The Angry Czeck

Oklahoma versus Oklahoma St
Virginia Tech versus Virginia
Pittsburg vs. Penn St
Michigan versus Michigan St
Florida against Florida St
Alabama vs. Auburn
USC versus UCLA
Georgia Tech vs. Georgia
Tennessee vs. Memphis

Intrastate football rivalries. They are epic, passionate things. Stuff of legend. Sellers of t-shirts. Fillers of stadiums. In Arkansas, a state for which 20 minutes of a half-hour news broadcast is designated to high school football scores, there is no in-state college football rivalry.

Not even between the two Division I, NCAA schools.

It’s asinine and ridiculous that the University of Arkansas refuses to recognize what a rivalry might mean with its neglected cousin to the east, Arkansas State. Frank Broyles, the ancient former athletic director (and current deity) is the architect of this moronic, shortsighted scheme.

There’s only one football team in Arkansas, is the edict of Broyles.

Stupid. Idiotic. Foolish.

What does UofA have to gain by playing Tennessee Tech this year? Better yet, why would UofA choose to play Arkansas State conference rival Louisiana-Monroe but not Arkansas State?

In fact, the University of Arkansas routinely pits their little football team against Sun Belt squads. Schools like LA-Monroe, North Texas and Troy merit the attention of the Razorbacks, but the Red Wolves of Arkansas State do not.

Why?

I can’t speak intelligently on the warped intentions of Broyles, but I imagine his boycott of Arkansas State was to protect his iron-fisted monopoly over the hearts and minds of Arkansans. In that regard, his mission is accomplished, for in Arkansas he who wears a plastic hat shaped like a pig is king.

Only in Arkansas could such a fiendish ploy work. Why only in Arkansas? Because it hasn’t worked ANYWHERE else. Can you think of one state in America boasting two Division 1 college football teams that don’t play one another?

When current Arkansas governor Mike Beebe assumed office a couple years ago, he implied that he would work to create an intrastate rivalry between Arkansas’ two Division 1 schools. Both schools, after all, are state funded schools. If you are governor, you have the juice. Start with scholarships.

Mike Beebe is also an Arkansas State University graduate. You would think that he would have a personal interest in fast-tracking the rivalry while enjoying the rich stadium and merchandising revenue such a rivalry would generate for the state.

Nope.

Not a word since Beebe assumed office. It’s almost like he woke up one morning to find a severed Red Wolf head in his bed sheets.

The smug and condescending attitude of Razorback fans only adds to the degree of difficulty. It’s the same stupid joke with you (“Arkansas State who?”) that only got older as your fan base tried to muster up excitement for playing in the Liberty Bowl. You’re not a top program, U-of-Meh. You’re an SEC punching bag on par with Mississippi State. My God! Your battle cry is something pork farmers yodel.

Hog fans believe that they’re precious brand would become sullied by including Arkansas State on the schedule. (But Missouri State? Sure. Western Illinois? Why not?) Mouth-breathing, slow-witted Hog fans* would rather increase the coffers of the University of Texas at El Paso this year than to stimulate the state’s economy by igniting a rivalry between the two biggest state schools.

*Not you, of course.

Meanwhile, the Hogs have no true rival, even within the South East Conference. LSU? The Tigers laugh at you. Alabama? They’d rather beat up on Ole Miss. Auburn? They think you’re Division II. How about UofA’s old rival, Texas? The Longhorns don’t miss you. At all.

While it’s true that Arkansas State gains more in developing an in-state rivalry with UofA, it is not to say there is nothing in it for the Razorbacks. The Red Wolves are an up-and-coming program with youthful energy and a growing fan base. Your allegiance to the stodgy Hogs is like refusing to surrender a dependable but antiquated Walkman. Arkansas State is on the rise. The Razorbacks flat-lined two or three years after joining the SEC, where they are over-matched.

A rivalry between the two schools would only stoke a competitive fire that would place Arkansas beneath a national spotlight. You can’t tell me ESPN or ABC would favor a UofA/Tennessee Tech match-up over an exciting new in-state rivalry. You can’t tell me that the Razorbacks wouldn’t enjoy the ticket and merchandising sales that lesser states like Oregon, Texas, Alabama, and Georgia appreciate.

The only risk for the Razorback’s is a loss at the hairy paws of the Red Wolves. As deeply shameful as that prospect might be, the cowardice of shirking an obvious rival is thrice as humiliating. Yet you prefer that humiliation year after year. You must like it.

