensations to the previous owners or not
- A ballot was turned in on the issue
- Consideration was taken over what possible value the couch might play in our futures
- The president of the Elected Student Board made her final statement and created a committee to go and get the couch

I am not kidding. Not one bit, I swear it. We couldn't just go get the stupid couch, we had to vote on it and wear through a political debate. In high school, we would have said, "Yeah, sure, let's go get it!" No, not here.

Things that are simple are not, anymore. Meetings are held for the smallest thing, and what you think you can do yourself is illegal.

Now, my issue: I found an internship. Without the help of the college. Upon turning my paperwork into the school for a college signature, the place fell into panic and I was told

A) Since I did not find it through the school, it does not technically exist
B) I likely don't have a good enough GPA or credit amount because I'm a sophomore
NOTE: they found out I did and were stunned, and said that no sophomore my age ever does
C) Told me that the internship wasn't good enough, probably, so they had to send out papers to the job to prove it was good enough
D) Said that the situation was out of my hands now, they'd take care of everything

You get my point.

There is no simplicity. There is no ease.

Form A must be filed before Forms B through Z can be accessed. And meetings will be held, and juries will go out, and the government will shut down for the day.

Because we must respect, remember, and remain faithful to the freakin' red tape.

The Muffin Man-Handled

I am a thief. I was one yesterday too, and I'm one again today. See, I stole a muffin.

Get your mind out of the gutter this instant.

It is that time of year when those bright-eyed and eager little children I refer to as the vermin that descend upon this campus like a swarm of locusts upon Egypt or Hilary Swank, the pestilence that threatens to consume us all like crops and leave nothing but the barest remains drifting in the wind, finally arrive.

I'm talking about the incoming freshmen.

They come this time of year. They roam in groups, with their parents, all about the campus, running here and there and looking into everything. They buy everything in the bookstore from sweatshirts to shot glasses, so long as it has the name of the college on it. They poke their heads into the gym, into the laundry room, and into the dorm rooms. For crying out loud, they even bring cameras.

Vermin. Pestilence. A PLAGUE!

BAH! I spit on them. And shake my fist at them. Ever since a group walked in on me in my pajamas while I was doing laundry on a Sunday during my freshmen year, I have never had much love for the tourists.

In the spirit of honoring their arrival, the faculty and the administrators have decided to put up fresh flowers, to throw clean tablecloths over the tables, to smile extra broadly when they walk past. This is to give a good image.

And now, we come to my theft.

When these guests come, the front Admissions Hall is decked out in lively colours. It is also the place where a table is placed, sagging under the weight of a large plate of the most delicious food the campus can offer:
- Fresh fruit
- Fresh breads
- Fresh muffins

The last was my undoing.

When this happens, they put out the giant muffins. The put out the muffins that are so large they are made in a bigger pan than the normal ones in the dining hall, all to foster the image that we are looked after here with giant muffins. Well, that isn't true! It is all a lie! There are no giant muffins for us students, just you vermin! VARMITS!

So, yesterday, hungry as a bear and miserable as a porcupine who realized that, yes, the duckies and bunnies are just so much more cuddly, I stormed into the Admissions Hall before anyone entered. I crossed straight to the table and snatched a giant corn muffin, then made my getaway.

It was good. Oh, heaven help me, it was good. It was SO GOOD . . .

I had to have more. When you steal something meant for prospective clients/freshmen, it just tastes so much better. Unless it is stationary you're stealing, in which case it isn't quite as succulent.

But it was GOOD. So I had to have more. So, today, even after a big breakfast, I snuck back into the Admissions Hall and stole another. It is here, right next to me, wrapped in napkins and begging me to eat it.

They're that good. And now, I'm a thief, a fiend, a miscreant. I am a muffin thief, enslaved by my lust and desire for larger-than-average-sized corn muffins, yellow like corn and shaped like muffins and soo delicious they are sinful.

I must have more.

The Stormy See

It doesn't matter what the weather channel says. It doesn't, so turn off the television already and save yourself at least half an hour of television commericals with a smiling weather girl slipped in between the time slots for dog chow and soft drinks.

If it looks like it is going to rain, just ask that deep feeling within yourself: your soul.

If you don't have one, purify it first and try again. I reccommend holy water.

Look at the sky. Is it cloudy, is it overcast, doth bolts of angry lightning split the horizon in two? These are pretty good indications that there is going to be some rain. Also, if little balls of ice begin to fall from the sky and hit you on the head, that's another good indication that there's a storm coming.

I am actually embittered towards the weather channel, thank you very much. I have my reasons, I have my grudges to hold.

