The Morgantown Shuffle

What most of my vacations look like.

This weekend I went to Morgantown for a few days to visit friends and, to some extent, for something different to do. Carousing around Kittanning every day can become somewhat monotonous after awhile. Also, with limited funds and rules against my jumping out of airplanes, I figured that this would be considered something of a vacation... from my job of mowing lawns that I've had for two weeks and my extremely unsuccessful job search.

The only problem with visiting my friends in Morgantown is that they're not all necessarily friends with each other. Batmite came into Morgantown too (which is part of my reason for going when I did), and the two of us are friends with almost 15 people there, and while they're all in the English department and are vaguely aware of each other, they don't hang out in their free time. Most of them are just too damn busy. Batmite and I may have BSed our way through countless books and seminar papers, but many of our friends did things the hard way (i.e. the honorable and honest way), so they tend to have less time for mingling with the entire department.

I've always found this dynamic curious because my friends in Kittanning are all essentially part of a massive supergroup that functions just as well with two or ten people. This is part of the curse and charm of the small town I suppose.

Batmite and I were fairly lackadaisical in planning our rounds to the Morgantown friend circle, and so some people got short shrift (Virgil and A.J. come to mind). With any luck I can make it up to them in future visits or in the form of a boisenberry pie in the mail. We did manage to meet up with quite a few people, and while we didn't do anything astonishingly exciting, it was nice to simply chit-chat and catch up with everyone. I'd also be lying if I said that there wasn't some part of me that was both smug and envious about all of them still going to or teaching at WVU. I'm glad I don't have to take grad classes anymore, but I do miss having that kind of constant interaction in the academic process.

One of the nice things about hanging out with a whole slew of English majors is that it forces me to raise the bar of my verbal sparring. In Kittanning, I like to think that I'm the cleverest sumbitch in the county (though I'm sure my closest friends - who are certainly damned clever in their own ways - will be happy to prove me wrong), but English majors are used to witty banter and sarcastic humor. I enjoy being the big fish in the small verbiage pond of Kittanning, but it's nice to have people to keep you honest. My friends have razor sharp wit that puts mine to shame and aren't afraid to direct it at your well-deserving author. Of course, like the asshole that I am, I take my newfound zingers to the Kittanning bars and lord them over my friends like the pretentious douchebag that I am.

Lest you think Morgantown is some sort of intellectual mecca (though if you've read this blog at all, I don't see how you could come to such a conclusion), I must admit that a healthy chunk of my Friday afternoon was spent at the Morgantown DMV. Batmite needed a valid driver's license, and since West Virginia was his only permanent residence, he had to get it there. I came along as his "ride" because the DMV tends to frown on people *driving* there to take a driving test. Looking at the parade of genetic misfortunes in that building drove home (pardon the pun) just how alike Kittanning and Morgantown really are. I then realized that as a 6'5" 285 lb. man hanging out at the DMV with his short brown hetero-man-friend discussing the intricacies of comic book continuity, I was hardly in a position to judge these people as looking unusual. Except for this toothless old fat woman in tight magenta spandex... I can say with certainty that I'm better than her.

Side Note: Batmite failed his driving test because he can't parallel park (HAR HAR!). I'll let him tell that story on his own blog.

Another fun thing that I learned is that adults love Spongebob Squarepants more than children do. In one of the places I stayed, my friends have a year-old baby, and so the parents watch a lot of children's TV. We all agree that Spongebob is too damned clever for its audience. In fact, there were times when the baby wasn't even in the room that we were still watching the damn show. This didn't come as much of a surprise for me. Batmite and I would watch Spongebob for embarassingly long periods of time in our own apartment. I was just amazed to see how widespread the phenomenon is.

Maybe we English majors aren't as classy as we think. :)

I'll definitely be going back to Morgantown soon, though I'm not sure exactly when. I lead a busy life with my important career, ridiculously hot and rich wife, and mammoth house. But I'm sure I can find some time to scamper down there for a visit.

I'm a man torn between two towns.

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Vacations - Surprisingly more enjoyable (and cheap) when you're going somewhere familiar. The surroundings may not be exciting, but you don't have to spend hours figuring out where to go and what to do.

A Fond Farewell From My Landlord

I used to like my apartment complex when I lived there. The buildings were nice, and the landlord seemed relatively helpful. Batmite and I were able to create our own personal nerd haven of video games, TV, and tasty treats in this space. The landlord left us alone unless major shenanigans were afoot in the complex. She seemed nice enough. Granted, there was the time that their faulty toilet resulted in a $230 water bill, and my hot water heater always made an obnoxiously loud whistling noise whenever you flushed the toilet, but overall my experience was relatively positive.

Then today I got my security deposit back... or what was left of it. The initial security deposit for my apartment was $600. I got back $180. My former landlord is an asshole.

Along with the meager remnants of my security deposit, the landlord graciously sent a list of charges. The most expensive was the carpet cleaning: $240.00!! It's not like my apartment was the size of the Sistine Chapel and wallpapered with carpet. It was a modestly-sized domicile with carpet in the living room and two bedrooms. And the carpet wasn't filthy either. There was the usual wear and tear from everyday walking but nothing major. If I had known that she was going to let Stanley Steemer rape me so thoroughly, I would have rented my own damn carpet shampooer and done the job myself. It couldn't have cost me more than 50 bucks.