The Red Wolves of Arkansas State will not be receiving a BCS Bowl bid this year, or next year, or the year after. Surprise, neither will the University of Arkansas. Listen, I hate the Hogs. Hate them. But you can have my money, Mr. Broyles.

Just put Arkansas State on the ticket, cowards.

I’m addicted to StarCraft.

Not the new StarCraft 2 you just paid a trillion dollars for, but the old, antiquated StarCraft that drives South Koreans insane. I love the 3D-ish interface and the old-school game-of-Risk® strategies. I love assembling a flotilla of Battle Cruisers or a squad of hydrolisks to lay waste to a cringing enemy. I even enjoy it when I’m notified that my “vespene gas mine is depleted.”

A co-worker and fellow Crafter assembled a nice gif animation that neatly sums my sad addiction. I’d request that you “enjoy,” but I suspect that you will more likely reach for pity.

Many people have asked me for details concerning a bachelor party I attended over the weekend. I’ll oblige, right here on the mighty digital pages of The Angry Czeck, but I must warn you: the language gets a little salty. The images are graphic. It’s a bachelor party, after all, and not a quilting bee.

All names have been changed to protect the guilty. This is what happened:

We rented a condo on the lake. In attendance, fourteen men, counting the groom, Peter. We were making a long weekend of it, though I arrived a day later than most. I entered the condo like a cowboy entering a saloon, my figurative six-guns blazing.

“Let’s party!” I announced.

“Sssh!” hushed Thomas from the huddle in middle of the kitchen. “We’re praying here!”

“Right!” I said, and I immediately clasped Thomas’ and Simon’s hands, and for the next two hours we prayed together for the sanctity of Peter’s nuptials.

“That was intense!” said Paul, and we all heartily agreed. There were tears (I won’t mention who) but we all appreciated the tissues with the hint of aloe that Mathew had so thoughtfully brought.

At last, I clapped my hands and asked, “Are we about ready to get this party on?”

Everyone shouted in the affirmative. Bartholomew waved a large wad of dollar bills, which was greeted with a host of cackles and inside jokes. Simon called the cab company, who sent over a van posthaste.

“Where you bad boys wanna go?” asked the cab driver as we piled inside. With a knowing chortle, I whispered the address. The driver’s eyes widened.

“You sure about that?”

“Yep.”

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived to our rather unseemly destination. “This is going to be awesome!” declared Phillip, and nobody disagreed.

At first, the people queued at the Whispering Hope Homeless Shelter were quite taken aback by fourteen dudes handing them dollar bills, but when they realized how we were just trying to send Peter off on the right foot, they quickly warmed up.

“Don’t spend that all in one place, sir!” said Thaddeus, handing out dollars like Harvest Time candy.

“Save some for the offering plate!” Peter suggested, and that’s when we knew that he was ready to become a great husband. (NOTE: “Save some for the offering plate!” became the unofficial bachelor party slogan!)

An hour later, our funds were depleted but the needle on our spirit gauge was firmly pointed on F. It was time for Phase Two. Back to the condo we went! The cab driver could barely keep the van on the road for all the giggling.

It was on! Paul cued up the Lionel Richie on his iPod while John and Bartholomew pulled the salad fixings from the refrigerator. (Because we really wanted to support Simon’s new found vegetarianism, we all privately agreed weeks in advance not to bring bacon bits.)

Soon, we were all dancing in the kitchen, making salad and lip syncing to Running With The Night like nobody’s business!  Then things got dicey…when Thaddeus started dicing tomatoes! It was only after Paul pulled a hamstring while re-enacting the music video to All Night Long when we finally dialed down the craziness a tad.

Buzzing from decadent Caesar salads, all fourteen of us curled onto the furniture to watch Nights in Rohdante again. It’s not really a bachelor party until you’ve screened a film adaptation of one of the better Nicholas Sparks’ novels, IMHO. I can’t be sure, but I believe the clock was striking nine when the last of us finally went to bed.

“Save some for the offering plate, you nuts!” advised Simon playfully, tossing pillows at John and Mathew.

At sunrise the next morning, I found the groom-to-be, Peter, in the middle of his yoga routine.

“Care if I join you?” I asked, rolling out my mat. (We all brought our yoga mats, BTW!)

