We’re on the way to Accra, the capital of Ghana, from Tamale. It is hour five of our thirteen hour trip. Tamale is one of the most Northern cities in Ghana, a calm region that is a bit different than the rest of the nation. Our local guide, Razak, told us it is about 55 percent Muslims, a statement echoed by the call-to-prayer booming from the mosques five times a day. The market at the center of the city is similar to the ones we’ve seen thus far: full of second hand American apparel (not your $45 sparkly unitard – more like your 1998 Hall and Oates revival tank-top your dad gave away 7 years ago) and more fresh fruit than your salivary glands can handle. 

As white travelers (Obrunis as Ghanians say), we are perpetually being hustled. Which is fair enough, I could probably start a successful business here with the dollar amount equivalent to last year’s 16 meal plan. My Nikes shout, “I am obligated to pay twice as much for this taxi ride.” Luckily we’re traveling with Big Leks–the ultimate bargainer. Cold-hearted some would say, but he’s used to it. See the whole reason we are even in Ghana is because his family lives in Accra. They’ve graciously let us destroy the contents of their cupboards and spoil their toilets with ample amounts of traveler’s diarrhea – an unfortunate inevitability. I knew the fish looked funky.

But this bus… this is just one bus, the last bus. Our first bus took us comfortably to Cape Coast, home of a disturbing attraction: the Cape Coast Slave Castle. This place was built sometime in the 1600s, I think, there is surprisingly little access to Wikipedia in rural Africa. So I’m not really sure when it was built, suffice to sayit fits the bill for a “slave castle,” being sufficiently spooky. Walking into the slave dungeons and standing among the unforgiving stones it wasn’t hard to imagine the horror.  The Door of No Return affected me the most. There, the slaves were slung into American and European ships, never to see their home or families again. Goodbye Mama Africa and freedom, hello cotton plantation. Forget a textbook, send a sixth grader to a slave castle and they’ll never forget the feeling of heartbreak.

With the macabre of the castle still fresh in our mind, we headed to a slightly more uplifting location, the jungle. Yes, the jungle, like panthers and fat spiders, and so much humidity my glasses fogged up like a September TNC. Our purpose was to accomplish the canopy walk: A series of swaying bridges connected to the treetops. Yeah, “what the shit” is what I was thinking too. But once we got up there, along with an elementary school full of screaming children, it was amazing. (It’s hard to act like a wimp when an eight year old girl is right next to you, leaping from plank to plank, unfazed.) Caught in the fog, we swayed our way across rope bridges like Indiana Jones. Maybe less swiftly, especially Leks, dude is top heavy with a feet the width of the bridge itself.

In the three days following our deep jungle excursion, we hit up the Green Turtle, an environmentally-friendly beach resort that is just a Corona commercial away from paradise. Actually it was soap and mosquito repellent away from paradise. If malaria has ever entered my bloodstream it was at the Green Turtle. Thank the holy lord for Doxycycline, my Malaria / Chlamydia / Syphilis / any-infection-you-might-ever-get pill. Despite the itching bites, we found happiness in a five cedi ($3.50) liter of gin, and the unexpected entertainment of a Jenga set. Pull, assign drink, pull, assign drink, make it fall- take a shot. Egyptians had it down, architecture is fun.

The next morning we hopped aboard another bus, this one 7 hours to TamaleLeks’ pops is working on campaign to fight malaria in more rural areas of Ghana, and that’s where we were heading, toone of thoserural villages outside of Tamale. We had to change transportation to get to the village – you’ve never seen more people crammed in one rickety van (a tro-tro). I counted 24, including the nipple-latched infant feeding next to Kai. We were fine until the hood flew up and scarred spider-web cracks across the windshield. Despite the scare, we made it to the village wet from the shoulder sweat of our neighbors but unscathed.

The village was like every African charity commercial you see on TV, minus the cleft pallets and ballooned bellies. So it wasn’t really, I guess just the mud huts and nearly naked children, chilling out maxing, relaxing all cool. The kids were ecstatic to see a camera and posed for us while we got our fill of culture to show the rest of the world what awesome travelers we are. “I was there!” For the malaria spray, the huts were emptied and shot with a pesticide which supposedly lasts a year. When mosquitoes land on the walls they die immediately, like they deserve. Naughty disease spreaders. Upon our departure we were given a guinea fowl by the chief linguist, a lovely offering we kindly accepted, though we later gave it away to more adequately trained fowl chefs.

