Zeke III leaps to catch a frisbee inside Spartan Stadium. (photo by Nick Robinson)

The alarm blares at 7 AM, on the dot. Still drunk after only 4 hours of sleep, I forget that I have a roommate. “GODDAMNSONOFAFUCKINGBITCH!” I yell to the world before closing my mouth and scurrying down my loft, trying not to wobble it too much, and run to the bathroom. Shower, teeth, contacts, and I’m out the door, pulling on my Michigan State hoodie and plugging my iPod into my ears to drown out the road noise. I’ve still got a long walk ahead, and time is against me.

In the twenty minutes to Wilson Hall, I remind myself I need to get to Matt’s room to pick up the video camera, then back to the stadium by eight to meet up with Pam, find Jim and Terry Foley, and tape the new Zeke — that is, Zeke the Wonder Dog III — making his first appearance at a MSU football game. Zeke III is part of a tradition that dates back to 1977 when the first Zeke made his debut, followed by Zeke II (real name: Dexter), and now ZIII (whose name happens to be Boo Coo). I volunteered to film him for my online magazine, and the Foleys, the owners, invited me to watch him practice at 8 AM, before the game.

Five minutes from Wilson, I phone Matt — apparently his first call of the morning as he tries to remember who I am — who reluctantly agrees to meet me in the lobby. When I arrive, the building is still locked tight and I slam into the door, cracking my head hard against the glass. Matt comes out to meet me, still too groggy to laugh out loud at my stupidity. He hands me the camera, with a warning:

“Yeah, man, I don’t know. I couldn’t get it to work right for me last night, and I think the battery might be dying.”

I fiddle with the camera to see if I can actually work it, but Matt was right. The battery is essentially dead, its memory chip completely full.

Are you fucking kidding me! I want to slap his hung-over ass square in the jaw, but I settle for gentlemanly restraint; I take the camera, say thanks, and walk over to the stadium. 7:45: I still need to hustle so I don’t miss the Foleys.

I fiddle with the camera to see if I can actually work it, but Matt was right. The battery is essentially dead, its memory chip completely full. My camera chip isn’t the same type, and there are no spares. I won’t be able to get the video onto my computer, even if the battery holds up long enough. I might as well be stuck in the Stone Age, carving on a fucking tablet.

At the stadium, there’s no sign of Zeke III, so I call Pam, who’s actually writing the story. I had invited her to come along, meet the trainers, and pet Zeke, as I’m sure all Spartans dream of doing one day. She was very excited and, in fact, I was somewhat surprised she wasn’t already there. Her phone rings, she finally picks up, also sounding sedated. I ask her if she is coming and she says no.

“I didn’t get off work until one this morning, and I can’t make it. I’ll just talk about Zeke at the game. That should be enough. Sorry.”

Well, that’s just great. Not only do I have a malfunctioning camcorder, but the writer isn’t going to show either. My head hurts and I’m still a little tipsy. It is now 8 AM, and no sign of the new Zeke or the Foleys. I manage to reach Terry.

“Oh, hi Nick. Yeah, we’re running a bit late. We are still on the highway, and we should get there around 9 or so. Is that OK? I hope that’s not a problem.”

What can I say? I scream bloody-fucking-murder in my head, but I keep my anger under control — gentlemanly restraint again. It isn’t their fault; it is mine for being born. I tell her it would be fine, that my camcorder didn’t work, but I could take pictures, and the girl writing the story won’t be able to make it. I feel like a jackass, displaying just how shitty a young, inexperienced journalist could be.

I call my mom, trying to repress the drunkenness of my words, and vent. I wander over to a convenience store and buy a hot chocolate. I’m freezing, tired, and pissed off at the world. I’ve done so little for the magazine already, and if I do a shitty job of this, I feel I will be letting everyone down. I wrote a straight news story the previous year, the complete opposite of the magazine’s goal to be alternative and cynical; I was mainstream and bland.

The Foleys show up around 9:30. I spot Boo Coo, I mean ZIII, a beautiful young Yellow Labrador, anxious and excited. I am struck by how grizzled Jim looks. He has a five-o’clock shadow, rough and gray, and a cigarette hangs loosely from his chapped lips. Terry is warm and inviting, shaking my hand. I thank them for letting me come out here with them, and they apologize for taking so long. I play it off like it is no big deal, and I think they believed me. At least, they probably want to believe me.