But the fun didn't stop there. Then I saw the charge from Superior Painting for what is simply called "Touch-up" - $100. I figured the paint might be a bit of an issue. I had some nail holes from pictures in the wall, and I hung some curtains in my bedroom at one time. I patched the holes, but the colors were slightly off. But for a hundred bucks, I could have given the entire apartment five coats of any paint they wanted. A can of touch-up paint is like five bucks, and there were maybe five tiny spots that needed it. In retrospect, I should have done it myself anyway.

The final insult was the cheapest charge, but it pissed me off the most - a cleaning fee of $80.00. I finished packing up my stuff around noon on the day I moved out, but Batmite was packing until like 7 p.m. While he packed, I cleaned that apartment as though incriminating evidence could be found on every surface (and given what I'd do alone in my bedroom sometimes, that may have been true). I scrubbed it from top to bottom. The OCD that I have with regards to keeping things clean was unleashed in an alarming manner. I bleached and scrubbed the bathtub, toilet, sink, and bathroom floor. I dusted the ceiling fans and baseboards. I washed the windows and sliding glass doors. I vacuumed the floors and even used the hose attachment to get against the walls. The refrigerator and microwave were both throughly cleaned and sterilized. All the counters and cabinets were washed inside and out. The tiled floors were mopped. I even cleaned the washer and dryer and wiped the inside of the goddamn lint trap for crying out loud. My dad gave me grief at the time for going WAY overboard. When I left that apartment on Saturday night, the place was SPOTLESS!!!

For the life of me, I just can't figure out what the cleaning woman did to earn $80. I fully suspect that she walked in, looked around, decided everything was done, and called my landlord to tell her that she cleaned it all herself. I thought the carpet cleaning and painting were WAY WAY overpriced, but I at least understood why it was done. The $80 cleaning fee is almost like a slap in the face to the six-plus hours of work I put into cleaning that shithole. If I had known that I'd get charged anyway, I would have left everything as it was and took a big dump in the middle of the living room.

I know why the landlord is willing to fuck me over. She knows full well that there's nothing I can do about these charges. I can call and complain, but what incentive does she have to pay me? I don't live there anymore. I also don't have any proof that there was nothing wrong since I didn't take pictures before I left. She could just claim that she and her crackerjack crew fixed everything. Furthermore, I can't take legal action because the costs would dwarf the funds that I lost. The amount she charged is just large enough to piss me off, but not large enough to warrant serious action. The best I can do is bitch about it on here.

However, to the people I know who still live there - beware the apparent benevolence of Ms. Carol Harbert of the Pinnacle Height Apartments. Make sure you take care of everything yourself before she metaphorically takes you into her financial toolshed and has her way with your pocketbook.

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Ms. Carol Harbert - Her name deliberately used twice now in the hopes that she'll one day Google her own name and encounter my virtual ire. I specialize in passive-aggressive vengeance.

A Male of Two Cities

Morgantown is a town in West Virginia that centers around one major industry: West Virginia University. Kittanning is a smaller town in Pennsylvania that centers around one major industry: failure. I've pretty much exhausted what these two booming metropolises have to offer.

For the summer, I've been spending most of my time in Kittanning living in my parents' basement like the sad little single Star Trek fan that I am. There's really not a lot to do here, but I'm living in a house for free and getting meals for free. It's hard to pass up a setup like that when one is gainfully unemployed.

However, last week I went back to Morgantown to visit. Batmite had returned from his cross-country excursion with his parents, and so I decided to stick around the old college town for a few days. I managed to have quite a lot to do. I like the general atmosphere of Morgantown in the summer. With almost all of the student population at home for the summer, the locals retake the town. The town was not designed to handle a student population of close to 30,000, so Morgantown feels like it's actually at its nominal capacity in the summertime. It's like a celebration of normalcy... if drunk, bearded, overall-clad rednecks hobbling down the streets can be considered normal. Nevertheless, the year-round Morgantownians seem so damned happy with the change of pace, so it seems like a yearly resurgence for them.

Kittanning, on the other hand, is always the same depressed little hamlet. While there are sane, rational, well-educated people in Kittanning, most of them are smart enough to remain in their own homes or travel to other places for fun. As a result, the usual bar scene in Kittanning provides a gamut of failure for the casual patron to observe. Your typical bar-townie is a friendly sort, but it doesn't take long before you realize that his or her jolly demeanor and almost religious fervor for drinking is masking the fact that this individual has no higher aspirations. A good Kittanning bar guy will not only stare at you with a glazed expression on his face when you tell him that you have a Masters degree in English, but he'll also loudly proclaim that you're a pretentious asshole for wanting to live somewhere else, and he demands to know why you're too good to just pick mushrooms in the mines or mold toilets at Eljer.

Kittanning and Morgantown aren't that different. Both towns have people with similar lifestyles and interests, but while Kittanning feels like a fountain of wasted lives, the people in Morgantown revel in their behavior. When Batmite was at the local bar in Morgantown making fun of inbreds, there was no shame in the bartender's voice when he bellowed, "You have a problem with inbreds???" This is the same bar where several old guys were reminiscing about how the Nazis get a bad rap. Batmite hesitates to go there now.

In either place, I must contend with that white trash, hill-folk lifestyle that adores NASCAR, nigger jokes, and huntin' shit. But in Morgantown, the people have no insecurities. They don't care if you don't like their ways since they have love enough for everyone!

In Kittanning, if you don't like to hunt, well they don't take too kindly to queers in these here parts.