The trip north was incredible. Yet, now, I am cursing my life, minutes away from going mad. It is dark and the shine of my book light on the flow of my pen is the only thing keeping me sane. The potholes in the dirt road are not assisting my legibility and I may stab this lady in front of me. “I am six foot three, you are four-eleven, do you realize how little space I have!” I won’t though. I’ll sit here with my noise canceling headphones relaying silence from the dead iPod in my pocket, thinking of all the amazing aspects of this trip.  There’s more to come though, on South Africa, the cup and such. I mean, if you care, the eight dollars Carl pays me per article isn’t quite a driving force. Just saying.

Much love, enjoy the sun, and these pics.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

You probably already know I had brain cancer. If not, I had brain cancer. Every three months I return to St. Jude, the place I called home for nearly a year. These are, undoubtedly, the most humbling moments in my life.

Life in this part of Memphis is a hard slap in the face. One ride on a rickety hospital shuttle is telling. Rich brick estates quickly melt to the broken streets and dilapidated housing of South Memphis, a perfect resting spot for America’s best children’s cancer hospital. Two blocks from St. Jude sits the popular Shelby County Jail, and subsequently, roughly thirteen jail bond businesses. Not to forget the liquor stores, pawn shops, blood donation centers, crack heads, and a surplus of loiterers living bleakly on a malt liquor and Wendy’s Dollar Menu diet. Southern Memphis is a poverty-ridden-hellhole of crime and anguish, a dead end for aspirations. Needless to say, there is an eight-foot wrought iron fence surrounding all St. Jude properties.

St. Jude attempts to be the happiest place on earth. They are largely successful, from the doctors, to the nurses and the janitors, these are among the most genuinely nice people I have ever met. The walls are painted into playground scenes, the ceilings glittering with stars, a contrasting environment to the white washed walls of most other hospitals. To be quite literal, St. Jude is hands down the best place you could ever take a kid with cancer. Its treatment is revolutionary (my doctor designed my protocol, SJMB03). Though in all its glory, it is nonetheless, full of cancer-laden children.

When you’ve been in the cancer world a while you start to get a sense of who has a high survival rate, and unfortunately, who doesn’t. In any given waiting room there are two Southern folks comparing their kids’ diagnoses, and no matter how sweet the drawl, fourth stage neuroblastoma cuts deep. Glioblastoma steals all the air from your lungs. Thanks for trying, life, better luck with your next religion. The kids never really grasp the concept their parents fear. If they can walk, they will run, zipping by you screaming enthusiastically. At St. Jude, ignorance is a child’s bliss, and knowledge, a parent’s nightmare. Say the prayers, keep the hope, I am sure miracles happen every day, but sometimes they take breaks in Memphis.

I don’t want you to cry. I don’t want you to hold the hurt I feel looking into the empty eyes of a helpless family. I want you to take a deep breath and reflect on the life you live here in sunny Southern California. Think about all the privileges and freedoms you have to lead a healthy life. Think about your family and friends and how much they mean to you. Take a step back from the drama that is thesis, your final papers, your summer internship – whatever is consuming your every thought. Let the stress roll out of your fingertips as you imagine how good your life truly is. Collins is repetitive, DOS is infringing, a boy did this, a girl said that. Smile, you’re alive, people love you. You will be successful. Call your family, they miss you.

At some point in your life someone told you not to sweat the small stuff. Not everything is small, but most of it is not worth worrying about. Eventually everything will work out, I promise.

If you are feeling like your pockets have a little too much cash in them. If your momma doubled that fat allowance and you need to drop some of those dollars before the summer, send a little St. Jude’s way, they’ll appreciate it.

My boyfriend really wants to have a threesome with me. He says that he knows the perfect girl to do it with. This makes me nervous for a couple reasons… A. I’m not attracted to girls, B. Everyone would probably find out, and C. I am actually jealous that my boyfriend is looking at girls like that. Am I not enough for him? How should I get him to stop asking about threesomes? It is getting old fast.

Yo homegirl,

You could just tell him you will have a threesome with him if next week he gets frisky with you and Federico from Craigslist who is just looking for the right couple. He probs won’t go for that and when he tells you it is “different” tell him okay two girls but one wears a strap on and a Susan Boyle mask. Be careful though because he might say yes and then you have to emotionally prepare yourself for a threesome with an overweight socially inept British woman, as well as the fact that your boyfriend is way kinkier than you thought he was. Don’t worry though, just come up with a safe word and if no one respects the rules I’ll put down the ASCMC Handy Cam and call campus security. Which in the end is a great idea because they’ll sneak the tape out and put it on YouTube, then BANG – you’re starring in a celebrity sex tape! Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea… Susan’s on board.