We walk onto the field, Terry carrying a small, black duffel filled with Frisbees. I have my camera ready, snapping whatever shots I can with a crappy zoom. Jim takes the leash off Zeke, grabbing a handful of discs, and walks onto the field, Zeke yapping and jumping at his feet.

He tosses a few short throws, just to test out the wind. I take what pictures I can, running down the field, trying to get different angles of the catches and runs. Then it comes time for the big throws; Zeke maxes out at around 35 yards. Jim asks me, as a student, if I think that would look good. I try to retain a sense of journalistic integrity, but I tell him that Zeke looks great, and that the students will love him.

Jim notices that Boo Coo needs to go to the bathroom, so we gather up the Frisbees and head out of the stadium. Terry takes the dog, and a woman approaches Jim and me, warning us to stay off of the painted letters on the field. We say we will try to be more careful in the future. As she walks away, Jim asks me what her name was. I say I have no clue.

He is offering me an amazing shot, on a silver platter, and I snatch it up almost before the words leave his mouth.

We both laugh as we walk out the tunnel, and Jim hands me one of the Official Zeke the Wonder Dog Frisbees. To keep. I am awestruck, grateful. It isn’t until the game when I realize they throw many of the discs into the crowd, but at the time I feel honored. At that point, I feel that the day has been a complete loss. But now I am ready to tackle this awful day and make something good out of what I have.

When Zeke III finishes his business, we walk back towards the tunnel. The cheerleaders are sitting outside, and they get all excited when they see the new Zeke. He stops and pants, basking in his newfound fame. I snap a few pictures, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I take advantage of the situation and hit on a couple cheerleaders.

We stroll back into the tunnel, walking through the same entrance that the MSU football team, the marching band, and the mascot Sparty come through every game. How many students get to do this, if they’re not part of the team or band or cheerleading squad? Very few, I would imagine, and I am going to rub it in all my friends’ faces when I get back.

I take a few more pictures, and even attempt a video of a run and catch. Jim feels like Zeke is getting the hang of it, when he turns to me and says, “Do you want me to throw one to you?”

Words can not describe how excited I am. He is offering me an amazing shot, on a silver platter, and I snatch it up almost before the words leave his mouth. I bolt to the other side of the field, being careful not to step on any of the painted lines, and brace for the throw. Jim yells to me, asking if I’m ready, and I give him a thumb’s up.

The Frisbee flies from his fingers in a perfectly straight line, aimed right at my head. Zeke III springs into action, zooming after it with all his might. Boo Coo was nervous and jittery, but when he becomes ZIII going for the Frisbees, he is all business, pounding down the field like a horse on the last stretch. He jumps and snatches it out of the air just as the shutter snaps on my camera. I got the shot.

I run back to Jim and Terry, and thank them so much for letting me come out here. They say it isn’t a problem, and if I need anything else to just give them a call. With that, I say goodbye to the new Zeke, and walk back to my dorm to eat breakfast and meet my friends before the game.

10 AM. I decide to take a quick glance at the pictures I have taken. I had been too busy on the field to look at them, and thought this would be a good time to check out which ones were good and could be sent in. I start at the beginning, and there are a few decent shots. Many are blurry, unfocused messes, but some look all right. I skip ahead to the last shot, the one with Zeke running straight at me, and I finally let the heavens, fate, and anyone else responsible for this day have it:

“GODDAMNFUCKINGCHRIST!!!” Do I need to say more?

This story was originally published on Supraterranean in October 2008.