Can y'all say, "insecure"?

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Morgantown and Kittanning: Two towns that are now hanging signs in their bars warning bartenders not to serve anyone with the initials "JP."

It Was Nineteen Eighty-Something

As I indicated in my last post, Batmite and I ended grad school by hosting a bodacious '80s party at our heteronormative shared pad. It was the bombdiggity.

click on any image to enlarge

Batmite (obviously pictured left) opted to go with the old Hulk Hoganesque Fu Manchu stache, but most agreed that he looked like a gay leather daddy. I, on the other hand, totally rocked a pair of aviator shades, an AC-DC cap, and a Top Gun T-shirt (that was about two sizes too small for me). The running gag was that I was Iceman after he'd left the Air Force and let himself go over the years. I only wish I were playing Word Munchers or Oregon Trail on an old Tandy computer there.

A.J. agreed to be our bartender, making pina colatas, margaritas, and Batmite's apple-tini (he again claims heterosexuality on that one). We had a huge assortment of booze at this thing. Unfortunately, no one got really plastered, which only makes the costumes and behavior that much more unsettling.

Everyone really got into the whole costuming thing. I wasn't really thrilled about dressing up for the party. You know how hard it is to find 80s clothing in 2XL tall? I don't think they make parachute pants and tracksuits in those sizes. Nevertheless, we gave out prizes for the best costumes. Rachel is holding the third prize - a glittery hula hoop. I don't know if she actually won third prize, but she doesn't seem to thrilled to be holding it.

After finding out that Wal-Mart filled the hula hoop with several pounds of marijuana, Rachel perked right up.

Toby took second place. He won the complete first season of Teddy Ruxpin. I found that sitting right at the top of the bargain bin at Wal-Mart. What's unnerving is that there were five copies of it in the bin. I really think it should have been the first place prize, but Batmite overruled me. This was actually not a retro look for Toby. He normally wears the outfit of a Charles Dickens character, complete with bowler cap, pocket watch, and three-piece suit. His attire here is actually about nine decades ahead of his time.

Lisa took first place. I'm not really sure how authentically 80s her costume is, but what's sad is that everything she's wearing was purchased within the last month. That entire ensemble is available today, and statistically speaking there must be someone in the world who's wearing that getup because she (or he) thinks it looks legitimately awesome. In any case, Lisa won the first season of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. She didn't seem all that thrilled with the prize. In retrospect, I think Lisa and Toby should have switched prizes. Toby seems the type to shout "I HAVE THE POWER!!" to random passersby.

Virgil took a break from blogging to come to the party too. She said she was the 80s gal from the other side of the tracks. Not sure what's with the goofy face she's making. Her ensemble certainly beats her husband's attempt to pass off a green hoodie as his E.T. costume.

Erin and Ami are intrigued and aghast respectively when Batmite jumps up on the table to do a striptease.

They are less than impressed when I try to pull the same stunt....

Okay, so maybe there weren't any stripteases. Our party wasn't THAT exciting I guess.

That about sums up our party. I have more pictures, but some of them are of less than stellar quality, and others don't warrant clever comments. Suffice it to say, there was food and drink, we had several playlists of 80s tracks, and we rocked TO THE MAX. I shall end this blog as our party ended, with Batmite thrusting and gyrating to "The Final Countdown."

He claims that his legs hurt for days because he rocked so fucking hard. But he can dance if he wants to... he can leave his friends behind... 'cause if his friends don't dance, and if they don't dance, well they're no friends of mine.

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JP and Batmite: Sweeping the legs of anyone walking the dinosaur on Electric Avenue... especially if the Kommissar's in town!

Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Rednecks

I've dragged my ass long enough in writing this post. Part of that is due to A.J. not being able to get the above picture to me, but my own lackadaisical atttitude deserves a good chunk of the blame.

Two weeks ago, I finally made my first trip to Preston County, the country right next to Morgantown, home of the annual Buckwheat Festival (a fact that is given top billing on the "county seat's" town sign as you enter). My reason for going: the second annual wrestling tournament, which I'm sure will be placed on the town's sign in the near future.

These are mostly regional wrestlers who travel the country looking for venues where people with no money will drop 50 bucks for the family to see a bunch of sweaty guys grope each other. Virgil already beat me to the post about this event (but she was, after all, practically running said event), and she describes the wrestlers like so:

The wrestlers who come are from a regional group, and they generally fall into one of a few categories: 1) too old to be on TV 2) got cut for being bad (drugs, etc.) 3) got let go because they were no longer needed 4) up-and-comers who *might* make it to the big leagues, if they're very, very lucky 5) people who love to do it but have no shot in hell at being successful on a grander scale because they're, say, 5'7" and the current system prefers you to be at least 6'4". That's pretty much the range of our wrestlers for this event.

Obviously, we weren't dealing with Hulk Hogan here. But the wresting tourney was for a good cause. Virgil is the assistant director for the area's literacy program, and this event was created to raise money for it. As you can imagine, West Virginia kinda has a need for said program.

I'm convinced that half the people at this thing were 100% sure that what they were seeing was real. After all, there couldn't possibly be any real-world ramifications from a 400-pound man beating a man senseless with a chair. Surprisingly, the women seemed to be the most devoted fans. I'm sure seeing dozens of 300-lb women egging you on as you grope a man gives some of these wrestlers a few seconds to ponder certain life choices. (Did I forget to mention that Preston County has a crippling obesity epidemic? My bad.)