You can’t break a guy’s threesome dreams. It’s like telling your kid he is never going to be a professional basketball player. Sorry hun, your dreams are unrealistic, practice something that doesn’t require mutant genetics. Threesome dreams are sacred, they happen, but where? And how? I don’t know many guys who don’t want one. Nonetheless, it is annoying, and understandably hurtful that he thinks about getting jolly with other gals, even if you’re a part of the party…

But let’s be honest, your boyfriend does look at other women sexually. Can you really say there aren’t any men around here you would undress for in a millisecond if you were single? Have you ever glimpsed into Brett Spencer’s eyes? Which totally doesn’t mean you want Brett to be the right side of your Eiffel Tower, just that you think he’s a sexy man. I know your boy took it a step further, having selected a girl before even talking to you about it, but I don’t imagine he put much though into it. He probably heard a story about this chick being bisexual and thinks he can convince her to get naughty with ya’ll on his little ass twin bed. Which I think would be a feat in itself. Talk about sexual boundaries.

So now that I have confused you, talk to your boy. You may have been voicing your aversion to a threesome for a while now, which for whatever reason hasn’t gotten your point across: One is fun, two is cool, and three is fine as long as it doesn’t have a vagina. Have you ever sat him down and told him, “Hey, you’re driving me crazy with this, and I am kind of sad you want some other girl.” If he’s a decent guy he’ll say, “Whoa, I didn’t realize it bothered you so much. You’re the only girl I actually want.” You might feel better in one conversation. In the end, he wants to have this experience with you, and without you, there is no threesome. Not even a twosome. Know that and remind him.

-Amitch

My ex-girlfriend is starting to get borderline crazy on me. I broke up with her about a year ago when she cheated on me with a guy during her semester abroad. She was really upset at the time, but she cooled down eventually. But then I got a new girlfriend and ever since then she has been bugging out on me, calling me constantly and verbally soliciting herself to me. It is hard because, as much as I want to tell her to go away and get out my life, I somewhat like the attention. What should I tell my ex, and should I tell the girl I am dating now?

Dream Boat,

The great thing about threats is they don’t have to come true. Example: If you call me one more time I am going to lynch you with your own fallopian tubes. Problem solved. Then deny. No, why would I ever say that? She’s a fucking lunatic, how tough are those tubes anyway? Probably not strong enough to strangle 130 pounds of psycho. See? Crazy times Crazy equals funny. You’ll be drama free and popular in one disturbing statement. Can we be friends?

If the threat doesn’t work (i.e. you are a the least threatening person on the planet, see: Carl Peaslee), there are a few things you can do to get her to stop calling you. Maybe you can just tell her – for realsies. Have you ever asked her to stop calling? Or mentioned it to her with concern? I doubt it, probably because you’re nice and you don’t want to hurt her feelings. Which is totally understandable, but you can’t let your investment in her emotions control your life. You obviously had a good connection with her, and whether you can keep it as friends depends on both of your feelings. Yet, if it has gotten to the point where you’re calling her crazy, something should change. You don’t have to be a dick about it, but letting her know your phone is not an Iraqi war zone will help her make a transition away from you. Oh, is it because it’s blowing up? Probs.

It makes sense for you to like your ex’s attention. She’s giving you more power than the guy with a scissors in a real life Rock-Paper-Scissors dual. You can respond to her, or not, and she’ll be there, like moms. Or prescription pills. Sure the power feels good, but it’s really going to hurt when the one you’re dating finds out your ex is desperately trying give you the darkroom especial in the photo-lab at Pomona. It’s a breach of trust, even if you aren’t doing anything to pursue it.

So, should you tell your girl? No. Not yet at least. If you tell her now there is gonna be like, hella drama. Handle it on your own. Tell your ex you can only be friends if she acts like one. Friends don’t give each other hand jobs, and friends don’t send each other sexual text messages. Well, my friends do, but… I mean, have you met Lewis Corson?

You broke up with your ex because she played you, figure it out, don’t be a hypocrite.

A Mitch

Dear A Mitch

I am the kind of girl that likes casual sex. I don’t even have to tell you what that means for me, but I will. Here are some of the things I have been called lately: Slut, whore, loose, easy… the list goes on. I am completely aware that this is an age-old problem for women who are sexually liberal, but there has got to be a way to break the mold. What do you think?

