(Editor's Note: Paul hopes no one takes this column seriously.)
Elections for this year's Homecoming Court are today and tomorrow, and there are a lot of qualified candidates on the ballot. Each of them have their own identities, strengths, and positive attributes. Each are well-knowledged regarding the campus of Central Michigan, and all of the candidates deserve the recognition and support that they have achieved with this honor.
But there seems to be something missing.
A write-in candidate. For example, me.
Now, I know a lot of you are thinking, "Gosh, I never really considered Gaba as a viable candidate for Homecoming King." Come to think of it, I never really considered myself a candidate for anything. With the exception of, perhaps, "Most Obnoxious Room Brother."
Before this, the only thing I've ever run for is my life.
But my party has called, and guess who picked up the phone?
Let me make one thing perfectly clear. As a member of the Only Party That Matters (an offshoot of the Weekend Party and the Original Party), I have weighed the options carefully.
After my campaign manager (who wishes to remain anonymous, for some reason) and I discussed the ramifications of winning, and after checking my calendar, I have decided that since I'm not doing anything October 15 anyway, I may as well run.
"Who is this Gaba person?" you may ask. (Go ahead, ask. This is America - Land of the free, Home of the Rich.)
"What are his views on the important issues that affect me?" (Ask away. I've got plenty of time.)
"Am I desperate enough to vote for this guy?" (Keep 'em coming.)
Well, since you're asking all of these questions, I have some space to answer them.
First, some background info. I was born and raised in Iowa - well, sort of. I was born in Iowa, but before I was old enough to pick the corn, my parents dragged me to Michigan against my will. So I grew up in Bloomfield Hills, a suburb of Hamtramck.
In high school, I was the founder of the TV Watching Club. We'd go to shopping malls and stare into appliance shops all afternoon. I believe the law of gravity is unconstitutional, and pro football should have the two-point conversion.
Now that you know a (very) little about me, I present the OFFICIAL 1988 GABA HOMECOMING KING PLATFORM.
NUCLEAR WEAPONS: I cannot tolerate the stocking of nuclear weapons for use against the Soviets. In fact, I think all nuclear weapons should be destroyed. We can do this over Western Michigan University, whenever we're ready.
THE DEFICIT: The budget woes we have encountered can no longer be ignored. (Note that not one of my opponents will discuss this important issue.) After balancing my checkbook, I propose tuition be rolled back to $10 a credit hour, room-and-board be cut to $500 a semester, and pizza discount cards be given to all students. The fact that I will have no authority to make these changes occur has absolutely nothing to do with my outline for the next fiscal year.
GREEKS: Our president, Edward B. Jakubauskas, is greek, One of my best friends is Greek. Mike Dukakis is Greek. I used to be Greek. It's all ... you know.
RANDEE OF THE REDWOODS: An awesome dude, man. Like, hip. Groovy. Cool. Fab. Dig it, man.
NICARAGUA/CONTRAS: Hey, I didn't fail Spanish so that Ronny could send me south of the border. Let's stop sending the contras money, arms, etc., and give them taht stupid snowflake-looking thing by the new industrial engineering and technology building, instead.
DRUG TESTING: I think drug testing is an interesting concept. Sure, go ahead. I'll test them all. So long as I don't have to pay anything. Or get arrested.
TOILET PAPER THROWING: I said this back in January and I'll say it again. Since we can't throw TP at the basketball games, let's throw ping-pong balls or nerf balls instead.
DOMED STADIUMS: After talking with Tom Monaghan and Detroit Mayor Coleman Young, I think I've come up with a solution. A dome in the shape of a pepperoni pizza (albeit, a large one) for Kelly/Shorts Stadium. And another for Theunissen Stadium. That's right - Domed Doubles, delivered in 30 minutes or less!
That's just the start of my platform. I could go on forever (as those of you who know me have learned), but space won't let me.
If I were elected Homecoming King, I would do everything in my power to make CMU a better place to live.
My graduation in December could be, in some eyes, one of these steps.
This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.
Wednesday, September 28, 1988
Friday, September 16, 1988
Amateurs Can Play Basketball (Of Sorts)
Unless you've been hiding under a rock or something, you're probably aware the 1988 Summer Olympics being tonight in Seoul, South Korea.