A few days ago, I had an internship interview in Cape Cod. Those few days ago, there was a storm which lasted for many days and many nights. Rain poured upon the world and Cape Cod was nearly washed out to sea as I sat in an office. However, there wasn't a single mention of it on the television as, hey, it is JUST RAIN, nothing to worry about.

Of course, with this upcoming "Noreaster" that was supposed to blow in this weekend, the weather channel was up in arms. Concerned looks and furrowed brows greeted you on every channel, everyone was running for their rain parkas. And when I rushed home from the Cape , just to beat this supposed storm, it did not come after me.

No floods. No hail. No lightning. Just a whistling wind and a downward rain.

That was it.

I sat in my car, feeling miffed about being mislead by the weather service. When I arrived back at the campus, I lay in bed that night and the wind beat so hard against the windows that I even dreamed I was somewhere back on the Cape, just a foot away from the ocean.

Nope.

The storm did not come. Sure, it rained. Sure, it is windy. But this storm I was PROMISED did not crush the world into pieces and bury us all in the snow that was advertised, and therefore I shake a fist at the media for their falsified weather report.

The next time they report bad weather, I'm not budging. If they report a tornado, I'll wait until my house gets blown clear athrough the stratosphere before I say to myself, "You know, maybe I should get moving."

Hard-Hitting Journalism

You do not have to agree with everyone in this nation. This nation is America, by the way, just to explicitly clarify that I'm in America and not Australia or France or anywhere else. At any rate, you don't have to agree with everyone.

Free speech. Freedom of press. Freedom to wave a semi-automatic with a license. This is a miraculous land of magic and beauty.

I will kill him. I will kill him, I will kill him.

People have points of view. You are allowed to express them. I have certain ones of my own - I won't go into them here, but they concern every now and then a lot of issues today and I don't mind expressing them but for the sake of my point, I won't - and I can say them and be happy with them. True, Joe Schmoe down the block may think contrary, but so what? He's allowed to. I'm allowed to, as well.

We can all say that everyone can agree to disagree.

I will kill him. I will kill him slowly.

Defend the right to say what you want. And accept one thing: you don't have to agree with everyone else. If you are pro-abortion, then no one can roar at you that you MUST be anti-abortion. If you are for the war in Iraq, no one should be allowed to scream in your face that you CAN'T support the war in Iraq.

You have viewpoints. You are allowed to have them. So is everyone else, even those who just go around expecting everyone to conform.

I will kill him quickly, instead.

Now, for my issue, there are also those who you know that have a view contrary to your own. Suppose, however, they are a friend. Or were a friend, in this case. So you say that Situation A is right, while he one day decides to unveil his thoughts that Situation B is better whereas Situation A is immoral or stupid or just plain weird.

For all you know, I'm talking about the whole You-Can't-Wear-Sock-With-Sandals topic.

In this case, I opened the newspaper on campus and looked at the editorial section and came across my "friend" with his column and his viewpoint which was definitely contrary to mine, but in such a hurtful way that I decided at once to

Kill him. I am going to obliterate him.

and furthermore decided that I would think of him as an idiot.

See, that's what I can do.

I intend to do the following when I see him today. I intend to go up to him and whack him off the back of the head with a rolled up newspaper and snarl loudly in his face. I intend to tell him that he is a jerk (maybe not that word, but you get the drift) and to tell him that his viewpoint hurt me.

Of course, you know what might happen. He'll claim I'm trying to squelch his freedom of speech. I will remedy this by saying the following:

"You are allowed to pick any view you want, that's your right. You have free speech and free this and that and everything, it's all your right. I still have the right to say that your viewpoint clashes with mine, and I respect your viewpiont completely, but I think you are a right jerk. You are a jerk, and you are insensitive, and you are no friend of mine, and you are a jerk. Jerk, jerk, jerk."

And I'll hit him with the newspaper again and storm away, vindicated by the law and my spirit.

I might not kill him after all. This would be enough.

Because, this is America. And you have the right to believe that anyone, anywhere can be an honest to goodness jerk.

Amen.

Well, This Just Sox . . .

I am neutral. I'll say that now, I am neutral. I do not take part in the gigantic orgy of screaming and writhing that we associate with the opening day of the Red Sox. I prefer to stand on the side and watch.

At any rate, there is no way to avoid this sort of thing here at my school. From sunup to sundown, if you are in New England then you will be dragged into the madness we have come to associate with opening day.

In my case, it got worse.