I found the whole thing pretty fun. It was so ridiculously over-the-top, and I'd criticize it more, but I watch shows about laser-wielding space aliens and genocidal robots. Even so, I had a few favorite characters:
>> "The Maestro" - a bearded gentleman who came out wearing a sparkling cape to the tune of Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York." He jumped up on the ropes and taunted the crowd by shouting, "OOO LAA LAA!!" Needless to say, our Preston pals didn't like this guy. Them city folks ain't welcome here. I'm told, though, that The Maestro was the fan favorite last year, and he had the same persona. Not sure what happened in the intervening year. Virgil has a few choice comments about meeting the "real life" Maestro.
>> "The Lumberjack" - exactly what you'd expect... a guy in a lumberjack-themed outfit. The crowed loved this Canadian woodsman. He did carry a pretty wicked axe.
>> "The Thrillbilly Ox" - He was a personal favorite. The guy was bald, over 400 pounds, and wore coveralls. It was pretty impressive actually given that he had surprisingly skinny arms and legs but this mammoth torso.
>> "Bobby Eaton" - Imagine any member of the band Poison trying to be a wrestler today - mullet and all. That's pretty much this guy. He was seen wearing bifocals and hobbling out of the center at the end of the day. I suppose even the most rocking wrestlers succumb to the harsh buzz kill of time.

I have to make special mention of my boy Eugene. He's the guy that I have my picture with at the top of the page. You can't pass up a guy who looks like Superman's own personal Billy Carter. Eugene jumped into the ring during one of the intermissions, and you could get your picture taken with him for five bucks. There was a HUGE line. Eugene was probably the fan favorite. After much cajoling from Batmite and A.J., I decided to get my picture taken with Eugene. I was easily the tallest one in line. The kids loved Eugene, which was sort of endearing until you realize that Eugene looks like a Michael Jackson scandal waiting to happen. Batmite and A.J. got their picture taken with Eugene as well:

Picture shamelessly stolen from Virgil's blog

A.J. (name changed to protect the embarrassed) is actually from Preston County. Watching her hide her face while muttering "Oh God!" during several parts of the show was added entertainment value. While she probably thought her Al Capone hat would hide the fact that she was from the town, no apparel can mask the shame one feels when confronted with your hometown's finest.

Anyone who managed to get out of Kittanning knows exactly how she felt.

After the event was over, I stayed to help clean up. I went into the bathroom at one point where I got to meet some sort of homeless man with mental disorders. I'm at one urinal, and he's at another. Here's our conversation:
Homeless Guy: "Hey bub, how's it going?"
Me: "Fine"
Homeless Guy: "Hey bub, do you know where Reedsville is?"
Me: "Not really. I'm from Morgantown."
Homeless Guy: (after a pause) "Hey bub, do you think you could give me a lift to Morgantown?"
Me: "Sorry bub, my car is full." (His friendly moniker was contagious.)
Homeless Guy: "Well hey bub, you take it easy."
Bub then went to anyone would listen to ask for a ride. Each time he started every sentence with, "Hey bub!" I felt bad for the guy, but the last thing I wanted was to end my enjoyable day by hearing "Hey bub, do you know what a pair of scissors to the sternum feels like?" while I'm in my car.

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158 days remaining until the Preston County Buckwheat Festival. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

NO PED XING

Fun Morgantown Event #47: I almost got run over by a car this afternoon.

While there are plenty of crosswalks in town, they're more like suggestions that have been painted on the pavement more than actual legal markers. It's an accepted rule in this town that waltzing across the street at any given time on any given road is an appropriate method for traveling to and fro. This is especially true on University Ave., which is the road that runs right through the busiest part of campus.

Geographical Note: The new English building is on one side of University Ave., and I teach on the other side of it next to the library. Dozens of students are crossing the street at this point whenever it's time for class change.

This brings me to today. After I finished a rousing two hours of peer review, I attempt to cross the street to the English building. I see the white SUV coming toward me, but accepted WVU practice indicates that said SUV will slow down. Apparently, I didn't get the memo that vehicular manslaughter was null and void if the target could be mistaken for a wayward yeti.

As I'm crossing the street, not only does the car not slow down, but the irate driver, annoyed at this classy English-type ragamuffin who dare cross him, blares his horn at me. HOOOONK HOOOOOONK!! I have to book it across the street before Christine's man-child bowls me over.

I have to admit, I get a bit frustrated with seemingly-suicidal pedestrians wandering into traffic with the expectation that all drivers will stop for them. Driving my car, I know that I've felt the urge to run over my share of students. I consider it a point of pride that I haven't killed anyone yet. Think of the lives I've saved by not committing vehicular homicide on a daily basis!

What I don't understand is why a driver would want to run me over. I wouldn't be a clean kill. I'm 6'5" and above 280 lbs. (I'll be vague regarding just how far over 280 that figure is). I think I'd cause serious damage to an automobile that dared to literally let me get up in its grill. That horn-happy driver would have been better off running down a rabid moose than having to scrape JP blubber out of his engine for the next six months.

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Beware the Ides of March!

Our Quiet, Little, White-Bred, Redneck, Mountain Town

The entire Morgantown area needs to be condemned. The town is literally falling apart at the seams. While the university manages to keep a fairly good handle on its own stuff, the college acts like the tapeworm on the colon that is Morgantown. WVU had 27,500 enrolled students as of Fall 2007, and this town just can't sustain them all.