Nineteen days of the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and the red eyes of trying to watch nearly 180 hours of NBC programming while studying, writing term papers, or doing other extracurricular activities - like, for example, breathing.
For many of us, the event with the most significance is men's basketball. That's primarily because of Dan Majerle, who has gotten so much media notice recently that it's almost a case of overkill - not that he doesn't deserve it, because he does, and I'm proud of him for that. I have never had the ability to play the game as well as he, and I respect his talent, commitment, and poise. He deserves all the positive attention he gets.
Now, then. A long, long time ago - before VCRs and Walkmans, before my grey hairs began to outnumber the others on my head, before the three-point shot, back when I was in high school I used to play basketball. Or, at least, try. My friends and I quickly discovered we were not made of the material stars such as Dan Majerle are made of.
In fact, we weren't made of the material Bob Marley was made of. When we shot all-netters, it was the bottom of the net we hit, not the hoop section. We also found out there's a difference between junior varsity and pick-up varsity - we being of the latter.
We pick-up varsity players never wore letters on our jackets. We wore numbers. We never won awards like "Most Likely To Wind Up In Drug Rehab," or "Most Athletic Scholarships Rejected." Girls didn't flock to us in awe, although the cheerleaders would chant, "Aw-ful! Aw-ful!" while we played.
So, instead of "going for the gold," we hammed it up on the court. We invented Commando Basketball.
Commando Basketball is different from the more conventional style which professionals and hopeful-pros play. Commando Basketball is more wide-open. It shows the lack of grace many of us non-sports types have hidden in us. Or, in some cases, not so hidden.
Despite being an expert in the "Sky-Sinker" (my favorite shot), I never dreamt - not for one moment - of landing a show contract. AIR GABA doesn't have that flow, that style, that ring of money being dropped into a bank vault from overly-kind bosses (also known as "owners" or "general managers").
There were usually 10 of us battling on the court. The sides, no matter how chosen or divided up, always were fairly equal in un-talent. Myself, Oly, T.D. Big Jon and Lummox were the "Tighter Than Grandma's Knitting" team. Our logo was a ball of yarn. Biffer, Scum, Cheesehead, D.J. and Dewey were our opponents, "The Generics." They wore nothing on their uniforms. (Fortunately for the fans - all eight of them - they did wear clothes.)
The list of rules we played by in Commando Basketball was limited. It looked something like this:
RULE ONE - BLOOD COUNTS, as long as you bleed with honor.
In high school, too many times when blood is drawn, the victim cries in pain while the instigator laughs his lungs to Milwaukee. We didn't allow that. Instead, we were much more civilized. We would laugh to the basket while missing yet another lay-up shot.
RULE TWO - YOU CAN BE TRADED during a game. You can announce free agency during a game. You can steal the ball from your teammate and drive toward the other basket. Basically, you can do whatever you want, as long as it's performed with taste and fairly liberal judgment.
What this says, in a nutshell, is that a game of 5-on-5 could suddenly become 1-on-9, with you (i.e., "Paul") being the "one."
Of course, then I could switch sides, too, so it became a 0-on-10 game, which made for some interesting defensive play.
RULE THREE - SHOW WHAT YOU CAN'T DO, and show it well.
It was pretty cool, all in all. I couldn't run, so I'd pass. I couldn't shoot, so I'd pass. I couldn't pass very well, either, so I got hammered while my teammates would try to run, shoot or pass. Basically, I couldn't do anything, so I fit right in with the style we perfected.
In one game, I scored a basket, though, The fact that it was an errant pass that got tipped by an opponent doesn't matter - I was credited with the points.
And boy, was I proud.
So when I'm watching the Olympics the next three weeks, I'll be watching Dan Majerle and the rest of the U.S. Olympic Basketball team, wondering what could have been, had I been blessed with the talent to shoot a ball into a net.
And maybe I'll work on my Sky-Sinker.
This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.
Nineteen days of the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and the red eyes of trying to watch nearly 180 hours of NBC programming while studying, writing term papers, or doing other extracurricular activities - like, for example, breathing.
