A homeless wanderer lands in Syracuse

Fergie pees her pants on stage. She is a former meth addict. A stranger once offered her a muffin when Fergie was wandering among bushes on the side of a street. The muffin-bearer thought she was homeless. Most of her lyrics are so idiotic and incomprehensible that they send listeners into a) a blind rage or b) a state of delirium. I still don't really know what a "London Bridge" is, and frankly, I hope I never find out.

On Tuesday, Fergie will be coming to Syracuse.

Her appearance has been met with a great deal of bitterness and misplaced anger on campus. Naysayers are complaining that they don't ever listen to Fergie; they don't like her; and why couldn't University Union--the student organization that books acts for our big annual spring concert-- have found someone better?

I am here to say: define better. Whether you like it or not, Fergie is a big name who has had great success. Her songs are on the radio, oh, CONSTANTLY. And you would be a bold-faced liar if you said you've never danced inappropriately to a Fergie song in a grungy basement in the wee hours of a weekend morning.

Better yet, the day of Fergie's concert coincides with SU's Mayfest (held in April) celebration. By definition, Mayfest is day when faculty and students stop classes to celebrate academic accomplishments and present their work.

But in reality, Mayfest is a day when students celebrate the fact that after six long months, the sun has finally returned to Syracuse. Most students spend the day at outdoor parties, playing games and living up the last few weeks before everyone packs up for the summer. When the University offered up some of its own money to bring Fergie to campus, in my view, the administration was asking us to bask in the glow of our youth and its ridiculous pop culture, and revel drunkenly in the confusing lyrics and mystifying sounds of Stacy Ann Ferguson.

Ashley and I will be pulling out all of the stops this Mayfest. We definitely deserve it after this particularly grueling semester. Keep your eyes peeled later this week for a rundown of Tuesday's drunkfest Mayfest. It will surely be glamourous.

Speedy Delivery

Be careful what you write on the postcard, Grandma. I'll read it.

For the past two years, I have worked in the residence halls at SU. Essentially my only responsibility is to sort mail and log packages, so residents know when they have something to pick up. You can imagine, a lot of great things come through the mail room-- and for a person as nosy as me, some days are paradise. I bring you now...

Never-stale: An insider's look at the world of snail mail

The Good:

1) Reading post cards from parents who vacation in tropical locations. All of the "wish you were heres" in the world can't make up for the fact that your mom and dad are in Tahiti and you are nestled into your study carrel in the library for the fourth night in a row. Outside, subfreezing winds howl, and inside, you are crying.

2) Mothers who write cutesy things in the spots for the return address. (Most keep their real addresses).

Mom's Awesome Care Packages!
150 Main Street,
WhoLovesYou, NY 90210

3) Friends from other colleges who adorn letters with stickers and inside jokes. Yes, I do read them. And so does the 50-something-year-old mail man who thinks your doodles of various parts of the male anatomy are absolutely dazzling.

The Bad:

1) Packages or letters that arrive smelling so strongly of smoke you would swear the Marlboro man came back to life and is pen pals with the recipient.

2) The morons who address things to "The best friend in the world!" or "My most beautiful daughter!" with no other discerning address or mailbox number, thus making the item impossible to put into a mailbox. I like to get snotty when residents come down and angrily inquire about the location of the package their BFF mailed "like, seriously, two weeks ago." I smile bitterly and say, "Well, I had a sneaking suspicion you were THE BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD, but please next time ask your friend to write your name. Last time I checked, there was no one registered in this building under the name she provided."

The Ugly:

1) I hate putting Victoria's Secret catalogs in boy's mailboxes. Because you just know.

2) Packages that you can tell are filled with pills. You have no idea how badly I want to know what that medication is and whether it was prescribed by a doctor or illegally ordered from Mexico. I also want to know if I can have some.

(note: any "illegal" activities recorded within are purely works of fiction and the result of the overactive imagination of the writer.)

Gems from Central New York

The New York Times was late this morning. I would usually be disgruntled that my treasured paper-reading time had been compromised by the inadequate and unreliable university delivery system, but today is different. I had the enormous pleasure of reading Syracuse's very own "The Post-Standard." It calls itself "America's most colorful newspaper." Well, colorful it is indeed.

I bring you these diamonds:

Teen-ager shot in park on Syracuse's West Side
A Syracuse teen-ager was shot in the thigh Sunday afternoon across the street from Skiddy Park on the city's west side.

The victim was uncooperative and would not tell officers his name, Sgt. Thomas Connellan said. The youth was taken to University Hospital for treatment. Connellan said the injury was not life-threatening.

The shooting is under investigation.

Um... does anyone else think they should have included the phrase "shot by police" in that lead. Note to self: always tell the Syracuse Police Department your name the first time they ask. It is not appropriate to respond with The Zombies lyrics or the perennial elementary school favorite "I know you are but what am I?"

Also:

Man grabs cash, takes off

Syracuse police offers say a grab-and-run robber clutched more than his loot while scurrying away from the Family Dollar store, 945 S. Salina St., Friday evening.

A cashier said the man, wearing a Yankees cap and sunglasses, waited patiently in line for several minutes, while other customers went through the check-out process. When his time came, he purchased one Chap-Stick Lip Balm applicator.

He reached for his money, then abruptly lunged across the counter to grab bills from the cash register. The move so startled the cashier that she told police later that she thought the man was joking, at first.

He grabbed several piles of bills, then toddled quickly for the door, hands gripping not only the money but his britches.

Um. 1) I love the level of detail in this story. Nice that he chose Chap-Stick. It's important for robbers to have soft lips. 2) Under what circumstance would you think someone lunging at you to grab money from a cash register was a joke? You're in Syracuse! 3) I want to give this writer the Pulitzer for the bolded sentence. 4) I hereby decree that we bring back the word "britches."

In related news, I have been putting off buying a belt for about three years now. I just can never find one that fits around my waist appropriately, or is an agreeable width for the majority of belt loops in my pants. But more than ever, I know now that I must buy one pronto. I don't want to be caught desperately clutching my pantaloons next time I burglarize Walgreen's.

I miss the FedEx man.

The UPS man officially has no sense of humor. He arrived this morning carrying a menagerie of different-sized boxes. The most notable was a long box, nearly up to my waist and about 7-inches wide.

"Oh! You finally brought my pogo stick!" I exclaimed merrily, wrongfully thinking a joke might break up the monotony of delivering packages to unenthused desk attendants.

He smirks, the slightest of responses to avoid being completely rude.

"I am simply jumping with excitement...." I say tentatively. "Bouncing with bliss...?"

He stares coldly. "Would you please just sign for these, mam?"

Okay, yes sir. Sorry sir. Didn't mean it. Have a good day. Sorry. It's not really a pogo stick. Just joking. Not funny. Don't hate me.

Will you judge me if I tell you

... That I am oddly charmed by the fact Netflix e-mailed me to say that they were going to ship my movie from Lansing, MI instead of my local sorting facility? It reads as if they are cowering in a corner, hoping I don't slap them across the face if my DVD takes an extra day or two to get here. As if they are saying, "It's no Syracuse, but Lansing gets the job done too!" And then they collectively whimper and nervously shuffle through a pile of papers until they find a good movie to recommend to me.

It's okay, Netflix. I have no urgent need for my Felicity Season 1: Disc 3. Life goes on.