Frikin' Lazers

I suppose that at this point, some would consider me too old for lazer tag, that as I'm going to college, I should move past novelty shooting games. But that's what they said when I trick or treated at 15, too, and I had a really good haul that year. Also I plan to start a Nerf club at college.

Luckily for me, many of my good friends are with me on this, which is how I found myself at a midnight to 7 a.m. lazer tag session last night in Fall River, Massachusetts.

Fall River is widely known as one of the sketchiest towns in MA; as my friend Jonny suggested, second only to Dorchester. Some of it's city planning was bizarre enough to remind me of Africa. It's the kind of place where, hypothetically, if a group of buddies went and one of them went to Walgreens to pick up a disposable camera unnanounced, the others would be significantly upset with him. They thought I was killed or something.

The lazer tag facility is in an old mill, behind a McDonald's, marked by absolutely zero signage. Neither the parking lot or the building show any indication of housing a lazer tag arena. You can only find out about it if you know the right people. It's kind of a thrill, actually knowing that you've stumbled upon and now have connections with the lazer tag underground. But despite its meager exterior, and to a lesser extent its interior, it's know as the lazer tag place, enough so to make us trek an hour, passing three other options, to get to.

With the group deal, I was pretty thrilled that 35 bucks would get me unlimited lazer tag and arcade games for seven hours, but when I found out that also included pizza, three drinks and Dunkin Donuts donuts, I actually felt bad. At that point it seemed like theft.

It was a pretty fantastic time. It was suggested that the head employee may have been under some influences, as they say, but he seemed like a really nice guy. It's an involved arena, too, with two stories of ample space (although only the n00bs use the first floor), and it kept us going for a good seven hours of early mornin' lazerin'.

Major props to Mack and Dave for overcoming insane heat, transportation for 30 people, and a couple of ditching jerks to throw a wicked awesome party.

And for the record, I'm not being paid for each time I say lazer tag.


-Will


"Why is my thumb shaking?" --Bond, at 5 a.m.

The Boy Who Stayed Awake

I'm sitting right now in a sea of fandom, at the last midnight launch of a Harry Potter movie in the foreseeable future, 15 minutes before "it all ends." Going to the midnight launch of anything has to be one of the most unique experiences in life. No where else do I know can you find such a raw, unadulterated sea of obssession as the earliest possible moment to watch a movie.

Someone just screamed "Harry Potter! Woo!" and got a significant response from the crowd. There's a 40-year old man with a fake beard and a cloak sitting across from me. There were two girls dressed up as snitches outside, complete with "I open at the close" shirts. Even the workers have orange-red and silver-green scarves. I had no idea this many Hogwarts house ties were even in existence. The people without wands are the losers.

And although I somewhat disdain this movie for starting the trend of splitting a movie into two 10+ dollar tickets, I'm sad it's the last, really. Even the fact that this is the last time to get Potter merch without having to back-order it has me feeling a little nostalgic. It's the end of an era, or at least the beginning of the end of it. The movies have been decent, but man those books are gold. Since others have written much better and more meaningful tributes than I, I'll keep it short and leave you with my favorite quote of the movie, bar "NOT MY DAUGHTER...!" In the wise words of Albus Dumbledore:

"Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it." --Albus Dumbledore


-Will

Land of the Free

Well, it's technically July 5th, but I'm still feeling very patriotic. America rocks. Since we got here a few weeks ago, I've been able to catch up with friends, I've eaten a ridiculous amount of fast food, and the feeling that I've probably met every white person I see is finally wearing off. I thought that, since I've been blessed enough to be here for the past few summers and I'm used to being blown away by Walmart and having power again, that I'd share some of the less obvious impressions of the motherland.

#1
Milk
I drink milk as if it's the active antidote to some sort of poison a malicious, pet-stroking super-villain shot me up with a few days ago. I have a theory that that's the reason I have never broken a bone. Also because I am not active.

#2
Smells
Let me put it this way-- In America, everything smells good to a certain extent, all the time, and occasionally there's a skunk or something and it smells terrible. In Africa, the good smell is the abnormal smell.

#3
Netflix
I know I'm several years late to this party, but Netflix is officially the best thing since sliced bread. It has made my laptop and Xbox 360 into LOST machines, and I'm enjoying every second of it. Also, I'm only in Season 2, so no spoilers.

#4
Postal Service
Things ship fast. Crazy fast. When we ordered Halo: Reach, it arrived in Mass. on September 14th, a few weeks after we pre-ordered it, and we finally got it on October 1st, half a month later. That was a record turn-around-- mostly it's a much longer process. I ordered a few games a couple weeks ago and they were on the doorstep (in the mailbox) within 5 days.

#5
Cops
I enjoy seeing cop cars here, knowing that they almost definitely do not contain a corrupt Senegalese jerk. I hate Senegalese cops.