For many of us, the event with the most significance is men's basketball. That's primarily because of Dan Majerle, who has gotten so much media notice recently that it's almost a case of overkill - not that he doesn't deserve it, because he does, and I'm proud of him for that. I have never had the ability to play the game as well as he, and I respect his talent, commitment, and poise. He deserves all the positive attention he gets.
Now, then. A long, long time ago - before VCRs and Walkmans, before my grey hairs began to outnumber the others on my head, before the three-point shot, back when I was in high school I used to play basketball. Or, at least, try. My friends and I quickly discovered we were not made of the material stars such as Dan Majerle are made of.
In fact, we weren't made of the material Bob Marley was made of. When we shot all-netters, it was the bottom of the net we hit, not the hoop section. We also found out there's a difference between junior varsity and pick-up varsity - we being of the latter.
We pick-up varsity players never wore letters on our jackets. We wore numbers. We never won awards like "Most Likely To Wind Up In Drug Rehab," or "Most Athletic Scholarships Rejected." Girls didn't flock to us in awe, although the cheerleaders would chant, "Aw-ful! Aw-ful!" while we played.
So, instead of "going for the gold," we hammed it up on the court. We invented Commando Basketball.
Commando Basketball is different from the more conventional style which professionals and hopeful-pros play. Commando Basketball is more wide-open. It shows the lack of grace many of us non-sports types have hidden in us. Or, in some cases, not so hidden.
Despite being an expert in the "Sky-Sinker" (my favorite shot), I never dreamt - not for one moment - of landing a show contract. AIR GABA doesn't have that flow, that style, that ring of money being dropped into a bank vault from overly-kind bosses (also known as "owners" or "general managers").
There were usually 10 of us battling on the court. The sides, no matter how chosen or divided up, always were fairly equal in un-talent. Myself, Oly, T.D. Big Jon and Lummox were the "Tighter Than Grandma's Knitting" team. Our logo was a ball of yarn. Biffer, Scum, Cheesehead, D.J. and Dewey were our opponents, "The Generics." They wore nothing on their uniforms. (Fortunately for the fans - all eight of them - they did wear clothes.)
The list of rules we played by in Commando Basketball was limited. It looked something like this:
RULE ONE - BLOOD COUNTS, as long as you bleed with honor.
In high school, too many times when blood is drawn, the victim cries in pain while the instigator laughs his lungs to Milwaukee. We didn't allow that. Instead, we were much more civilized. We would laugh to the basket while missing yet another lay-up shot.
RULE TWO - YOU CAN BE TRADED during a game. You can announce free agency during a game. You can steal the ball from your teammate and drive toward the other basket. Basically, you can do whatever you want, as long as it's performed with taste and fairly liberal judgment.
What this says, in a nutshell, is that a game of 5-on-5 could suddenly become 1-on-9, with you (i.e., "Paul") being the "one."
Of course, then I could switch sides, too, so it became a 0-on-10 game, which made for some interesting defensive play.
RULE THREE - SHOW WHAT YOU CAN'T DO, and show it well.
It was pretty cool, all in all. I couldn't run, so I'd pass. I couldn't shoot, so I'd pass. I couldn't pass very well, either, so I got hammered while my teammates would try to run, shoot or pass. Basically, I couldn't do anything, so I fit right in with the style we perfected.
In one game, I scored a basket, though, The fact that it was an errant pass that got tipped by an opponent doesn't matter - I was credited with the points.
And boy, was I proud.
So when I'm watching the Olympics the next three weeks, I'll be watching Dan Majerle and the rest of the U.S. Olympic Basketball team, wondering what could have been, had I been blessed with the talent to shoot a ball into a net.
And maybe I'll work on my Sky-Sinker.
This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.
Friday, September 9, 1988
Number 99 Is Magical To December Grad
It;s hard to comprehend that today - September 9, or 9/9 to all of you math and astrology majors - is the 99th day until December graduation.
Including weekends.
How's that for a psychic number cruncher?
Go ahead, all of you non-believers. Pull out your calendars. Count up the days leading to that mystical, magical date: December 17, 1988.
It's true.
Ninety-nine days remaining as a Chippewa.
Ninety-nine nights left to study Broadcast Law.