Punk Slut,

If your name is Carly Candypants, I have a bone to pick. Did you really think you could give my roommate a case of the itch-and-sniffs? I know he’s good in the sack, but honestly, your sexual liberalism is an infectious love, condemning even the healthiest men to a life of calling in to uplifting herpes treatment commercials. “Hi, I just saw your commercial, do I just order, err, how does this work? Can you send it in a secret box?” No they can’t send it in a secret box. And thanks to you, my dorm room now has two beds. So much for my nighttime tickles.

If you’re not that herp smuggler, Carly, I’m sorry for the verbal lashing. And I am sorry you have to live in a world where double standards reign so strongly over a woman’s sexual promiscuity. Nonetheless, you live a lifestyle many frown upon. So how do you break the mold?

Like most social movements, it starts with you disregarding the derogatory perception unleashed by jealous and closed-minded individuals. Or plainly: Don’t care. But there is more to it than turning your back on insults. People are prejudiced because of ignorace. So educate them. Though maybe not with an enraged Facebook status: CMC guys make me vom, so over you.

Have a conversation with the guy who thinks he knows “your kind,” the ho bag who even gave Billy a BJ. Get on a personal level with him. Confrontation changes people, and when you successfully convey the left field idea that you enjoy your right to have informal sex as much as any man, maybe he’ll begin to understand you’re lifestyle is analogous to some of his buddies on campus. Or his friends at home. Or his grandpa’s country club. Really anywhere if he pays attention.

Then lay some more truth on him. Let him know that when he talks shit, you feel shitty. Splash some sincerity in a batch of genuine emotion, and you’ll find yourself doling out some good old fashioned guilt. Because no matter how much you think he (or anyone) actually wants to hurt your feelings, he doesn’t. Your title is just a convenient way to label you, and once you’ve voiced yourself to those who want to define you in one belittling term, your self-esteem will be higher than Friday night at the Beckett Bakery.

In the end, if you’re happy, and you aren’t doing anything to hurt anyone else, then get your freak on. Do what you do shawdy, and I’ll be chillin’ in the crib if you need some real good advice.

—————————————————–

Got problems?  A Mitch has answers.  Tell him all about your problems here: http://cmcforum.com/dear-amitch

I can’t think of a real good reason to get bikini waxes. Yet, every four weeks I pay $60 to sit through 25 minutes of often-excruciating pain and awkward conversations with my waxer. Even if it is appreciated by my sexual partners, the pain and expense is always one-sided because there is no real expectation for guys to groom themselves. I could shave, but the results are far from ideal (and I really don’t feel comfortable using sharp dangerous objects in those hard to reach places!).  So I go get waxed. I feel like it is a requirement and that if I didn’t, I would be undesirable. Is all of this trouble really worth it, and do guys really care as much as we think they do? And if so, why is it so unsexy for a woman to look like a mature woman and not a prepubescent girl??

Mole Rat,

Ahh pubic hair, my favorite. Honestly, I have no idea why guys don’t like it. I mean, Jesus, the audacity people have these days to turn down an A+ whisker biscuit. Who created these norms anyway, the Taliban? That’s worth an invasion in itself. Just think of all the cancer patients that dream about having a big ole haystack between their legs. It’s sad really, a reality nonetheless.

My lady, your question fits nicely into the vast category that is gender inequality, the majority of which are based on unjustified, misogynistic, and oppressive social norms– the motivation behind feminist force. And for that, on the behalf of men, I am sorry. Sorry that it has become an expectation rather than a choice based solely on your personal preferences. However I wonder if it is actually a huge hindrance for all women? I don’t have a vagina, but I imagine that for many women, pubie shaving is just part of a weekly process that simply requires a little more effort and finesse than the legs.

In contrast to the opinions of my alter ego in paragraph one, I think many men prefer little to no hair for a few reasons. One is that oral sex on an unkempt woman is about as appealing as bobbing for apples in a Marks Hall toilet. If she’s not a Fuji, forget it. And this isn’t a double standard, because men have outies, which means that unless the guy has a daffodil in the Amazon, your contact with his curls is minimal. Although I will note, not all men share an interest in naked vag. In fact, many are weirded out by naked kitties, the association to a child too close for comfort.

Another reason is aesthetic appeal. Fair or not, the norm of naked is trim and cute, for both sexes. For the most part, sexual media is cleanly cut, and as products of our culture, we seek to imitate what we are told is attractive.