View Crack Shot at Supraterranean

*     *     *

My god, the damn phone rings again. It’s the same guy who just called. “I forgot to tell you something” and I black out and just wish to tell him. “I’ve got mental problems and I drink too much Bourbon. Still you call my phone, presumably to make sure that I haven’t offed myself or maybe become a religious kook. You’ve never been as bad as some make you out to be, I know that much. Your trying to prove you have a heart, which is not as weak as the mind. A brain dies without a heart but lasts an instant longer. When death finally arrives, you may have been right to attempt to prove something.” I don’t say it though; I just hear more mumbling and technical jargon. We hang up again. I’m running up to the beer store and I get there quickly because our population is hiding, they stay in more. Our stores are nearly empty and the traffic is light; the liquor sales are way up. We seem to be waging a silent war on consumerism and capitalism. I’m still paying up, I need a drink! Lately I’ve seen more dogs in the street and out here in the sticks the streets are few. Angels just don’t appear to solve our problems, we really have to search them out, ah yes here is the liquor store. Fat old men hang around this store in the Michigan countryside. Playing scratch-off lottery tickets. Some sit on cases of beer blocking my path to the cooler. They too are unemployed, on disability or lazy, some are just stupid.They sit around all day looking at the clerk in her tight jeans. Staring at me through dark sunglasses wondering, “Who is this guy? Why does he buy so much beer, does he drink all that Bourbon alone?” I know they do, a friend heard them saying so. When you ask them to move, they go slowly out of your way. It takes them much longer to move that it should take the normal man. They feel entitled to this luxury of lying around like fat toads and staring at the clerk, hating me as I buy the expensive six-pack and a fifth of eight-year-old Bourbon. Hell, they cant even hold liquor, get it up or go home…this is their welfare; at least they are out. After the episode I make my way back to the truck. I do feel bad for ripping them like I did but only a little. My mind is gobbled up by facts. I hope for a reprieve that never seems to come. I’ll tell myself, “Just don’t think, don’t listen to the many voices on T.V. or radio. I miss the young mind I used to have and suffer with this new overpopulated mind I have now. I’m back home and will try to empty a fifth of booze into my soft gut. It doesn’t seem to be working and I fumble through the stacks of paper on the table. My kids get sent home from school with flyers from the Lutherans, also a flyer from some author who sells his books through the school system, at six bucks a book. The program is called “REAL HEROES READ” as if the reader doesn’t have enough to digest; we get this slogan attached to the cause. We are supposed to be happy this is being done because our kids are allegedly getting much more smart by paying for books written by this guy. Of course this is not a mandatory purchase, however it certainly is recommended. I’ve got the flyer here to prove it. Well the phone is ringing again it was a real nice afternoon to broke on.

This story was originally published on Supraterranean in April 2009.

View One Day in the Floundering World at Supraterranean

My dad and I are a lot alike in a lot of ways, but our views on guns and gun control are on opposite ends of the spectrum. He loves guns, and I don’t. He thinks you should be able to keep an AK47 in the closet for “protection;” I say pepper spray will do just fine. He thinks gun control laws are for losers; I say they’re neccesary to keep our society safe.

One time, my dad went to a gun show and bought a handgun. I was standing around outside in the driveway when he got home (because I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time just standing around) and he hopped out of his truck with his gun in a brown paper bag like a little boy just come home from the sports card shop. “Hey, come over here and see what I got!” he said excitedly. I kind of shuffled over to him and peeked in the bag. “Cool,” I answered, noncommitally, because I didn’t want to start another gun control argument with him.

He set the gun on the front seat of his truck, and went in the house, calling for my stepmom to come outside and see what he got. (I continued to hang around aimlessly in the driveway, because that’s just how I roll.) My stepmom came out and looked at his gun. She wasn’t really impressed. “Looks like a gun to me,” she said, shrugging. My dad was nonplussed by our lack of enthusiasm. He took it out of the bag and started messing around with it. “Don,” my stepmom said, because my dad’s name is Don, “you better be careful with that.”

“Kathy,” my dad answered, because my stepmom’s name is Kathy, “guns are very safe when you know how to use them. I don’t know why you girls are always yelling at me about gun safety. I’ve been using guns since I was eleven years old!” Now he was getting kind of mad, and was waving this handgun all over the place like some kind of maniac.

“Come on, Dad,” I butted in. “Let’s just put the gun back in the bag, and you can show it to us when you clean it, with the safety on.” This infuriated him.

“The safety IS on!” he yelled, waving the gun all around. “I don’t know why you’re so worried! In experienced hands, guns are as safe as kittens! Do you hear me? Guns are safe!”

BANG!!!

The shot exploded in our ears and the sound reverberated through the woods around the farm. My dad’s face went white.

“What did you do?” My stepmom yelled. “Oh my God, what did you just shoot? If you shot one of my cats, I swear to God I’ll…” I started laughing. “Kathy,” I said, “I’m pretty sure a random shot in the air would have a hard time hitting your cats way out in the barn.” She looked at me hard. My dad just stood there looking at the gun, like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

Suddenly he sprang into motion. “Well, let’s see what I hit!” he shouted. I shook my head. I could not believe I derive half my DNA from this clown. He started looking all over for a bullet hole in something, and then he made me and my stepmom look too. We searched and searched, but it was useless. “We’re never going to find it, Dad,” I told him, and I went in the house. He was mad, but eventually he came in the house too.