Ninety-nine graveyard shifts studying for my other classes.
Ninety-nine afternoons catching power naps because of those late-night and overnight cram sessions.
Such a powerful number, 99 is.
Of course, a lot of things can happen in the time I have left at Central.
I could win the Lotto. I might fall madly in love with a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl might fall in love with me - not "madly," but "in love." This will suffice.
Maybe some big-wig from NBC will read this column and then call me up, saying, "Paul, we want you to be our substitute on the Letterman show!"
Perhaps I'll pass Broadcast Law.
Ninety-nine.
When you watch reruns of Get Smart!, who is Maxwell Smart's assistant/wife?
You got it, Agent 99.
It;s times like these that I wish I knew an astrologer; you know, that I had my own personal forecaster. Imagine the power of being able to predict the future, of seeing your destiny.
Of advertising in The National Enquirer.
Why, I could call up my own star gazer and get the line on the Tigers. Did they win the World Series next month? (I know that reads kind of strange, but we're talking about the future here.)
How about the Olympics? A conversation like this could take place:
Or how about politics? This is an election year. Nancy Reagan uses an astrologer, and she's still First Lady. Stranger things have happened.
I could start sending Vegas some serious statistics on how George Bush will do against Michael Dukakis in the all-important precinct of Mount Pleasant. If the tide were to turn by in Dukakis' direction by only two percent, the entire GOP could become disoriented, thereby creating a landslide across the United States in favor of the Democratic Party. With help from my astrologer, I could ease tensions before they get out of synch.
All of this because of that silly little number, 99.
Wayne Gretzky wore 99 for the Edmonton Gretzkys. Then he got married, traded, and is no longer allowed to enter Canada without an American passport. He's the most prolific scorer in the National Hockey League.
The Great Number 99.
So, say what you want. Satan worshippers may believe in 666, but I'm keeping track of that psychic 99.
That is, until tomorrow, when there are only 98 days left until graduation.
Boy, I hope I pass Broadcast Law.
This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.
Including weekends.
How's that for a psychic number cruncher?
Go ahead, all of you non-believers. Pull out your calendars. Count up the days leading to that mystical, magical date: December 17, 1988.
It's true.
Ninety-nine days remaining as a Chippewa.
Ninety-nine nights left to study Broadcast Law.
Ninety-nine graveyard shifts studying for my other classes.
Ninety-nine afternoons catching power naps because of those late-night and overnight cram sessions.
Such a powerful number, 99 is.
Of course, a lot of things can happen in the time I have left at Central.
I could win the Lotto. I might fall madly in love with a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl might fall in love with me - not "madly," but "in love." This will suffice.
Maybe some big-wig from NBC will read this column and then call me up, saying, "Paul, we want you to be our substitute on the Letterman show!"
Perhaps I'll pass Broadcast Law.
Ninety-nine.
When you watch reruns of Get Smart!, who is Maxwell Smart's assistant/wife?
You got it, Agent 99.
It;s times like these that I wish I knew an astrologer; you know, that I had my own personal forecaster. Imagine the power of being able to predict the future, of seeing your destiny.
Of advertising in The National Enquirer.
Why, I could call up my own star gazer and get the line on the Tigers. Did they win the World Series next month? (I know that reads kind of strange, but we're talking about the future here.)
How about the Olympics? A conversation like this could take place:
Paul: "Hello, Ms. Space Scholar"You get the picture.
Astro Person: "What do you want, Mr. Sixth-Year Freshman?"
Paul: "I kind of wanted to know how our favorite Chippewa, Dan Majerle, will do against the rest of the field in Seoul."
Astro: "Well, let me see." (I hear the sound of papers shuffling, some muffled coughs.) "Ah, here we are. Majerle will score 34 points against the Yugoslavians, 28 against the Soviets, and 37 against Eastern Michigan."
Paul: "Eastern?"
Star Person: "Hold on." (More shuffling.) "Hmmm, that must be a typo. I'll get back to you. When's the deadline?"
Or how about politics? This is an election year. Nancy Reagan uses an astrologer, and she's still First Lady. Stranger things have happened.