As for the men you think lack the pressure to tidy their thicket, I say you might be hooking up with the wrong dudes. I’m not really the expert on the norms of male grooming, but if the rogue locks on my bathroom floor denote anything, it is that men are doing some sort of deforestation. I doubt many men practice testicular waxing, but who can blame them, that would be like trying to pull gorilla glue off silly putty. Scrotums would age thirty years in one wax.

Who knows, you might try sprouting a few, or you may find your Brillo pillow less comfortable than a clean canvas. In the end, like most things in life, it is only worth it if it makes you happy. If a man finds he is ready to judge you on your Velcro love triangle, he probably isn’t the right guy for you. So do what feels good, and be sexy.

A Mitch

Dear A Mitch,

Over the past few months I have successfully abandoned all of my morals and completely lost any trace of dignity I once had.  I never imagined I would be the type of person to cheat, much less the type of person to ruin someone else’s relationship, and yet, that is exactly the position in which I now find myself.  I met this older guy, fully aware of his marriage from the very beginning, and immediately felt the attraction.  It didn’t take long for things to spiral completely out of control.  Before I knew it, we were sneaking around at all hours of the night and slipping out of sight in public places when a familiar face was spotted.  I cringe every time I think of the reality of this situation; I pretty much feel sick all the time now, and yet I cannot get this man out of my head.  I have a lot of anger toward him and myself, but I’m not totally sure I want to end our secret relationship.  What should I do?

Commandment Breaker,

Hell is not as cool as religion has made it out to be. Fire, demons, soul wrenching pain, yeah right. Try stale hot dogs, plaque colored clouds, and ShamWow-endorsed curtains. You’ll go crazier than I do reading the serious comments on satirical YouTube videos. Sexyphatgurl16 says: Aww hells naw that ain’t reel!

Soo, it sounds like you are in a love affair without a love song, in a habit of having what you don’t want? Maybe an affair with no love or music at all, just the hot/cold rhythm of half-clothed lust, hips humping until your passion resolves into self-loathing guilt. Whatever it is, he is a drug, and you are addicted. He is immediate gratification, a temptation with high highs, and low lows, and he’s going to drag you down emotionally until you realize the chances of this ending well are about small as the sober population at Thursday night Snack.

You are either going to be the other woman, the woman he leaves his wife for, or just maybe the woman his wife goes to jail for murdering. Who knows? But if you have some little fantasy about him leaving her for you, remember relationships based on lies and betrayal are about as strong as underwear elastic on Tequila Tuesdays. Someone’s getting fucked.

Look, I know you hate yourself for what you are doing. It is easy to fall into a groove of I already did the deed, might as well do it again. I imagine that is how old people get boring. Frasier reruns again? But see, the difference between another booty call for you and another for your lover is ultimately your happiness. Your happiness comes first. I don’t mean in a selfish way, just that a healthy mindset is generally a happy one, and your hotel hookups aren’t helping. Why perpetuate this vicious cycle of internal disappointment?

You want change? Nothing is more powerful than a woman who knows what she wants. You gotta gather the strength to look him dead in the eyes and say you are done disrespecting yourself, and moreover,  done disrespecting this woman who is currently steeping in the saliva of her husband’s mendacious debauchery. So invite him to coffee on a weekend afternoon. Be as blunt as you can about it, but try to stay away from voicing your opinions about his morality. Mold the discussion around your needs. Calling him a bad person might be what you really want to say, and it is deserved, but it is only going to rile him up. Plus, if I’m not mistaken, you’re kind of in the same canoe with him.

So just tell him how you feel, how angry you are with yourself when you sit panty-less and empty after his lunch break. You dominate the discussion, because in the end, this needs to be over, not adjusted. There is nothing he can say to change the situation and when you successfully relay this, hopefully he will grasp your message, no matter how disillusioned he is about his own reality.

A Mitch

—————————–

Got problems?  A Mitch has answers.  Tell him all about your problems here: http://cmcforum.com/dear-amitch

• “It was good, how was yours?”
• “It was really nice to see my family and friends.”
• “It was soooooo relaxing.”
• “My family and I went to (insert London, the Caymans, Aspen, et al.) and it was a absolutely awesome.

If these are your planned responses, spare me– I won’t bother to ask about your break. I know conversations in passing can’t always be as thorough as your experiences deserve, but lord, relay some information that doesn’t make me want perform Chinese water torture on myself. If anything, make a story up. Or delve into your strange family dynamics and pull out a fragment of truth that can be both amusing and brief. So I don’t cut you with the dragon handle dagger my mom got me for Kwanzaa. It’s fucking sweet.