- First of all, I went without dinner. This is possibly due to the fact that there was a line from here to next Tuesday just to get into the dining hall for the special all-hot dog meal. We're talking everything from your everyday Fenway Frank to good old brautwurst.
- Next, the campus was literally buried in decorations. Well, at last the dining residences, but it will spread, I know it. I right now have a baseball-shaped hat sitting next to me at this computer . . . and I'm in the library.
- At night, someone set off fireworks over by the townhouses. I don't know where they came from, and I didn't even know that we had fireworks salesmen in this state, but we do, and they did, and there we are.

Fireworks, hot dogs, decorations, lines. This will escalate.

How do I know this? Because, for instance, the nearby lake tends to get littered with things this time of year. New York Yankees fans, for instance. Also, two of my teachers are devout Red Sox fans and tend to work their hatred for the Yankees into their lessons.

"So, let's pretend that the Yankees owed about fifty-thousand dollars to the Red Sox because they suck and we hate them. We'd call this interest, and this account gets closed at the end of the accounting year."
"Alright, as we all know, anyone in this room who is a Yankees fan doesn't get a full grade. Just kidding. No, seriously, is anyone in this room a Yankees fan?"

The season has begun, I will get no sleep.

Hurrah. Go Sox.

Blame The Name Game

A phrase you have to learn and exercise during any sort of social event is "Hey, you."

No, I am not kidding.

I know a lot of people. Wait, check that - I have many aquaintances. At some point or another, I have come in contact with more than three million people during my college career. Students, teachers, honored guests, and esteemed faculty members. I have met the President of the school and his wife, the wife of the Dean and her husband, the Dean, and many many others.

There's always a problem with this sort of thing: after meeting at least a million people, you will remember at least a thousand. And out of that thousand, you will remember the name of half of them.

This isn't to say that you're a bad person. No, this just says you're human. Unfortunately, so am I, so therefore I forget them too.

There's no problem, though, right? We just don't have to care because we won't have to see these people again for the rest of our lives. I mean, what are the chances of seeing them again anyway? Higher than you think.

An awkward moment always comes to haunt you when you are calmly wandering through your life, minding your own business, and out of the blue -

"Oh, hello John Smith."
A voice! From a person!
"Oh . . . hi. Nice to see you again."
And on the inside, what are you saying?

Who are you? And how do you know my name? And when did we meet? And do I owe you anything, such as money or organs?

The social faux pas (did I say that right? I'm not sure, but you get my meaning) comes and smacks you in the face.

Speaking of face, you must save it at once. You must not let on at once that you've forgotten who this person is. They could be of the utmost importance. They could even be carrying a torch for you, in which case you will be dooming yourself to a life of misery.

So, "Hey, you! How've you been?"
"Oh, fine, thanks. So, John, how is that project coming?"

Oh crud. They know about the project. Apparently they know more about me than I thought.

"Oh, the project. Well, it's coming along just project-ly. Yessiree, that's a good project."
"Well I'm glad John. I hope we see each other again."
"Sure thing!"

And you can skillfully get away without letting on that you haven't the slightest idea who you've just spoken with.

In the long run, this is not pleasant, but there is no way to avoid it. I mean, you aren't expected to whip out a Polaroid and snap a picture of everyone that talks to you, and then paste it on a board so you can instantly look at them and recall the names at once. This would be just ludicrous.

Try a scrapbook, that's easier.

At any rate, you will forget names. It is inevitable. You will come up against those who you don't know and you will be at a loss of words. But you have to deal.

So, "Hey, you! How are you?"

Trust me on this.

Write Away, Right Away

There is no more post. I repeat, we killed it, and there is no more post. It is dead, it is murdered, it is gone.

The American postal system is dead and buried.

Alright, perhaps not. We do still get credit card applications and other horrible things sent to us, and that is hour our mail-order pharmaceuticals reach us, and that is how we procure letter bombs, but aside from that we have little use for it.

Okay, fine, we still do - there is that one-out-of-ten person that likes to send letters for the sake of simplicity and tradition, but we're going to disregard him and focus completely on my point. Why? Because I said so. And because I can. So I will. And have.

Continuing: I was remembering the great amount of magazines that I used to have as a kid. I used to read Disney Adventures and Nintendo Power and Boys Life and so many other innocent magazines. What enthralled me during those times of joy and fun were the places throughout the magazine in which you were asked to send in something by mail.

There was a contest for best drawing of a supervillian, so send in your best drawing by SAID DATE and it will be in the SAID DATE issue. Also, if you have any questions for the editor of SAID MAGAZINE, just send a letter to SAID MAGAZINE OFFICE and SAID MAGAZINE EDITOR will be write a nasty comment in the SAID DATE issue, mocking you.