Almost all of the houses in downtown Morgantown have been converted into rental properties for undergraduates, and they've devolved into complete slums. Because the need for housing is so high, the landlords have zero incentive to keep their houses looking nice. After all, undergraduate frat boy assholes will live anywhere. The phrase "roaches on the table" doesn't have to refer to pot in this town.

Driving around town, it's almost sad to see how many houses simply need a coat of paint... or just washed. It wouldn't take that much to make these houses look somewhat presentable. There was a nice little fiasco a few months back because the front of a house collapsed, injuring several people. Turns out an unsurprising number of domiciles in the Morgantown area need to be condemned.

The roads are just as bad. I've bitched about Morgantown roads before. Some of these roads are simply unsafe. There's one road (Falling Run Road) that's used quite a bit by students, but there's no sidewalk. The road is built at a 70 degree angle, and it's literally road-curb-20 foot drop. You've got people walking in the middle of the street as cars come barreling around these blind curves. This road ends at a five-way stop, where one road has the right-of-way, but only about 50% of the population knows this. I'm surprised people don't die on a regular basis.

I don't live within walking distance of the campus, and that's a pain in the ass at times, but there are very few places in the downtown area that are, in my opinion, livable. Some of these homes are perched precariously on the sides of cliffs. Only some duct tape, dried semen, and regular prayers to Vishnu are keeping these buildings from collapsing onto other poorly built housing. I found out recently that the entire town is built on abandoned mine shafts. Mine subsidence insurance is apparently impossible to get here. It's nice to know that everyone's in danger of falling into a giant crevice at any moment.

Fun Fact: The word "Monongahela" is an American Indian word meaning "high banks breaking off or falling down in places." What dipshit came to this place, heard that meaning, and decided to build a big university right along the Monongahela River? "Golly Elmer, ain't nuthin' more solid than a crumbling river bank! Let's build us one of them learnin' factories!" (Before townies start bitching at me for stereotyping them, let me direct your attention to the naming of "Don Knotts Boulevard." Point, Set, Match!)

The snow destroys the roads. The roads destroy the people. The people destroy the houses. The houses destroy any sense of beauty that this town might possess.

Oh, and the glowing green river water and the nearby nuclear power plant don't make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside... except when the cancer starts to grow in my colon.

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The Morgantown Convention and Visitors Bureau does not support, condone, endorse, or give free blowjobs to JP. His opinions are his own, and we actually believe that Morgantown has a rustic charm and beauty that can only be surpassed by the magnificence of you beautiful tourists with your outside money.

What About a Future Boyfriend?

About a year ago, I got an IM from this guy who lives in my apartment complex. Apparently, he found my address on Facebook and wanted to make friends with someone in the complex. This seemed reasonable enough, and he's a nice enough guy, so I talked to him. But soon the conversations were making... interesting digressions. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was something odd about his interest in me. He seemed very intent upon being my friend.

I have yet to meet this guy face to face, and he still messages me. I'm not a particularly nice person when dealing with strangers, so I couldn't figure out why he wanted to talk to me so much.

Today, I got my answer.

I'm talking to him again this evening and the conversation goes like this (his name has been changed):

ApartmentGuy: btw, whats ur relationship status?
Me: single. but always on the lookout for my future ex-girlfriend.
ApartmentGuy: what about a future boyfriend?
Me: nope. afraid not.
ApartmentGuy: fuck buddy?
Me: nope

Suddenly it all made sense. This guy was hitting on me. I've never been hit on by a gay guy before. I was actually kind of flattered. I didn't want the poor guy to feel bad, so I said:

Me: I don't swing that way. Not that there's anything wrong with it if you do.
ApartmentGuy: I love pussy...... but nothing wrong in gettin off
Me: Ah! So the door of [his name] swings both ways.
ApartmentGuy: it has.......... discretely......... depends on the situation

Given the guy's penchant for joking around (looking back on it, it was probably flirting), I thought he might have been pulling my leg again, so I decided to Google his screen name. What came up was a personal ad for "OurGayborhood.com," which is, quite frankly, the BEST name for a website ever! He describes himself as "heteroflexible."

The guy has never met me in real life, so I can only assume that he decided I was bi-curious based on my Facebook profile. Is it the distinct absence of anything sports-related on my Interests list? Is it the degree in English? Is it my flowery but lovable prose style? I don't think I wrote "I've always loved the taste of hot man-juice" anywhere on there.

I got nothing against the guy (literally or figuratively). It's got to be a ballsy move (pun totally intended) to hit on a guy who may or may not be gay - especially in West Virginia.

I know you may read this Apartment Guy, and you may not like that I shared the tale (anonymous though it may be), but it was just too choice to pass up.

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JP: Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.

The Best Bar in Morgantown

I used to think that the best bar in Morgantown was The Sports Page. They have the cheapest and most generous Long Island Iced Teas that I've ever had. The female bartenders are also cheap and generous - but not really in the same way. I soon discovered a better place!

Late last night, after having a few drinks downtown to celebrate being done with our papers, Vivek and I decided to check out a bar that he'd heard of but never been to. All we knew was that it was right next to the strip club. The strip club, which is about 30 seconds from my apartment, is in what appears to be a remodeled barn, which gives me pause. I've never been brave enough to check it out; what if one of my students (or even worse, one of my fellow GTAs) is up on stage? That would just be awkward (or perhaps oddly erotic) for everybody!