Later that day, we decided to cook some hamburgers on my dad’s new charcoal grill. It was the deluxe edition round Weber, and you could probably fit a hundred burgers on there with ease. It had cost my dad a mint, and he was so proud of it. He even named it — Big Bertha. After each use, he’d let it cool and go out there and polish it till it shone. It was something to behold, really.

We started up the charcoal, and stood around looking at it. (I guess I get my propensity for standing around from my dad.) After a little while, we noticed a tiny wisp of smoke coming out the side of the grill. “What the…?” My dad muttered, and walked around to the back of the grill. “Oh NO!” he yelled. “Oh no no no noooo!” It was the sound of a broken man, sort of, so I kind of moseyed over to see what he was looking at.

It was a bullet hole. Right in the back of the grill.

I went and got my stepmom from the house. “Look!” I told her, pointing from the porch. My dad was kneeled on the ground, mourning Big Bertha, and the dog was kind of standing around looking at him. (I guess even the dog’s picked up our habits.) I was laughing, but my stepmom was furious. She marched out to my dad. “You could have shot a hole in the car!” she hollered. “You just be glad you didn’t shoot the car!”

I laughed even harder. “Screw the car, Kathy. He could have shot one of us.”

She looked at me, horrified. “Or one of my cats!”

And this is the legacy I have been handed. A lot to live up to, there.

This story was originally published on Supraterranean in May 2009.

View Michigan Militia Dad at Supraterranean

“Children, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but earlier today your father passed away in an accident.”

Before we had a chance to even begin to formulate a response, the door flew open as the assistant principle busted in yelling,

“You have the wrong John Lamb!.”

It turns out, there were two John Lambs in 5^th grade at Scotch Elementary, and they had the wrong one. The other John Lamb’s father worked construction and fell several stories to his tragic death. While it seems in a situation of severe tragedy, the powers that be would take the necessary precaution to ensure that all measures of certainty were taken before disclosing to three young children that their dad had just died. This however, was clearly not the case. While the administration did their best “damage control” to comfort and convince us Lamb children that our dad was not dead, we were not so easily convinced. You see most children are under the impression that their parents will live forever. It is not until someone tells a child that their dad has died, that a child is actually able to conceive this reality. So there we were, half crying, half screaming to get our dad on the phone to prove he hadn’t passed. While the simple confirmation from my mother calmed both John and Lauren, my young mind couldn’t grasp the death and rebirth of my father in a matter of minutes.

They sent us home early from school that day. While on most days this course of action pretty much would have excused a lashing with a meter stick, on this particular day, it just didn’t cut it. Upon arriving home I discovered our porch decorated with gifts, flowers and baskets. Any calm that had come over me was most certainly out the window at this point. I sprinted into the house eager to find my dad and put an end to this nightmare. No where to be found.

“Mom!! Where’s dad!”

“He’s at work Kevin, don’t worry.”

I demanded she call him immediately. I was quite the punctual five year old. She dialed his office number, put the phone to her ear, and waited a few moments for an answer.

“Terry Lamb.”

“Hey sweetheart, there was major mix up at school and Kevin needs to talk to you.”

She handed me the phone, I immediately grabbed it.

“Dad!.”

“Hey Kevin”

“You didn’t die did you!?”

“No Kevin, I didn’t die. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Then who are all the presents for?”

It turns out word traveled fast around town that Mr. Lamb died in a construction accident, so people around the neighborhood paid their dues assuming it was the Mr. Lamb at 6702 Windmill Lane that had passed. While most recall their kindergarten days and think of show and tell, finger-painting, and recess, for this 22 year old, it will always be remembered as the time my dad almost died. To this day I am blessed to know the pain of losing a loved one, without having to endured such loss. To bring the story full circle, and demonstrate this universes circular nature, let us fast forward 13 years.

I was a senior in high school, and it was two weeks until prom. I was on my way to pick up my tux, when flashing lights appeared in my rearview mirror.

“Son of a bitch.”

It was my first and only time being pull over in West Bloomfield, my home, a suburb of metro-Detroit. I rolled down my window, reached for my license and registration, and nervously awaited my first traffic police encounter.

“License and registration.”

I complied.

“I had you going 55 in a 40, where are going in such a hurry today?”

“I had to pick up my tux before baseball practice sir.”

He read over my information while taking in my response. He suddenly stopped.

“Nice name.”

It wasn’t until that moment that I notice his name tag. John Lamb. My mind started moving faster than my mouth was able to react. So I took a moment to collect my thoughts. You see for years throughout my schooling people would learn my name and explain how they knew my older brother John, the Keego Harbor police officer. However, my brother John, was most certainly no officer of the law. A hippie? Yes. A Phish Head? Most definitely.