Do you understand what I am saying? No? Here are some things to say that won’t make my life feel as stale as the box of Nilla Wafers your dementia-ridden aunt-in-law thought you would like for Christmas. Some of these are based on my family experiences, others pulled out o’ me buttocks. Oh and I gave them titles. Suck on that, title haters.

The Nebraskan: I watched the entire discography of Seinfeld and gained 15 pounds. Laugh tracks and fried mayonnaise balls are a bad combination.

The Mac: I played Apples to Apples as a drinking game. You can put Helen Keller down for anything and it’s funny. (Wordplay/pun cross-action, if you are the first to identify what this means I’ll give you a free Charles Johnson tee).

The Homewrecker: It was the first time I drank with my parents and I went shot for shot with my mom until she had alcohol poisoning. We spent New Year’s Eve in the hospital. Wear it, mom.

The Mudder Clause: My boyfriend got me an electric toothbrush for Christmas. We’re not together anymore.

The Banjo Baker: I watched my uncle taser a raccoon. It was funny until I got the pelt for Christmas. I hate Arkansas.

The Mood Ring: I Just chilled in Idaho with a couple friends, all my family has died of scurvy.

The Colorado Killer: I slept with Greg Oden and…well…my pregnancy tests are negative. I’m contemplating rape charges. Girls gotta eat, right?

And, I’m Old: You know that song by The Moldy Peaches when Dawson says, “You shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants?’ My grandpa does that on the reg. And it’s not like he’s senile, he thinks it’s hilarious. When people call him out, he sticks his tongue in his cheek and does blow job impressions. Perv.

So you got it, right? I just set the standard. Be weird!  Lose friends to your vulgarity! Come up with more and post them in the comment section. Titles I wish someone would elaborate on: The Charlie Jo, The Skinny Squirrel, maybe something like The Beaumont Heidrich. I dunno, it’s not like you’re doing anything yet, make me smile.

Shark Bite Luv Fog on Vimeo.

I am deeply confounded by and seeking insight into the male psyche!  There exists a guy,  Mr. A+, and though we have barely hung out in the past year (distance is an issue) we seem to enjoy our time together. So what am I supposed to make of the fact that he infrequently replies to my emails, and doesn’t pick up the phone to call?

If he was just another guy, it might  be different. But he’s become a friend who I wish could become so much more! You see, I was able to spend quite a bit of time discovering this hilarious, confident, smart, self-deprecating, and strong individual. We are both creative and extremely witty (to the extent that we are often the only one’s laughing!), and not to mention our interests have only grown more alike over time. His friendly verbal (and sometimes physical) jabs could also be construed as flirtations (but maybe it’s just brotherly love)….Is he playing hard to get? Giving me the cold shoulder? Am I only his buddy or pal? Some advice, please!

Vague Lady,

The male psyche is a dark hall full of disturbing imagery one can hardly conceive of. Well, mine at least. So maybe I wont let you completely in. Check out the living room, pantry is off limits. Don’t even think about the closets. However, I think there are a few generalized qualities inherent in many males:

1. Guys playing hard to get is like clowns playing don’t be creepy – It is a rarity.
2. Mind reading is impossible. Don’t expect men to know what you are thinking.
3. Flirtatious is often a personality, not an intentional come-on.
4. Just because a guy is confident and witty doesn’t mean those attributes transfer to having game with girls.
5. Men are all different. Generalizations should be the last thing you should focus on. Wear it A to D.

So what to do without presupposition? Tiptoeing is annoying, grow a vagina: “I like you, but I can’t tell if you feel the same way back. Just tell me, do you want to be more than friends with me?” You gotta chuck your beans and go for it. Life is too short to wonder, when all knowing takes is asking.

You’ll probably catch him off guard, a time when truth truly shows face. What if he says, “Oh my god, I’ve felt this way forever!” You’ll feel like a million Galleons, and all those other enticingly giddy feelings that accompany a crush returned. If he’s stunned into stuttering, gasping for explanations that clearly describe his unromantic intentions, well, that will suck. But at least you will know he doesn’t think of you in that way. And then you can get over it and start spending this valuable time you have in college on more profitable love investments. Shoot, the “Without a Box” boys are single, ready to mingle, and will challenge your wit to the end of sobriety.

In the end, either things went your way or they didn’t. But if they didn’t, at least you can say you took the chance. You can never regret a jab at happiness.