After a few down-dogs and cobra stretches, Peter finally told me what was on his mind.

“You know how we’re supposed to rent boats and spend the day drinking beer and hooting at bikini chicks?”

I sighed gloomily. “Yeah.”

“Instead, why not spend the morning and afternoon lending a helping hand to the Humane Society?”

“That, my soon-to-be-married-friend, is a capital idea!”

The change of plan was met with unanimous cheers, and after our morning prayer and yoga, we donated our time (and boat rental money!) to the local animal shelter. When the sun finally set, we were covered in dog poop and pride. Andrew (of course!) adopted several three-legged kittens before it was all over. What a day! We barely had anything left for the offering plate!

We were too tired for the Jenga marathon we had planned for the evening, so we spent the remainder of the bachelor party reading aloud from our 7th grade diaries. I still can’t believe that Simon was sooooo into Jars of Clay, just like me!

Then we all woke up promptly at six the next morning, cleaned the condo, and made sure to deposit our remaining funds to the orphanage on our way out of town.

I’ve attended a comic book convention. Once. Several years ago.

The biggest comic book convention in the world is Comic Con held in San Diego. But another big one is hosted in Chicago called Wizard World, where I made my mostly anonymous appearance. Try to imagine what a comic book convention might look like, and that’s it exactly, except different.

I urinated alongside Storm Troopers. I mistakenly wandered into an intense HeroClix competition. I saw Chyna the female wrestler and one of the guys that played a Hobbit in Lord of the Rings. You know who else was there? Lou Ferrigno, television’s Incredible Hulk! There was also a guy who sold a pretty convincing replica of Beastmaster’s sword.

The two major comic book publishers – DC and Marvel – dominate the convention with enormous displays that, with enough drinks, have you believing that you have stumbled upon Jack Kirby’s dual-sided planet of the New Gods. Here you find the newest toys, the latest hero developments, and maybe the guy who’s playing Daredevil’s best friend in the new blockbuster move. Meanwhile, there are men in elaborate super-hero costumes. And there are women hired to wear elaborate super-hero costumes. To mingle with the scribes and artists at the DC and Marvel booths is to rub elbows with the clean upper echelon of the comics universe.

A layer beyond the Big Two publishers, you will find second and third-tier publishers like Devil’s Due and Dark Horse. Their characters are not always well known and struggle to achieve Hollywood immortality, although sometimes a Hell Boy or a Spawn will puncture the membrane. Artists and writers who reside in these smaller booths are generally more accessible if no less geeky than their deep-pocketed brethren.

Beyond this circle lies a great number of vendors who sell a menagerie of items you can’t live without: vintage postcards, back issues of comic books, ninja stars, replica lightsabers, original illustrations of naked barbarian women, antique action figures, assorted costumes, difficult-to-find game pieces, or anything your Mom callously threw away while you were earning a degree in Klingon Philosophy.

The final layer of a comic book convention belongs to a tribe of self-publishers. Festooned with tattoos and piercings and sometimes armed with swords, these grinders of the grain illustrate and plot their own comic books, duplicate them at Kinko’s, and either sell them or give them away to anyone wandering by. To walk among them is to feel insanely rich and successful.

My time at Chicago’s Wizard World was a terrific experience, in part because I had a personal guide – artist Mike Norton, who currently illustrates Captain Marvel. A denizen of the Second Tier at the the time, Mike graciously introduced me and my friends to several artists and industry big wigs. I also got closer to Lou Ferrigno then I ever believed possible. (He’s huge.)

Along the way, I developed a few rules for enjoying a Comic Con. For example, you should not enter wearing your best trousers and button-down shirt (unless, somehow, you have made it your thing). Comic book geeks can sniff out a pouser from a considerable distance. Also, your virgin jokes and your Yoda impersonation will not take you far at a comic book convention. If you ever told a fat joke while touring Graceland, you know what I mean.

Here are a few more useful bits of advice* for attending a comic book convention.

Don’t have a tattoo on your face? Get one.

Kneel to no one! Even if that someone claims to be Zod.

Be careful when asking if a fellow attendee is married because some brides are still in the mail.

Freely mention your online degree in Eastern Philosophy or Alternative Religions. You’re among brothers!

Zod is a Kryptonian. Grod is a gorilla. Todd McFarlane, nobody has seen in quite awhile.

The correct answer is always, “Han shot first.”