So we get to the bar next to the strip club - it's called "Leo's Bar," and it looks like a dump. It looks like it could be the setting for From Dusk Till Dawn 4. I was beginning to have second thoughts, but through the front window, we see the bartender staring at us, so we figure we have no choice but to go in now. Looking back on it, I don't know what we thought he was going to do. You'd think a year and a half of West Virginia would make me immune to such concerns.

When we go in, I'm amazed at how nice the place actually is. It's a pretty cozy watering hole. There's plenty of space, some good music on the jukebox, and a pool table. But the BEST feature by far was their Star Trek: The Next Generation Pinball Machine!!

That alone makes it the best bar in Morgantown! This Podunk bar with a clientèle that has maybe 12 teeth among them has this pinball machine prominently displayed. The bartender even bragged about his high score. I suck at pinball, and I don't even really like it, but I certainly enjoyed playing this one. I even beat the "Q Challenge" and defeated the Borg Cube. Kiss my fat ass, Worf!

When we came in, the bartender was very excited to see us. He hollers, "Welcome to the best bar in Morgantown!" Then he thinks for a few seconds and says, "Well... it's at least the cleanest bar in Morgantown... according to the health inspector anyway." That either says a lot about this bar or a lot about the other bars in Morgantown. I don't want to know which.

There's only four other people in the place. Three of them are on the upper level playing pool, and then there's this old man sitting at the bar. He introduces himself as Leo, owner of the establishment. The man is 61 years old (as he was happy to inform us) and looks like a shorter Boss Hogg with glasses and a speech impediment. He was even wearing a cowboy hat. We talked with Leo for about 15 minutes, and as he mumbled at least four or five times, Leo spent most of his life working for the post office. I told him that I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life yet, and over the next ten minutes, he told me about the importance of health insurance. The only reason he stopped was because his arthritis was acting up. I think I want to be Leo one day.

We didn't stay long since it was getting pretty late (and it was awkward being the only ones in there after everyone else left), but I fully intend to go back. The drinks were reasonably priced, the pinball machine rocked my world, and Leo amused and enchanted me.

And the bathroom was spotless! It probably was the cleanest in Morgantown.

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Leo's Bar: A refuge for redneck Star Trek fans since Leo's midlife crisis.

By Any Other Name

This isn't the pinnacle of anything

This is a completely meaningless issue that's been bothering me for some time. I can't stand the completely soulless naming scheme for some of these planned communities and apartment complexes around Morgantown. I've seen these pretentious, meaningless names elsewhere, but Morgantown seems to throw words together on a map in a way that would make Magellan weep.

For example, the apartment complex that I live in is called "Pinnacle Height Apartments" (pictured above). While my apartment is actually quite nice, the name doesn't really fit the entire complex. These apartments are not at the top of a hill, as the name would seem to indicate. The buildings were actually constructed on the side of a hill next to the WVU Animal Sciences Farm. I suppose "Sloping Pasture Apartments" didn't have the same ring to it.

Of course the big real estate construction on campus right now is this collection of on-campus apartments that have been given the name "Augusta on the Square." What kind of meaningless bullshit name is that? Am I supposed to think about doing geometry in Maine? And in case you're wondering, there's no part of Morgantown that's called "Augusta," and there's no square to speak of. You can't have a square on the mountainside that they shoved this complex into. Even better is the ridiculous logo (seen here) that they have for this place. Where was the chemistry department when these people decided that "Au" was the symbol for "Augusta" instead of gold?

Speaking of gold, I feel that the gold medal of misnomers must go to the new shopping plaza that's being built north of the city: "Suncrest Towne Centre." Every single word in this name is complete bullshit. I guess the old school spellings of "town" and "center" are supposed to make it seem sophisticated. The location for this soon-to-be commercial hub is in the middle of nowhere. There's no town (with an "e" or not), and there's no "centre." Also, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that Suncrest is an invented location in Morgantown as well. It's a completely meaningless term. What the hell is a suncrest? The top of the sun?

While I'm thinking of it, this whole process of adding an "e" onto every word to make it sound classy is getting a bit tired. Even Kittanning got in on the action when they named their new industrial park "Northpointe." Maybe Morgantown could freshen up its image if the city council changed the spelling to "Morgantowne." I'm dusting off my monocle already.

Invented towns always have these meaningless yuppie names with pretentious words. I guarantee that if you find yourself in a town with a words like "heights," "crest," or "pointe" in its name (usually preceded by the name of some tree: cedar, pine, chestnut, etc.), that town was probably constructed in the span of six months by a firm who has a list of words that appeal to white, upper-middle-class, suburban parents who are looking for a non-threatening, sterile, contained environment with just enough trees to provide shade for their kids' play dates.

Towns that have real character have names that sound somewhat unpleasant. Pittsburgh - sounds like something that requires a lot of deodorant. "Ford City" sounds like a place with too much car exhaust (though a simple name change to "Fjord City" could change that image). The name "Kittanning" even has character - granted we stole that character from the Indians, but it's better than something like Chestnut Heights Pointe.

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Pinnacle Height Apartments - Setting unreasonable expectations for the appearance of my domicile since 2006.

Adventures on the Rail Trail

I haven't blogged in awhile, and I have no good excuse other than sheer laziness and apathy, but I've finally got a good topic.

Lately I've been going biking on Morgantown's Rail Trail. It's a series of paved (though sometimes just compressed sand) paths that stretch along the Monongahela River and Deckers Creek. It's good exercise and some time in the sun for my pasty, flabby body. Still, I have had some strange encounters on that trail.