A Mitch

Dear A Mitch,

I had such a tight knit group of friends back home and thought it would be easy to find the same thing here. I started hanging out with a group of girls and guys who I liked and started to feel comfortable with only to find out that they didn’t like me– they continually found ways to avoid having me around. I know there are plenty of other people I can befriend and I understand you can’t be liked by everyone but the thought of getting shut down again makes me feel extremely insecure. I feel like the person I am at home and the person I am here exist in two separate universes. Advice?

Loserface,

Well, maybe you suck as a person. Or maybe, more likely I would say, you haven’t found a niche. Remember that word from sixth grade science. In social studies you learned porcupines didn’t find their niche until the Native American Cherequill Tribe started poking fun at them in the early thirteenth century. We attribute crocheting to this interaction (wikipedia).

Rejection is always hard. And yours wasn’t the quick and easy denial – The, I’m gay, sorry hun. You invested time with these friends, and just like any relationship, when you find out the interest you exchange is not reciprocal, it hurts. This doesn’t mean you are inept in any sense, it just means your personalities don’t click. And you can drown in self-loathing gloom, or you can say, “listen gloom, you lil’ betch, I’ve had about enough of you clouding my confidence. I’m gonna listen to 2Pac now and he says to keep my head up, so f with me.”

The point I am trying to make is you are who you are and anyone who doesn’t accept this should have approximately zero influence on your life. I know this is a model concept, sitting in Ideal Land amongst follow your heart and do what makes you happy, but it is something you can think about when you are struggling to find the confidence to reload your emotions and shoot yourself into new social situations.

But before you completely disregard these folks, confront them. Straight up. “Why do you guys always avoid me?” You might hear some bs cakes and pies answers, but you could also learn a thing or two about yourself. Maybe you are the cup-half-empty type and consistently bring everyone down. Maybe you never stop talking about things of no interest to anyone else, or maybe they just think you are ridiculous ever since you set fire to your boyfriend’s Build-a-Bear. Legitimate or not, at least you’ll have some insight into why they think these things.

So how to make the new friend jump? Grab a table at the front of the dining hall and start a new friend club. People will walk by and ask you what you are advocating for and you can tell them you are starting a friend-profiting friendship club, revolving mostly around being friends and doing fun things together. If this task seems too bold for your nature, maybe just ask those acquaintances you have what they are doing for the weekend. You know the ones who you say hi to but don’t actually know? You have classes with them, right? That tricky exam Professor Gardner gave might be an excellent conversation starter.

Regardless, making friends usually requires some sort of effort. However you go about it, remember to always follow your heart and do what makes you happy. If all else fails, do drugs. Move to Portland, it will be easy.

A Mitch

Got problems?  A Mitch has answers.  Tell him all about your problems here: http://cmcforum.com/dear-amitch

A short interview with Miles T. Bird:

Alex: So you were in Bangladesh this summer. What were you doing?

Miles: I interned with Grameen Bank, a microfinance organization. There were a fair amount of other foreign interns in Dhaka and I spent a lot of time traveling Bangladesh’s surrounding area with them.

Alex: Sounds fun, tell me a little about the kids you met in this clip we’re about to watch.

Miles: These kids are literally out of the movie Slumdog Millionaire. There were ten of them, presumably orphans, and they all took care of one another like a family. There was one slightly older one who took a mother role, shepherding them around and passing out some bananas we gave them. All the kids were super dirty and scratched up, some with unhealed broken bones. They were incredibly nice kids though. For example, they offered me their bundle of newspapers to sit on – one of their only possessions besides the clothing on their backs and a bag of empty bottles.

Alex: How did they convince you to get on the train?

Miles: They didn’t really convince us, they were actually really surprised we followed them up. They are “untouchables,” which means they aren’t respected and discriminated against in Bangladesh.

Alex: So you just climbed up to the top of a moving train?

Miles: Yeah man, as the train left the station we climbed out of the window and pulled ourselves up. The kids rushed over to help pull us up, which was pretty cute.

Alex: Damn, how fast was your heart beating?

Miles: Fast. The train ride was one of the most thrilling moments of my life. The train was moving about 60 miles an hour and these kids were doing cartwheels and jumping from car to car.

Alex: Crazy, how long were you up there?

Miles: About an hour and a half. We napped for a little bit.

Alex: What did you do when the train came to a stop?

Miles: (Laughing) Several hundred people flooded the station and everyone was yelling in rapid-fire Bengali. When we got down, we were hustled into the conductor’s room. There were a handful of police screaming at us and we just apologized profusely until they let us leave.

Alex: Word. Video time?

Miles: Yeah.

So this is what Miles did last summer – sorry you can’t be as cool.