I could start sending Vegas some serious statistics on how George Bush will do against Michael Dukakis in the all-important precinct of Mount Pleasant. If the tide were to turn by in Dukakis' direction by only two percent, the entire GOP could become disoriented, thereby creating a landslide across the United States in favor of the Democratic Party. With help from my astrologer, I could ease tensions before they get out of synch.
All of this because of that silly little number, 99.
Wayne Gretzky wore 99 for the Edmonton Gretzkys. Then he got married, traded, and is no longer allowed to enter Canada without an American passport. He's the most prolific scorer in the National Hockey League.
The Great Number 99.
So, say what you want. Satan worshippers may believe in 666, but I'm keeping track of that psychic 99.
That is, until tomorrow, when there are only 98 days left until graduation.
Boy, I hope I pass Broadcast Law.
This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.
Friday, September 2, 1988
Dateless Student Relates To Author's Book
As of my 24th birthday, I was still quite "sans girlfriend."
I've been single and looking since the beginning of time. So, my sister - bless her heart - bought me a book as a present. I guess she figured I could kill some time on a Saturday night or something.
It should be noted that (a) my sister is a psychology major at Michigan State, and I've been a guinea pig for as long as I can remember; (b) she apologized profusely for injuring what was left of my fragile psyche; (c) she's lucky her brother has such a great sense of humor; and (d) I tend to work as a disc jockey at weddings on Saturday nights, which doesn't help the social life any but keeps those nights from becoming the "Pee-Wee Reading Hour."
The book she got me is called Nice Guys Sleep Alone by Bruce Feirstein, who also wrote a book about quiche. I still haven't figured out why anyone would write about quiche, but then I don't eat the stuff.
Anyway, this book is funny. It's quite tongue-in-cheek. And it reminds me of some of the worst dates I've been on. Worst for my dates, that is. (Maybe this attitude explains part of the problem.)
In any case, after carefully reading this informative book, I have come to the conclusion that I'm single for a reason - actually, for several reasons.
This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.
I've been single and looking since the beginning of time. So, my sister - bless her heart - bought me a book as a present. I guess she figured I could kill some time on a Saturday night or something.
It should be noted that (a) my sister is a psychology major at Michigan State, and I've been a guinea pig for as long as I can remember; (b) she apologized profusely for injuring what was left of my fragile psyche; (c) she's lucky her brother has such a great sense of humor; and (d) I tend to work as a disc jockey at weddings on Saturday nights, which doesn't help the social life any but keeps those nights from becoming the "Pee-Wee Reading Hour."
The book she got me is called Nice Guys Sleep Alone by Bruce Feirstein, who also wrote a book about quiche. I still haven't figured out why anyone would write about quiche, but then I don't eat the stuff.
Anyway, this book is funny. It's quite tongue-in-cheek. And it reminds me of some of the worst dates I've been on. Worst for my dates, that is. (Maybe this attitude explains part of the problem.)
In any case, after carefully reading this informative book, I have come to the conclusion that I'm single for a reason - actually, for several reasons.
- I don't like Guns 'n Roses, Motley Crue or Whitesnake.
- I don't dress like the guys in Guns 'n Roses, Motley Crue or Whitesnake.
- Many of the girls I know dress like the guys in Guns 'n Roses, Motley Crue or Whitesnake, but really "get into" Tracy Chapman.I see a pattern here.
- I've seen it a bazillion times, but I still don't understand those pizza commercials with the pterodactyl. The damn bird's lips don't even move.
- Most guys my age have already graduated, work full-time jobs in an accounting office, and dress from the pages of GQ. Not only can't I afford a subscription to GQ, but I scan The Detroit News comic section to learn the Zippy wardrobe.
- I'm not built like a singles ad. You know: "SWM, Fortune 500 VP, jock.stud/preppy, rhythm guitarist for INXS, Olympic basketball star/scuba diver, Mel Gibson look-alike, who likes long, romantic walks along the mighty Chippewa River."
- I still mourn over the break-up of the Bay City Rollers, as well as the death of Andy Gibb.
- My roommate says I've got a warped sense of humor, but I consider myself "unique.
Until then, I'll be reading on Friday nights. Not enough disc jockey jobs.
This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)