“Boy do I have a story for you sir.”

I quickly shot through the scenario in the principles office, realizing I was using an indirect story of his father’s death to potentially get me out of a ticket, so I was sure to tread lightly. By the time I was done talking, an uncertain and misplaced look came over the officer’s face.

“Just don’t speed anymore kid.”

He walked away seemingly a bit shocked. Clearly confused how this everyday run in left him in such dismay. I am neither happy nor proud that I was another reminder of this man’s tragic loss of his father, but it most certainly reminded myself, of how fortunate my siblings and I were, for Scotch Elementary having the wrong John Lamb.

View The Wrong John Lamb at Supraterranean

About and hour and half into the trip, roughly 160 miles in we passed a sign on the freeway labeled “Narcotics Checkpoint.” What the hell is a narcotics checkpoint I said to myself?” Seeing as how I had never seen such a sign before, nor thereafter. Come to think of it, outside of the silver screen, I have never witnessed traffic being brought to a sudden halt on a freeway in an effort to search cars for anything. Some time had passed since out last burn, our minds were clear, but fright was unarguably the tone as we slowed our pace with a decision to make. My weed was in the right pocket of my cargo shorts packed away with the rest of my things in the trunk, leaving myself a  bit more comfortable taking our chances with the mysterious narcotics checkpoint. Justin had his green on him, paired with my bowl in the center counsel. We wavered for a half mile or so before reaching the conclusion that we would get off at the next exit, giving ourselves more time to make our minds on the matter. While exiting we noticed six seemingly normal vehicles parked in the median, thinking nothing other than it was a little peculiar, I pulled off and discovered six more vehicles assuming the position.

“Oh Christ,” I proclaimed, “Those are all undercover cops!”

Just slightly short of shitting my pants, I pulled into the gas station to discus a game-plan. We considered using the map to discover an alternative route we could take to get back on the freeway, minus the obvious DEA setup. Largely due to my horrific experience on freeways and driving direction, we elected to get back on the freeway, but rather than continue south, we elected to turn around, giving us another chance to read what the sign had said. Yes I know, just short of the definition of idiocy. We began our trek once more, uneasy at best; I pulled on to the freeway monitoring my speed closely as to avoid any further incrimination. Unfortunately what I failed to address was the use of my right turn signal. Without a doubt the most terrifying experience of my life, (well non-mountain-related terrifying experience), six undercover DEA officers had sirens blazing, lights flashing while pulling license plate TRE 907 to the side of I-77.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck! What do I do? What do I do?”

My first impulse had me tear off my “High Roller” trucker hat and toss it in the back. As if my shoulder length blonde hair, aviators, and recent turn around on a major freeway just short of a narcotics check-point weren’t enough. If you have ever been in this type of situation there are certain things you do, and things you don’t do.

Do:

1. Breathe
2. Remain calm and collected
3. Answer questions with as few words as possible

DON’T:

1. Let the officers search your car
2. Confess to marijuana and glass pipes
3. Admit guilt with a single look, word, breath.

Fortunately for yourself, and the sake of this story, my actions were a highlight reel of DON’TS. While it wasn’t my first time being pulled over, or even my first time being pulled over with weed in the car for that matter, I panicked. I spat out words a mile a minute while attempting to explain my sudden turn around, all of which were completely worthless of course. After an obvious disregard of everything other than the name on my license, the officer asked if he could search the car. There I was, instantly transformed from laid back, cool hippie on the way to the beach Kevin, to fucked like Jenna Jameson with six undercover-DEA-agents about to go to jail Kevin. While I claim to be and enjoy many personas in this life of mine, I am certain I could have gone a lifetime without that Kevin I transformed into on that particular Thursday in the fall of 2006.