Filming and editing done by Miles Bird.

I’m being haunted by the hookup from hell. At the beginning of last year I hooked up with a guy I thought I liked. Turns out he totally “New York’d” me. Now there’s a rumor going around that I got an STI from him. The truth is I never slept with him and I don’t have an STI, although he did give me a lesson in how guys can’t think with both heads at the same time. How do I stop this rumor?

Pattie Cake,

Sometimes rumors are blessings in disguise. Take, for example, Harvey Mudd students. Most had a bad rumor made up about them in middle school that completely debilitated their social life and propelled them to eat Fritos and root beer for lunch in the science lab. That sounds pretty lame until ten years from now when they perfect nuclear fusion on earth and are forever known as those Frito-eating geniuses. If I were you I would grab that STI and run like the wind. You’re getting into Harvard Grad.

If you really can’t stand having guys avoid you like the Home section at Collins, there are a couple of things you can do. If you want it to be easy, just scan your STI test results and make copies for the gossip hounds. Hand it to them and say, “I actually don’t have [insert slandered STI].” Granted, they’ll have your blood counts and hormone levels to Photoshop, possibly turning you into an AIDS-infected hermaphrodite on paper.

You don’t like either of these suggestions, do you? Me neither. So maybe just talk to him. You’re furious right? No doubt, but I don’t think screaming insults will help. Find him alone and calmly tell him how much his lies hurt you. I know I sound like your mom in grade school when she was like, “Well tell Sarah it hurts your feelings when she calls you stupid.” And you said, “I know,” but in your head you were like there is no fucking way I am saying that. Well, you’re older now, and often genuinely informing someone how damaging their words are is far more powerful than yelling, cussing, and creating rumors about how their penis competes with your index finger in length. You don’t want to turn this into a game of tennis against a brick wall, or, rather relevantly, refuting anything Charles Johnson has to say.

Realistically, there is something to be said for the strength of a person who has the self-esteem to let a rumor run its course. You know the truth and hopefully your friends do too – why let him cut you even deeper by dwelling on this falsity?

A Mitch

Dear A Mitch,

Why are the guys at CMC douchebags?

Miss Descriptive,

In the same way Pomona boys are all pretentious, Mudders all hopelessly nerdy, and Scrippsies all scissoring humanitarians, CMC guys are just dicks. Please clump us together as a huge whale douche (the ocean?). Look, there are plenty of d bags at the 5C’s, and if we did a 5C statistical survey, I wouldn’t be surprised if CMC guys ranked first in douchebaggery. I do sometimes wonder as well – you aren’t the first person to have reoccurring issues with CMCers. If I am going to hypothesize as to why so many people think Stag=douchebag, I would need to organize my thoughts. Numbers will help. And then transition sentences are not necessary. Timesavas!

1. About thirty percent of CMC  students are athletes.  This means there’s a bevy of bros who not only have a stunning physique, but have likely been popular studs for most of their lives; they are the yeast in baking success with women (in high school at least). Athletes are not inherently douches by any means – they are simply more susceptible to the status. It is easier to disregard the feelings of another when there’s always going to be someone giving a shit about how damn good you look in crimson and gold.

2. Claremont McKenna teeters on the title of liberal arts college. This is a school popular for economics, business, and finance. We have more econ majors than Jay-Z has problems, okay, actually way more. Now this might be a leap, but I imagine the kid who wants to go to school for four years and have a $60,000± investment firm salary when they graduate is the type that prefers immediate gratification. Which translates to: Gettin’ mine tonight. Or, my deeper thoughts concerning how my actions might affect people are subordinate to my drive to be successful. But then you meet Moose Halpern and everything I just said sounds outlandish.

3. Where you are meeting these guys? TNC right? T – Thursday N – Night C – CLUB. Rasmussen’s latest poll shows that clubs are for womanizers. And menizers. Especially party clubs, where a large proportion of individuals are willing to play smoochikins at the end of the night. Are you getting my drift? If you are looking for someone who you can really connect with, maybe try developing friendships outside of the party scene. If you were to walk by the basketball suite on a Saturday night, you would probably hate all of us. But have a midday chat with Seth Winterroth and you might fall in love. Drunken debauchery is misrepresentative of who people are, and while it does define a small facet of a person, the larger fraction is more visible during Sunday’s coffee conversations, Tuesday night’s psych seminar, and green beach bathing in November.

So don’t stereotype us like I have in this response. You only know what you experience –alter the environment in which your judgments occur.

A Mitch

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