Story #1: This happened on my second day of biking. Since I wasn't used to the whole etiquette of the trail, I was just biking along in my unimpressive fashion when I passed two older guys who were walking along the trail. One of them stopped me and said, "Hey, when you pass someone you're supposed to say 'passing on the left' so they know you're coming." I thanked the helpful informant and continued on. Shortly thereafter, I encountered a disheveled old man with a big gray beard. Not wanting to disobey the rules of the trail, I said, "Passing on the left." Unfortunately, this schizophrenic hobo starts yelling at me: "Fuck you, you fucking son of a bitch! Don't tell me what to do; I'll kick your ass and kill you, you fucking asshole! Fuck you fucker!" This guy continues to holler as I ride off. Maybe a minute later, I get to a park and rest for a few. As I'm sitting on the bench, the schizo hobo comes along. He's not saying anything until he gets to me, and as he walks by he starts in again: "I'm gonna kill you, you fucking fucker bastard asshole cunt!"

As you can imagine, I don't say anything when I pass anyone anymore. I'll take my chances.

Story #2: This one happened one balmy evening about a week ago. Once again, I'm biking on the rail trail when I encounter a gaggle of geese. There's about 20 of them spread out on the trail. Now, if this had happened a few months ago, I wouldn't have given it another thought, but a friend of mine who's a lifeguard had a very unpleasant encounter with some geese on the beach. They're apparently quite viscious and territorial. I got to experience that first hand. I tried to skirt around the edge of the flock, but the geese got together and started strutting at me like the Legion of Doom or something. One of them hissed at me (until recently, I didn't know geese hissed). I finally just took off at full speed right through the fine-feathered fiends. Two old women coming the other way witnessed all of this and got a good laugh at my expense. But I knew their levity wouldn't last long as it would soon be their turn to confront them.

Story #3: This one happened yesterday. I went biking on the Deckers Creek trail, and on my way back, I see two mentally-challenged kids walking the opposite way. There was no mistaking the awkward walk and the arm against the chest thing. About 100 feet behind them was another kid laying face-down on the pavement.... motionless. I'm thinking, "Oh crap, some kid is dead on the Rail Trail!.... and I don't have a good record with the police." But being the good Samaritan that I am (I was due for my yearly good deed), I stopped by the kid and said, "Are you okay?" The kid suddenly leaps up and starts crawling around yelling, "OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY!!!" He's bobbing around yelling this, which catches the attention of some scraggly old man fishing by the creek who then yells at me, "HEY! LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE!!" I didn't know what the fuck was going on, so I did the only manly thing I could do.... I jumped on my bike and rode away.

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I should be afraid to go back, but I like bike-riding. The rail trail is nice even though the people on it are often batshit insane. I really can't wait to see what new adventures this trail will bring.

The West Virginia Rail Trail: Providing peaceful walking paths for lunatics, geese, and retards since 1991.

Country Roads Take Me Home (Or Not)

Sonic has found a better way to navigate the roads in Morgantown

I'm officially afraid to drive in West Virginia.

It wasn't bad enough that the cops seem to have a vendetta against me. It's even not enough that I have to be careful not to run over wild chickens or other random farm animals as I'm driving down country roads. No, the real fun has come in the last month with the onset of winter.

I spent four years going to school in Erie, Pennsylvania. That place is second only to Buffalo in terms of bad winters. Christ, there were times that the roads were so bad I thought I'd have to sell my body to the sasquatch woman down the hall just to get food. Typically I'd simply avoid driving if the weather was bad; living on campus had certain benefits. Every once in awhile, however, I'd be stuck in my car during a snowstorm.

Now I don't think I've discussed my primary mode of transportation on here. My car is a 1999 Ford Escort. I'm not much of a mechanic, but let's just say that it's not exactly the ideal car for snow travel. The thing has about the same weight as frizbee. Hell, when I sit in it, that probably increases its weight by about 50%. My point is that the thing slides around on ice very easily. But in Erie, those fuckers knew how to handle roads (Penn State was another matter, but let's not go there). The people in charge of Erie get those roads cleared after anything short of an iceberg rolling through town. And even if you do run into trouble, worst case scenerio is that you slide into a ditch.

Now let's talk about Morgantown. The roads here were designed by Dr. Seuss on an acid trip. Either that, or the town designers just took the existing paths that were made by mountain goats and paved them. "If it's good enough for Bessie, it's good enough for mah truck!" Professional contortionists can't have sex at the angles that these roads were built at.

And to top it off, at the bottom of most of these hills is some form of peril. In town, several steep side streets drop right into the river!! Seriously! The roads end in boat launches that aren't blocked or anything. On the outskirts of town (where I live), the bottoms of these slopes end in sharp curves with a 300 foot drop waiting for those who can't make it. The only thing standing between your sliding vehicle and a very interesting off-road experience is a government-issue guard rail. Think of Wile E. Coyote's worst nightmare.

The best road I saw had one of these perilous curves, and at the critical point where the road turns to avoid the nasty cliff, the guard rail has been completely knocked out. In its place are two small road cones. ROAD CONES! Thank you Morgantown. If my car is sliding out of control to my doom, I'll make sure the Winter Warlock takes note of your road cones and pilots my car toward a safer locale.