I liked that. I also liked seeing on television that there was always a contest, or some time or place your letters could reach the world and everyone would love to get them. As a kid, learning to write letters was boring, but sending them and seeing results were so much better.

And now?
Simply fax or email to the magazine and we'll get back to you.

Huh, sorta lost all the glamor and glitz there, haven't we?

I see on television that there are no more contests for children who don't have the internet, because instead of a P.O. box and address, we have an email address for you to "check out." You can't send drawings without a fax machine, you can't mail a letter without the email, and you can't even subscribe without the internet.

My complaint, then, is that the mail system no longer has any great mystique or magic to it. There is no reasonable need for it, because if you are, you are slow and old and obviously don't have a computer. What was once quaint and fun is now . . . obsolete.

Obsolete. The mail system is obsolete. Now, that is sad.

And They Won't Stop Talking

There can always be a problem with people. For instance, they talk. And they tell you things. And they tell each other things. And they demand you to hear them.

That is the problem.

The big problem comes when they all get together and start swearing. The conversation diminishes in intellectual content at once, the words dissolve, adn all you can hear are long lists of swear words everywhere.

You know what I am talking about.

They talk, then swear, mention the kids, then swear, talk about the service of the food, then swear, and then they just stand up and swear at once another for no reason other than they can.
You think you have it bad? I go to college, and here it is just ridiculous.

I sit alone, at most times, in my room, and let my suitemates carry on outside. We have a mutual understanding: they can be as rude as they want and I will be in my room, so therefore I won't be involved. However, when they increase their volume and continue shouting through the door, it gets harder to ignore.

Then, my roommate suddenly joined in.

He has taken to playing online games, which everyone can hear over his computer. Voices from players around the globe begin to scream and yell and hollar, and, yes, swear.

It is weird, though - you'll hear things like, "Oh BLEEP, my BLEEPING gnome mage is BLEEPING under BLEEPING attack by a BLEEPING dark wizard!"

Trust me, it sounds strange.

My point is this: I have no place to run to anymore. I can't just live with my headphones on, and my roommate can't just turn off his sound. And outside, the yelling will continue, and on the floors above, and outside my window.

They keep talking. And they won't stop.

Hallelujah, Twenty Reps

I arrived at the campus gym yesterday, Sunday, to do a little working out. I have a firm routine. I keep to it. I do, so stop rolling your eyes.

Stretching, cardio, weight machines, finishing stretch. There, see? I have one, so there.

At any rate, I arrived at the gym at noon. I feel it is important to mention that I was wearing sweatpants, a bandanna on my head, a sleeveless shirt, and sneakers. Why do I find it necessary to point this out to you? Because upon entering the lobby of the gym, I realized at once that I was the only person dressed this way.

I was greeted by the sight of young girls in Sunday dresses and bows in their hair. Ushers, standing at the door in dress pants and button shirts. Old women wearing hats, men wearing ties, young boys looking very angry because they were wearing ties also, and likely against their own will.

And, oh, yes, I should also mention this one more detail:
There was a large sign post in the lobby, bearing the bright message: "Palm Sunday Worship Service."

Is it apparent now why I mentioned what I was wearing? If not, read it again and just add a look of abject humiliation to my face, and it will all make sense.

I had completely forgotten it was Palm Sunday. Not one to be perturbed (well, not entirely), I passed through the lobby and heard the main gym filled with jubilant worshipers, singing at the top of their lungs. I swear there was an organ somewhere in there, but I didn't dare go to the door to look. Not in this outfit.

I slipped upstairs to the weight room. Inside, I got into my workout clothes and settled about my stretching.

Now, picture this: you climb onto your cardio machine and prepare yourself for your run, when the floor below you bursts with the Hallelujah Chorus, or some hymn or another, sung entirely off key by at least a million Christians, but sung nonetheless.

Hey, you don't have to sing on key at this time. It helps, but you are rejoicing, not winning a talent competition. God will understand.

I was a bit thrown by this. For the rest of my workout, I tried to keep my earphones turned up, but every once in a while, during the change from one song to another, I could hear the sound of scripture being read, and thoughtful stories being told. Then, the organ would play and more singing would commence.

It is very hard to focus on trying to lift weights when all this is going on. In fact, it is almost impossible.

I couldn't get over it. Here I was, surrounded by smelly, sweating, grunting college students, working away at machines and jump ropes and treadmills, and below us stood at least a hundred families in Sunday clothes, going to church. It was very disconcerting.

How do you focus when something like this happens? Granted, it was a change from the ordinary music that is played over the gym speakers, but this was just weird.

And, let's be honest. I wasn't exactly dressed for church.