With the fear of a child and his father’s belt- I stepped out of the vehicle, Justin and Emma the same. They began to tear the car apart with high hopes, PUN intended. I willingly surrendered that I had a glass pipe in the center council, and directed them to my bag in my cargo shorts in the trunk. Even with such instructions, it took them a good twenty minutes to find my weed, further reinforcing my idiocy for immediate confession. The Carolinas are major crossroads in drug-trafficking in the U.S.; Due to my obvious discomfort, and mumbled admission of guilt, they seemed to believe they had just made a major (heroin, ecstasy, coke) narcotics bust. When they eventually found my bag I was greeted with another forgotten element, my scale was in my cargo shorts pocket with the weed. I was moments away from leaving, before I convinced myself it’d be best to bring the scale so I could sell off some of the grams to my friends Bond and Mimi who were coming the next day. After all, it was some fine green, and just about my only means to the green you’re certain never to smoke, $.   One of the officers examined the contents of the bag, before administering the sure fire two finger test; the officer used his pointer, and middle finger in juxtaposition with the bag, and determined my eight grams was about two. While his method of testing may hold ground when dealing with degenerate qualities of dense Mary- Jane such as schwag, it was of no service in our particular instance of fantastic fluffiness.

Justin and I took responsibility for the narcotics, allowing Emma to go free with my Explorer. This proved particularly valuable in a few instances: for starters, had we all been arrested, my car would have been towed to impound, easily a quick $500. Next, without a free Emma we would have been unable to access the funds necessary to bring us from a soon to be deprived freedom. Sphinx and I were cuffed and sardined into the back of the squad car. In case you haven’t had the privilege of such an experience, being 6’7, cuffed with hands behind your back, in the rear end of a cop car fucking sucks — and I’m talking purely in a physical sense. To my parents knowledge I was a semi-straight edge son, sure I drank a lot, and partied often, but prior to this incident had remained drug free. Sure, I had an older brother who was a “Phish Head”, traveling on tour across the nation with his shoulder length hair, mud- master of a jeep, and a wardrobe that was certain not to contradict. So along with significant physical comfort and no real conception of what to expect next, I pondered the enormous disappointment and infuriation such news would bring my parents, and arrived at the conclusion there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I would let them find out.

View Narcotics Checkpoint at Supraterranean

So I bit the bullet. I even had the audacity to look her in the eye when confronted about our declining connection, i.e. my interest, and say,

“Maybe we just need a week alone together to be reminded about why we fell in love.”

I must slightly digress. The L word made its first and very akward appearance after the usual round in the sack. She looked at me, blankly, softly, and I knew I was screwed. She spoke my name, and the next words were as inevitable as shitting your pants when unknowingly ex-laxed.

“I love you.”

Son of a bitch. The moment that so many of us have been on either one side or the other. Am I suppose to lie? Should I be polite and thank her? Those 30 seconds will perhaps go down as the most awkward and longest 30 seconds of my life. In an instant Einstein’s theory of relativity makes so much sense. Trying to be as sensitive to her feelings as possible I respond,

“You mean so much to me, and just because I don’t love you today, doesn’t mean I won’t someday.”

Talk about a load, but hey, it’s easier than being honest, all parties considered. She immediately jumped out of bed with a blanket, and ran out of the room crying.

Fast forward, back to the part of the story you care about. Bags are packed, passports stamped, on our way to Mexico.

We arrive at the Avalon Excalabur and its open air lobby looking out onto the beautiful North Pacific. It is important to the story that you’re aware that I speak some Spanish. Not a lot, but enough to get by, and miles more than the “hola” in her repertoire. After spending thousands of dollars, and traveling hundreds of miles, we were so warmly greeted by a concierge who had no record of our reservation. Not exactly the greeting one hopes for, but on a trip doomed for disaster, not exactly a shocker. After 15 minutes or so I was able to straighten things out. Well I shouldn’t say that, but they did find my reservation. There was one small/major problem: their records did not indicate that we had purchased the all-inclusive option. Now you must understand the varying levels of ass kicking which this presents. (A) When I booked my senior spring break trip with the certainty that it would result in the welcomed death of my relationship, I envisioned myself at a tiki bar, 15 shots of tequila deep by noon, melting under the mexican sun, numb to any loss or thoughts outside my immediate pleasure. (B) We were on a budget. A budget that depended on free meals and drinks on the hotel premises. We were off to a rocky start, but in light of the recent conflict we seemed motivated to persevere through it, and enjoy our trip, together.

My birthday is March 2nd. We arrived in Acapulco on March 3rd. We had agreed to celebrate once we got to Mexico. Our first day was spent exploring how intoxicated we could become, with as few pesos as possible. In case you don’t know, 10 (or diez) pesos equals one U.S. dollar. This concept seems simple enough — an item costing 50 pesos is the equivalent of five dollars. An understanding very useful on the beaches and mean streets of Acapulco. In case any of you imagine vacation as being undisturbed in a serene state while lying weightlessly in the soft sand, don’t go to to Acapulco. Fully aware of the flea market-like beach, and eager to put my Western education of español to the test, I made friends quickly with all of the vendors.