#7
Stress
There's no overarching sense of danger in every moment of life. That sounds several tads over-dramatic, I know, but it's one of the biggest differences in the two countries. Senegal's not a dangerous country (or wasn't when I left), but the whole feel is different. A trip to downtown Dakar is a seek, strike and destroy mission at best, but there are whole parks in Boston just waiting to be napped in. People go there for fun, not because they have to.


-Will


"How could I possible be expected to tolerate school on a day like today?"

I Get By...

Since I came to DA, one of its many touts was that you could make good friends easily there. Students and alumni alike told horror stories along the lines of "it took me six months to even talk long with anybody" or "I connected with someone and then they blew me off the next day," begrudging the States (can you recognize a theme here?) for its shallow relationships. Yet three years into and 99% done with my stay in Dakar, I can honestly say that this, DA's proudest pander, was not at all the case for me.

I have friends, sure, but no one I'd call a best friend. I am completely different from the guy I hang out with the most, and we frequently wonder how we're friends at all, and then remember that we get on each other's nerves all the time. But even more so in the past few months, I've been kind of upset upon realizing how few meaningful friendships I've made since coming here.

Maybe it's just the After AP/Before Grad personas that many in my class have developed. One of my friends has pretty much gone insane, and he will be the first to tell you that. He has gone from a very responsible Student Body President and Sound Guy to a complete goofball, no longer applying himself academically and being crazy all the time. His math teacher actually asked his dorm parents about his well-being. It's not inherently a bad thing-- the guy had a busy year and needs a break, and I've already stated my opinion on Academic Senioritis-- but it definitely shows one end of the spectrum that my class now lays all over.

I was even further enlightened to this point last night when I caught up with a very good friend over Facebook and eventually Skype. While we used to be super close, I'll admit we haven't really talked in about a year-- even last summer, I only got to see her for a meager few minutes. So I was both thrilled and alarmed to discover how easy it was to talk again. In a lot of ways, it's as if we left 8th grade yesterday. It was an absolute pleasure reconnecting with her.

We had similar feelings towards several of our classmates, she actually answered the question "How's it going?" with more than one syllable, and I didn't have to draw out meaningful conversation like poison from a wound. And it was great to talk to someone who doesn't hate cats. It was amazing, but I wasn't used to it.

I think it's just for the same reason that DA alumni have trouble making friends in the States. I can't connect with people here because they aren't really American just like they can't connect with people in America because they aren't really African. I really didn't think the whole MK thing would be that schismatic of a trait, but here we are, three years later, and I still connect way better with my middle school friends than with the people I've been around for most of high school.

I guess the safest conclusion that can be drawn from this is that my middle school friends are freaking amazing. Cheers, Charter.


-Will


"What do I do when my love is away?
-Does it worry you to be alone?
How do I feel by the end of the day?
-Are you sad because you're on your own?"

The Beginning of the End of the Beginning of the Rest of our Lives

In the past few weeks, academically at least, I have felt a significant onset of Senioritis.

Never during the year was school the worst part of my day-- even AP Lit, where I got by far the most homework, has run the gamut between entertaining to downright uproarious. Some times my day was only half over when school finished, and as the bell rang I dreaded the homework that would keep me up until the fairly wee hours of the morning. Now, though, it's becoming a lazy, homework-less blast.

Today's gallivant took place in Physics class. Since our teacher is the man, he gave us time to work on homework due at the end of class-- which I had all but completed. The last question was difficult, and I knew I had the others right. So I could choose one of two options: either finish Physics and perhaps diligently get ahead on AP World reading, or goof off the entire class. I resolved to let Senioritis wash over me.

I have rarely felt more like Jim Halpert.

One of the students, comically frustrated at the order in which our teacher, who we call The Bard Force, was dressing questions, wrote a priority list of students on the board. I was sauntering about the room when I was asked to write my friend Matt's name on the list. I decided to write "Matthew III." It was at this point in time the appointment schedule became much more than the appointment schedule it was intended to be.

Pretty soon, "Matthew III" became "Matthew III, son of Stephen, slayer of Ithgul, terror the north." My bizarrely-named artist friend Annieo became "Annieo, grand-daughter of the great Gertudyo, second cousin of the mighty Santa Claus, painter of triumphant landscapes and wielder of the Brush of Glory. My sign-language fluent, fencing acting buddy Leticia became "Leticia, lady of many faces, speaker of the hands, descendant of the famous Empress Wu, wielder of Glamdel, once held by Inigo the Avenger." This is what I did during Physics class.

The right half of the white board (With Leticia, lady of many faces writing down the histories)

And rhe left half

Now, several hours removed from the situation, it's it's a small deal. It's hardly even a deal of any size. It was just so entertaining at the time. I don't know why I listened to anyone saying Senioritis is a bad thing.

