The Invisible Swords of College Conquest

by Thomas M. Pender

College – or, as I’m apt to refer to it, “The Limbo of Life” – was a wonderful and magical sphere of being, where you get to be an adult, but you get to be a kid again, too!  While you are working to better yourself, it’s also the first time you get to be on your own (assuming you go away to school, as I did) to really find out who you are.  It’s also a great place to meet all kinds of people, and learn what kinds of friends you really wish to have!

To no one’s shock, my chosen friends were all loons.

My freshman year, while being incredibly challenging and lesson-teaching (mostly the outside-the-classroom-lessons-of-Life kind), was made up of nine straight months of laughter and adventure, centered around a goofy crew of a few close-knit men who made the most – and the most fun – of any and every situation.

Dating rituals, for example.  While I have no doubt that those I met and chose as friends were polite gentlemen on their dates (although they’d never admit it back then, whilst trying to maintain their coolness), in our women-free zone of male bonding time, we had great fun discussing upcoming dates, successful dates, women of interest and certainly attractive complete strangers who passed our way.  One ritual that just kind of “happened” was the sword brandishing.

On a random day when one of us in the group was discussing an upcoming date, a successful date or a woman of interest, someone . . . most likely Terry “Trigger” Thompson . . . pulled an invisible sword from an invisible sheath attached to his invisible belt, made the sound of a sword being drawn, held it invisibly aloft and made a sort of pirate-y cry of triumph.

Those of us in attendance proceeded to immediately bust our collective guts, love the action, and mimic the action.  A tradition was born.

After that, whenever one of us had an upcoming date, a successful date or had met a woman of interest to talk about, however many of us in attendance would immediately draw our invisible swords (complete with sound effects, of course!), invisibly clang them together, and re-insert them.

Silly?  Yes.  Immature?  Granted.  Fun and memorable boy fun?  Yar!

As is the case with everything that went on during that incredible year, the tradition has faded as friends have gone their ways.  Still, I know for a fact that the men these kids have become have a silly and raucous side to them, hidden beneath their business neckties and barbecuing aprons.  Should two or more of us meet up, and one have a piece of good news to share, I have no doubt that those in attendance will find that the swords of triumph, first wielded in the dormitories of Michigan State, are still firmly affixed.

Huzzah!

Four Years In The Ice Cream Gulag

by Thomas M. Pender

I should start this story thusly: “Hi, my name is Tom, and I’m an ice cream junkie and a chocoholic.”

Soon after moving to the Chicago area in 1995, I went to the grocery store.  As a recent transplantee from Michigan in his first non-roommate apartment, there were many things to be stocked up on: Ramen noodles (being a budgeted transplantee), milk, bathroom tissue (with the name I carry, I find the term “T.P.” a tad offensive), bread and ice cream.

The last item may not appear on everyone’s survival list, but I am not everyone.  I recognize my needs and I don’t fight them.

I strolled to the freezer section, then down the ice cream aisle . . . all the way to the end . . . then back again, only slower.  Surely, I had just missed it.  I knew it had to be there.  It just had to be!  Yet, it wasn’t.

This store had no Heavenly Hash!!!!!!!!!!!

For those outside the loop, the oddly-named piece of heaven is a mixture of rich chocolate ice cream, a marshmallow ribbon, almond pieces and the smallest of chocolate chips.  (Insert Homer Simpson slobber sounds here.)  Since a friend had shared some with me at the age of 16, it had become part of my DNA.  Why did this store not know this?  There must be others like me, scratching at the glass for the store to open so as to attack the Heavenly Hash with exuberance. . . .

But, alas.  I did not embody enough demand to call for the stocking of my drug of choice.  No problem.  This is America.  We have capitalism and competition and variety here.  All I needed to do was to make it across the street to the next store.

To my growing dismay, they were Hash-less, as well.  So was the next store.  So were the stores in the next town down the road.  Apparently, Illinois was a Hash-free state.

(Sorry, my stomach just gurgled there.)

No need to panic.  I’m a survivor.  I know how to compromise to get to a better tomorrow.  I’ll just pick up some of my second favorite kind of ice cream: chocolate almond.  It’s less demanding, more commonplace, and even has fewer ingredients and is therefore easier to produce in bulk for the flavor-starved masses.

No.  No.  Nope.  Nada.  Nein.  Nicht. . . . None!

I had to face facts: I had unwittingly moved myself to a non-Heavenly-Hash-non-chocolate-almond zone!  I considered commuting from Michigan, but that didn’t seem financially prudent.  I would just have to tough it out, and when I went back to my home state to visit Mom, I would attack my needs.

Four loooooooooooooooong years later, I moved from the Illinois/Wisconsin border lands to Georgia.  When I got to where I was going, I noted the Kroger on the corner.  At the first opportunity, I hustled myself to the store and yes, the very first thing I did was bolt for the freezer section.

Chocolate almond?  Check.  Heavenly Hash?  Check!!!!

Unfortunately, the actual purchase of said ambrosia would have to wait about a month, but when that cash was in my hand, I knew that there would be Hash in my freezer before sundown.  It would once again be worth getting my stomach and taste buds out of bed in the morning.

Take that, Chicago!