“Quieres mota? Tengo mota.”

You want weed? I have weed.

“Quieres quesadilla? Tengo quesadilla.”

Without moving from our seats, we enjoyed the many pleasures of Mexican service, and even managed to have some fun in the bedroom, on at least one of our 7 nights…

The plan was to go out for dinner Sunday night, her treat, for my birthday. Part of our new budget, well at least my new budget, included eating as little as possible, while maintaining heavy consumption of booze. My logic: So long as I mix in a few beers for every six or seven shots, I would be satisfied and nourished enough to maintain my rampid but ever so delightful pace. We viewed the guests of our hotel as two classes: those with all-inclusive bracelets, and those without. Food was being constantly served poolside, rounds of shots, Coronas, and of course margaritas were being handed out like beads to big-breasted women at Mardi Gras. Utterly demoralizing, unless of course, you had a plan B. We strolled to the nearest OXXO, the Mexican equivalent of Seven Eleven, and for 120 pesos, bought a styrofoam cooler, bag of ice, fifth of vodka, two cartons of orange juice, and a frickin’ Coke. My kind of deal. I grabbed a few Sols for the road (because in Mexico there is no such thing as open intox), and felt like I was finally in a country that could facilitate the type of partying that I was put here on this earth to do.

Daytime had come and passed. We were both pretty lit, and hungry as can be. Time for the birthday dinner. We were hoping we both just needed food in our systems; perhaps that would ease the tension. There was much aggravation throughout the day as we (she) played tourist and shopped for souvenirs. In case you have never been to Mexico, everything is a negotiation, which becomes a recurring theme. I served as translator and negotiator in her every attempt to make or inquire about a purchase.

“How much is 200 pesos? I don’t understand.”

Eventually we (I) got through the painful experience, but by no means can I claim innocence of the arising agitation. I am not tolerant of stupidity, nor am I patient with it. I also do not like individuals who prefer to point out every aspect of a situation which they loathe, rather than trying to understand it, and ultimately enjoy it. It is this combination of intolerance that led to what turned out to be a fantastic birthday dinner. Cough. Cough.

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A pulse issues throughout the stands as the anticipation mounts; the crowd is ready to see the Spartans take the field, anxious to see if their luck will last another week. Their opponents, the Bowling Green State University Falcons, are supposedly better competitors than the previous week’s adversary, and no one knows which team Fate will favor this afternoon. The Michigan State University marching band and Sparty the mascot come onto the field, only serving to rile the crowd even further. The stands are a massive bubble, swelling with each yell and chant, ready to burst at the drop of a hat.

AC/DC’s "Thunderstruck" comes over the speakers, and an electric cry goes up from every Spartan in the audience; it’s time. A mass of applause and yelling issues forth so powerfully that it becomes impossible to distinguish one voice from another — all have melded into one unified voice, welcoming the Spartan football team onto the field. The student section turns into a frothy sea at the sight of the behemoths in green and white, each student jumping and clapping and screaming as loud as they can. When the Falcons hit the grass, a BOO of epic proportions drowns out all other noise. The football game begins.

The Spartans strike quickly, using their superior military skills to punch through the Falcons to a 7-0 lead at the end of the first quarter. However, the Spartan shields and spears are no match for the power of flight, as the Falcons soar to a tying touchdown. The spectators are displeased, and the mood shifts from elation to vexation, and further droops to fury when the Falcons drive to another seven points shortly after. The sea grows calm, waiting for their Spartans to deliver, hoping that something will turn them around. And they are in luck, for the Spartans fight their way through the feathers to tie the game again, 14-14.

Some time passes, and something unthinkable happens. The ball is in Falcon possession, and the mighty Spartans are doing their best to hold. A Falcon attempts to carry the ball, but it slips through his wings and hits the earth. A lightning flash of green and white, and a Spartan has the ball in his well-equipped hands, running down for a touchdown. But, alas, a whistle is blown, and the mighty Spartan is called back. The sea is silent, waiting to hear the verdict. The ruling: Falcon ball!

Wave after wave of middle fingers surge forward from the student section, crashing against the front lines with a thunderous chant of "BULLSHIT!" No one can hear anything above the bellowing of the sea. One sole referee, a black-and-white striped zebra trots forward, trying to appease the thunderous clamor of students and spectators. He essentially says nothing can be done, the play cannot be reviewed. But this, of course, does no good; the waves resume with even more exuberance as every Spartan prays to the gods for the smiting of the Falcons.