You know that feeling of the last few days before summer, where there's not much homework because of exams and no one really cares anymore? It's like that except for a month. Hopefully there are no repercussions.


-Will


"You're a reject of society." -Tanner
"I'm a reject of a Utopian society." -Taylor

Fear the Manbag

A long time ago, in a little mom and pop store called Walmart, I bought an unassuming, black and red messenger bag from the on sale school supply aisle in preparation to go to Quebec High School (I had deemed my L.L. Bean backpack's wheels and carting handle a bit too unsightly for high school). I was under the impression that messenger bags were the bees knees.

I was correct. I now know from experience that man bags are, in fact, the bees knees.

Over times, this majestic murse not only earned a spot slung over my shoulder, but metamorphosed in both appearance and practicality. I soon added Jack Skellington, Quebec Rugby, 1up, and Watchmen patches to the outer flap and a few pins to the strap. And almost immediately, Mr. Manbag went from a school supply carrier to an all-around awesome satchel, carrying on a regular basis most of my life and occasionally moonlighting as a much-too-large "personal item" on flights to America.

The bag, at optimum capacity and full usefulness, carries my planner, two notebooks, and a script, with various loose pieces of paper. Just ask anyone who spoke to me from mid-December to January 12th how important to me my planner is-- those were the dark days that it was lost. Any major event and homework assignment is inscribed in those pages-- with a planner and I might be described as slightly forgetful, without one I become a younger but just as frayed man-bag toting version of the abhorrent Uncle Billy from "It's a Wonderful Life."

Above, left: Uncle Billy, or: The guy who ruins everything

Lost even more frequently (this time ask my drama teach) are my scripts. There's been a script to a play or musical almost constantly in there since sophomore year, and hopefully that streak will continue.

Last but not least are my notebooks. On is for work, stuffed with menus, to-do lists, and journalism articles, the other is for everything else, from quotes to blogs to ramblings to letters to whatever else. I'm not going to mince words. It's a journal. It is not, however, a diary. Those are for girls.

But like any good item of sentimental value, the sideways backpack is more than just the sum of its parts. This bag has been with me in Quebec, Africa, the States-- there and back and there and back again. I love it like I would a pair of good old shoes that have traveled with me forever , except no one's forcing me to throw it away, and I certainly hope I never grow too wide for that giant strap. Few material items have that kind of longevity coupled with such thorough use. You just have to respect it.

Anyway, I don't know what will become of my manly purse next year, other than it's definitely coming with me to college. My hope is that develops a blanky-to-Linus-esque connection to me. I just don't know what kind of sport-coat a messenger bag would make.

-Will


"Plus, it's not a man-purse, it's called a satchel. Indiana Jones wears one."

Senior Cafe: Two Parts Stress, Three parts Awesome

One again, the days start getting longer, the power cuts continue, and the weak-sauce winter comes to a close. Actually, the power cuts were supposed to quit in November, but the calendar also clued me into the event this weekend.

Senior Cafe.

For those who have understandably forgotten my description last year, it's a big talent show fundraiser the Seniors put on. Previous Hall of Fame acts include lip synching to "Numa Numa," laying down some phat beats with the McDonalds rap, and of course air banding "More Than a Feeling." The lead air guitarist was kickin'.

This year, though, "the Seniors" is us. More specifically, the President is me. So things were a little more complicated than last year's single costume change from air bander to awkward Swedish singer.

It was a crazy week for sure, making tiki torches from scratch, moving couches for coffeehouse seating, collecting cakes, etc, but it actually went pretty well. And the night was a blast-- I figure if the people running it have fun something must be going right.

My Vice President also accidentally swallowed some gas when siphoning from one generator to another (the power cut). Good thing MKs know to drink milk immediately because I still have a very loose grasp on the concept of acids and bases. I have a feeling it's really simple. So Tanner, VP, gets the night's MVP award. I won't go into how much he and my English teacher helped out, but they did. A ton. Thanks guys.

Of course, Past Will though it was a great idea to also be in three acts, because just running it is too simple. I have to give him some credit, though-- that number was originally six. My favorite though, beating out a barbershop quartet singing "That's What Friends Are For" from The Jungle Book and Chamber Choir singing "The Longest Time" by Billy Joel, was my friend Jear Bear and I's cover of "Tribute" by Tenacious D.

In a lot of ways, it was a culmination of my very short and trivial musical career. Who knows? Someday it may blossom into a full-fledged, international Jack Black cover band. I can only dream.

This was, not most but very importantly, our last fundraiser as a class. A lot has changed from the "dis-unified" sophomore class from two years ago. I, honestly, love our class, even though we have a human excuse and a few slackers in it. It's gonna be weird not having them all in one place.

Getting everyone together for reunions is hard.



-Will

"This is the greatest and best song in the world."

Insert Random Acronym Here

Time for another DA culture lesson.

WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament) is an annual, 3-day-long event so thoroughly American that they actually have a giant red white and blue tent. I bet you'd be hard pressed to find a massive flag-tent in most states.

I've had very varying experiences in the past few years. When I first got here, I wasn't on a team, and the weekend was a big breath of fresh, American, country music, swearing air. For the record, I hate country music, but come on, it's softball. Peace corps teams make up the majority of the social bracket. These are people who live out in the boonies don't have to worry about power cuts because they don't have any to begin with. They're the ones who are for real in mud huts. So, understandably, the one weekend in six months that they get not only free, but to spend with other Americans serving all over this side of the continent, gets a little crazy.

Long story short, it's hard to lose to them after about 11:00 am, because by that time most of them are pretty hammered. They're what made and make WAIST for me, though-- not only are they hilarious, but speaking to American strangers in English is a splendid experience if you're used to stumbling through basic greetings in French. The fact that the concession stands had copious amounts of American candy didn't hurt either.

The last year, softball ruined it for me. The way it used to go is that if two DA teams did well enough to play on Monday, no one had school this year our awesome director just said no school automatically-- he's the man). Since I was on a team, and most other DA teams were clearly not going to be able to hold up the "do well" end of the bargain, our team had a lot of pressure to win. Which is really not the point of the weekend at all. Also Dad told me I was in trouble on Saturday morning and didn't tell me what it was about until Monday night. And then it wasn't actually a huge deal. It just hung over my head for a few days.

2011 lacked the wow factor of the first time but was overall more fun. Even though we didn't play any peace corps teams until Monday (I heard they asked to not play us 'cause we weren't fun to play--see above paragraph) I played on a thrown together nonsense team that played for the heck of it. This is WAIST at its finest. And we actually won the social league, so we got to take home an awkwardly proportioned African trophy as well.

And with that taste of America, we're in the home stretch for the real deal.

-Will


"A place where the beer flows like wine, and beautiful women flock like the salmon of Capistrano."

I Like to Move It- Part 2

I posted part one about two years ago. And you thought I forgot about part two.

So today I started packing for college. That's a weird thing to think about, isn't it?

And, though moving day is still a good six months away, since senior year so far has been very lacking in the free time department and the last month of it is a storm of grad parties, receptions, and banquets, I figured I might get some work done now.

Two things struck me as I've started to sort and pack. The first was how much complete junk I managed to sneak over to Africa with me. The idea was that we all purge a bit but that really didn't happen with me. I don't really know what I thought I was going to do with a bag full of scrap booking supplies, a chunk of welcome mat from my old band director's platform, or an empty box for a plastic guitar, but they all made the trip and none of 'em are baking it back.

The second realization was that it was difficult. I'm not going to try and start the "home" argument/discussion/pontification just yet, but there's no denying that ripping my beloved posters off the walls for the nth time felt more meaningful than I expected. I do love our house, and my room is pretty awesome even after JD made it smell like cat, but a small part of me still does and maybe always will consider it a pit stop between two American checkpoints. That part was silent when I stood in yet another room that has had my posters put up and taken down in.

I guess I'm not really sure what I expected was going to happen at the end of this year. I suppose I've thought of it as just another summer trip back to the States in some ways-- pack up some clothes and leave most of my stuff behind. But it doesn't really work like that.

This may be harder than I expected.


-Will


"Echoes and silence, patience and grace. All of these moments I'll never replace."

Tidbits: The Cops

There are some parts of Africa that I have gotten used to (read: experience without thinking to blog about.) The police force is one of these.

The cops in Africa are generally terrible people. Their number one activity is standing on the edge of roads and checking paperwork in (white people's) cars. In the city, the the middle of the month, if you have your papers in order, they let you on their way. Outside the city, especially near the end of the month when the rent is due, if you're papers are in order, they will find some absurd reason so give you a ticket.

Today they said we didn't stop at the sign to look for a train crossing when the sign was 20 feet in front of the tracks, making it impossible to actually see down them. Maybe it's too many people in a car. Maybe they say your car is overloaded with baggage-- in a city where this is a pretty common sight.

(Not my picture, but you get the idea)

If you get a ticket, they confiscate your driver's license, and you have to find some small building, in some random town on the highway, wait in line for a long time, pay them, get another ticket, and return to the cop that gave you the first one in exchange for the license. Of course, the friendly neighborhood cops could help you out by collecting the fine there, and putting it in his pocket.

If you've actually done something wrong, then it really hits the fan. It's the kind of situation where one might reasonably decide to just take the jail time instead of trying to reason with the African judicial system in any way, shape, or form.

There may be a single lone ranger, tame-the-Wild-West kind of a guy going through the city and cracking down on crime. But no one's ever seen him.

And this is in a good African country.


-Will


"Don't take no for an answer?! He was gonna call the fuzz."