I suppose if my car plummets to the depths of a chasm, at least the firey wreckage will keep me warm until my timely demise.

Special Deliverance, Part 1

Living in West Virginia, I knew it was only a matter of time before I had an "experience" - something to drive home that hillbilly feeling. It all happened two days ago.

Prologue: I purchased cable from Adelphia three months ago, and as part of the deal, they gave me free digital cable for three months. So as any simpleton could figure out (sorry Fryar), the time recently came for me to return my digital cable box. I called the Adelphia corporate office, and the woman told me that the Morgantown office was on "15 Summer School Road." (Pay attention to that address. There's a quiz later.)

The Journey: So I Mapquest the address. It's about 20 miles south of Morgantown, but I wasn't doing anything important, so my journey began. I get off of I-79, and I'm immediately wary because I see a sign for "Hay Bale Road." This is slightly disconcerting, but I press on. After all, I'm in West Virginia. What can I expect?

Onward. I turn onto the next road, and there are farms everywhere. There are farms to the left, farms to the right, farms that are farming farms. That smell of hay and manure that years of growing up in Kittanning has made me sensitive to begins to waft into my car. I get to the next road that leads me up a small mountain.


So I get to the top of the mountain, and it feels like I've landed on another planet. I have a pretty good perch on top of this hill/mountain, and all I can see is trees; no civilization to be found. I could die on this road, and nothing but a wild moose would ever find me.

Believe it or not, I am actually still feeling optimistic at this point. Then I find my road: Summer School Road. The sign is a piece of wood with the letters painted on by hand. The "road" (and I use the term loosely) consists of gravel and leaves. Since I've come this far, I feel obliged to press on. The road, as you might imagine by now, does not lead me to Adelphia's Morgantown office. Instead, I nearly run over a chicken.

Yes friends; a chicken - right in the middle of the road.

I have inadvertently driven onto some yokel's property. It's not a farm - it's just a house with a chicken coup beside it. It's at this point that I sorta freak out. I decide that I've been lost in Appalachia long enough. I return home. Adelphia can shove their digital box straight up their ass.

Epilogue: So I get home and call Adelphia. I'm all ready to bitch them out; however, after 25 minutes of being on hold, I've calmed down somewhat. Well, the woman on the phone informs me that I had the road name wrong.

Remember that road name: Summer School Road? Yeah, that was wrong. Guess what it is.

Go ahead; guess.

Summers School Road

Turns out that Morgantown actually has both roads. This was a giant mental clusterfuck. I got lost in the Ozarks because some dipshit who names roads for a living got lazy and pulled the oldest Scrabble trick in the book by pluralizing the road names.

So that was my first "experience." I say "first" because I know it won't be my last. That's why this is called "Part 1."

Call of The Great Wall

On Monday, Chinese food was on my agenda for lunch. I had a craving, and I wanted it satisfied. So after teaching, Vivek and I went wandering down High St. in search of The Great Wall, a Chinese restaurant I had heard good things about. I had driven by this place several times. Looked sizable enough so we figured there would be plenty of seats. When we arrived, however, there were no seats or tables. They weren't just unavailable; they weren't there. This was only carry out or delivery. I'm not sure why they had such a large front room then. Maybe they just like space. But needless to say, we left disappointed. I didn't get any Chinese that day, but I did grab a menu.

Yesterday I still had a craving for Chinese, so I took a look at the menu. Apparently the place has an online ordering system (greatwallchinesefood.com). Since I was curious and didn't feel like decyphering whatever fresh-off-the-boat immigrant they had answering phones there (forgive my racist assumptions there), I gave the internet a try. I ordered some General Tso's Chicken, some rice, and an egg roll.

Over an hour later, my food had not yet arrived. I was irritated, so I called up the place. Surprisingly someone who sounded like an American answered. Unfortunately I found myself wishing it had been a Chinese person; this guy was a douchebag. He informed me in no uncertain terms that they never received my order. Balls to the Internet!! So I placed my order over the phone. I sit back and await my tasty chicken.

10 minutes later I get a call from the restaurant. It's the Asian-poser douchebag again. He can't figure out how to get to my apartment. Now, my apartment is a bit difficult to find, but it's not like I'm located at the center of the Earth. I spent ten minutes trying to explain to this guy where my apartmet is. Finally, I think he has it. I should have known better.

15 minutes after that, I get another call. This time it's from an actually Chinese person who's apparently on the road: "I have you food. You meet me at Dairy Mart at end of road in five minute!"

Now keep in mind that I've now been waiting about an hour and 45 minutes for my food. I'm hungry, and I'm paying a two dollar delivery fee for food that I HAVE TO GO PICK UP AT THE END OF THE ROAD. The pizza man had trouble finding my place too, but at least he made the attempt and eventually found it. This guy was on my shit list.

So I stalk around my apartment muttering like an old man as I search for my shoes. I'm going to let this guy have it. What kind of restaurant is this!? Off I go to the Dairy Mart.

When I get there, I see this rusted, busted-ass Honda pull into the place with the paint peeling off and a pathetic-looking "Great Wall" sign on the top of the car. The delivery boy gets out looking frazzled and tired. Suddenly I feel bad for the poor guy. He probably doesn't operate any of the telephones or computer software. Hell, he probably hates the douchebag phone guy as much as I do. So I smile politely, take my food, and tell him to keep the change.

That's right; after all of this, I actually tipped the guy. I have a heart every once in awhile.

I hope he spends that 75 cents wisely.