And their prayers are answered. MSU breaks the back of every Falcon on the field, plowing through their line and taking the ball back, the ball that is rightfully theirs. The Falcons make a fleeting attempt to recover, but their wings are bent, and their talons are weak. The call of the sea has wrecked them beyond the point of return, and the second half is all spears and shields.

The game ends with a final score of 28-17, in favor of the green and white Spartans. The Falcons leave, their spirits broken. The fans leave, red-in-the-face from the sun and screaming, smiling and reminiscing until the next game. As they leave, they give forth one final yell: "This is Sparta!"

This story was originally published on Supraterranean in February 2009.

View This Is Sparta at Supraterranean

I’m not ready to head home. Six weeks in Australia, two and a half more in New Zealand, and I dread the prospect of sitting around for days on end in Hillside, Illinois, with nothing but a cat for company. I dread the idea of knowing everyday will be the same, that I won’t be bombarded with new sights and people everywhere I turn. Somehow, by not entering my hostel to spend my last night abroad, I feel as if I can prolong the inevitable and trick myself into believing this was going to last indefinitely.

It doesn’t work. I walk aimlessly, bobbing my head to my travel mix coming out of my headphones — a collection of songs that will forever remind me of this summer — but each step I take reminds me that soon I’ll be sitting in a cramped airplane for 11 hours, eating my last single-serving meals of the trip. Nostalgia sets in for a place I haven’t even left. I tell myself that I’ll be back, that I’ll walk these streets and climb these mountains again, but I know that it can’t ever be the same. I’ll never have the thrill that comes from setting foot in a place for the first time, the unquenchable excitement that starts in your toes and goes all the way to the tips of your hair. I can return, but I’ll never be nineteen and alone in the southern hemisphere, ever again.

I’ve grown as a person. And I’m happy I’ve changed, no matter if it may be subtle to other people. I like who I am now. I feel…experienced. I feel worldly. I feel like I matter.

When there’s no one else in a foreign country to tell these things to, you write them down. I used my journal as a way to record what happened on a daily basis, but also for so much more than that. It became a form of conversation, even if it was only with myself. I hoarded my worn green notebook as if it were my last breath. I treasured its pages, flipping through them whenever I had the chance, running my fingers over the indentations on the pages. I read the lines I’d written over and over again until they were burned into my brain, but I mostly just liked to feel the pages.

When I do get back to my hostel on that last night, I open up that treasure and write:

The other day I was almost looking forward to going home, but now that the time is actually upon me, I know that I’m both ready and not ready. I’m ready to be back with my friends and able to use my phone and internet whenever I want and not to have to pay to go everywhere and for every meal and not to have to lug crap around everywhere and to be able to wear different clothes. But I’m still not ready for this lifestyle to end completely. I’m not ready to give up doing something new everyday or seeing something beautiful everywhere I turn. But ready or not, this IS my last night here, and it’s suddenly hitting me really hard in the face. I don’t fucking want this to end.

I don’t cry, at least not yet. I’ll allow myself tears when I get home, but I’m determined to not ruin this last night by breaking down. It almost happens, though, the next afternoon as I sit in the airport, waiting for my delayed plane. Now that the inevitable has come, I just want to get it over with. I have trouble dealing with the delay, the slight flutter of false hope that the plane will never come and I’ll be stuck in New Zealand forever.

As I wait for the plane, I wonder how to convey how much this trip has affected me, how much it’s meant for me to plan and execute a trip by myself, to shoulder my own backpack the entire way. I know when I get home I’ll be the only one who understands what has happened to me. I’ll tell friends and family about my trip, and they’ll listen, but soon their own lives will get in the way, and I’ll have to retreat into my memories. I’ll bring it up often enough, and soon they’ll get tired of me starting every conversation with “When I was in New Zealand,” or “This is just like that one time in New Zealand,” or “I remember in this one hostel…”

One of the most difficult things about coming back home from a trip, especially a long one, is that you come back different to people who are expecting the same old you to walk through the front door. What’s more, they rarely ever change while you’re away. You have an amazing experience, do things you’ve never dreamed of, while everyone back home goes on with their daily lives, working nine-to-five jobs, cooking dinner, taking care of kids, going to bed in the same room every night. The day you come back is probably the most exciting day they’ve had since you’ve left. Meanwhile, for you, it’s the worst.

View On My Own at Supraterranean