Can Wolverine’s adamantium claws cut through Captain America’s shield? Don’t look at me, I’m asking you.

Have you ever put together a killer PowerPoint presentation? Then do not attend Comic Con.

Quick! Name the Golden Age Flash? You’re not ready.

Know the difference between a blaster, a laser gun, and the self-gratification device that the emo boy in the corner is selling.

Two girls for Lou Ferigno, zero girls for you.

That’s it. You should do well at Comic Con. Just don’t ask Stan Lee to draw Superman or expect to receive a Dungeon Master discount at the num-chuk booth. You’ll be disappointed and possibly beat up.

* Originally posted on my huuuuuugely popular twitter account.

Several months ago, while engaged in some high-stakes casino gaming, I observed a young couple snaking around the blackjack tables. The girl was fantastically attired in a flattering skirt and a flashy blouse. She looked terrific; dressed to be seen. Meanwhile, her boyfriend had dressed for a picnic. Tennis shoes. Cargo shorts. T-shirt. Baseball cap. Her effort in her appearance was proportional to her boyfriend’s fashion malaise.

And this is why women pine for vampires.

As mates, we men have turned slacking into a kind of religion. We conceal the trappings of adulthood by joining fantasy football leagues and wearing sandals on any occasion. We’d rather don a dumb hat than comb our hair. Our conversations become passionate only when a sports team is the topic. In short, we are becoming more and more unattractive, like Dorian Gray’s painting.

It wasn’t too long ago when it was cool to be a man. Our idols used to be John Wayne and Gary Cooper. Now we model ourselves after man-children like Vince Vaughn. We wear our sloppiness like a badge of honor – so long as that badge looks nothing like a necktie. Our knowledge is centered less and less on yard care and carburetors, and more on exotic brands of beer and top secret barbecue recipes.

I know. I speak from experience.

I am the Sultan of the Once Per Week Shave and the Undertaker of the Untucked Shirt. My hair appears to have been combed with a lit firecracker, and my ten-year-old automobile rattles with empty soda cans and fast food bags. I am a danger to decent society with a power tool in my hand. If I can pay a real man to fix a toilet or repair the roof, I gladly do it. I take charge with my charge card.

That in mind, I understand a grown woman’s fascination with Twilight‘s Edward Cullen.

Eternally youthful, forever physically fit and ever vigilant, Edward embodies the…er…body of the perfect man. More than that, Edward is sensitive until he has to be rough. He’s moody until he’s charming. He’s just as comfortable trying on slim-fit jeans at the Banana Republic as he is wearing his tailored tuxedo to the Prom. In addition, he owns a massive CD collection which no doubt contains all of Sarah McLachlan’s hits.

Edward may battle “bad” vampires, but he’ll never have a fight with bad cholesterol. Over one hundred years of age, Edward has yet to develop a gut or a suspicious mole or an urge to join a co-ed softball league. He spends his time watching his girlfriend sleep, which (for reasons we human men can never understand) women find irresistibly alluring.

That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Men don’t truly understand what a woman finds attractive. We admire heaving breasts, so we lazily assume that women are just as interested in massive pectorals. And while massive pectorals help, they are only elements in a package deal. We are asked to be sensitive but not feminine. We’re supposed to forsake violence unless a woman’s honor is at stake (in which case, blood becomes sexy). We’re supposed to know where the line is drawn between affection and overbearing obsession. We must patiently support and understand a woman’s faults while working super-humanly to overcome our own.

I can’t understand Edward Cullen. All I see is a moody pretty boy with dirty hair. “It’s the way he looks at her,” says Mrs. Angry by way of explanation. I try to mimic that look – that brooding stare of a lobotomy patient – and I break up in laughter. I can’t do it, not even as an academic exercise. I’m too cool.

So I put Edward into a silo I can understand. Women adore Edward because he’s always getting into fist fights over the unremarkable girl he inexplicably loves. Or because he’s a good looking kid. Or because there is never a dot of mud on his pristine Volvo. Or because he seems to be independently wealthy. I don’t know.

But I do know that the young man in the casino didn’t seem to care how much effort his girlfriend had given to her appearance. He seemed more preoccupied with donating his paycheck to the surly blackjack dealers. She stood off to his side, looking pretty and lonely, watching her slow-witted boyfriend ignore her has he wondered for too long on whether or not to hit on a 14.

It was then that I knew I was observing a secret admirer of Edward Cullen.