For Ty

On Wednesday November 6, 2024, Ty Torres died of head trauma after a surfing accident.  He was 55.  He leaves behind his wife, Robin, and his son, Coltrane.

Photo by Dave Sieling

According to a memorial site:

On the morning of November 5th, 2024, Ty Torres went for an early surf session, something he had done countless times before. However, this time, tragedy struck. Witnesses say that after riding a wave, he appeared to lose control and was knocked unconscious after being thrown off his board. Although lifeguards and bystanders rushed to his aid immediately, performing CPR and attempting to revive him, Ty was ultimately declared dead at the scene. The exact cause of death is believed to be related to a head injury sustained during the fall, although authorities are awaiting a full autopsy report to confirm the details.

His obituary.

The memorial is inaccurate.  He was taken to a hospital where he was declared brain dead, and his wife had him disconnected from life support equipment the next morning.  

Ty was a professor, artist, raconteur, polymath, father, brother, husband, and a great man.  He was also my fraternity brother, one of my closest friends from my undergraduate years, and one of the very few who stayed in touch.

1990

Many people are writing tributes to Ty which talk about his recent accomplishments- about the philosophy classes he taught, his art, his love of life, and his expertise at surfing.  Yes, he was an avid expert surfer.  He even appeared on the cover of a surfing magazine in his youth.  You could say he died doing what he loved.  One of his childhood friends wrote on facialbook "...great soul who understood people and found the salient part of every individual on Earth, never passing up a chance to make anyone feel good."  That really sums up Ty perfectly.

I met Ty in the Fall of 1987.  One of our pledges of that time went to high school with him, and invited him to our parties, eventually talking him into pledging as well in the next semester.  Ty had long, flowing black hair and an easy smile.  I'm not much into guys, but he was really good looking.  I knew he could seduce any person he wished.  

But here's the rub- while he KNEW he was hot, It didn't go to his head.  He was genuine, friendly, and CARED about people.  He actually listened.  He was easy to talk to and easy to like.  When he was "rushing," he and I drank together often.  He was amused that I'd never even tried drugs.  He didn't treat me like an outcast- he treated me like a brother: HIS brother.  He always had my back- and I had his.  There was never a doubt.

With Ty 1991

Ty pledged with the Spring 1988 pledge class.  His pledge class had several really good guys in it, but I think Ty was the engine that kept them going.  They became brothers in late April 1988- the week after the annual Toga party.  (They would've gotten in sooner, but we needed pledges to work Toga.)  

Fare you well, fare you well I love you more than words can tell.  (Grateful Dead)

As a brother, Ty was a phenomenon.  You couldn't ask for a better brother.  He was an incredible ambassador for the letters, and his hotness brought MANY women to our events.  

After I graduated, we stayed in touch.  He was kind enough to let me sleep on his couch a couple of times when I visited PSU before he graduated.  Eventually, he was elected vice president of the fraternity.  He also played "Sahntah" at the annual house Christmas gift exchange- which in our house was a great honor bestowed upon a senior.  When Wife and I visited California, we made it a point to visit Ty, his wife, and their newborn son.  He told me I'd gotten fat.  (He wasn't wrong.)

"Sahntah"

Then I transitioned.  Ty was one of the people I told via video (as I didn't have the money to fly out to California.)  He immediately gave his support.  He never dead-named nor misgendered me.  When my fraternity's 125th anniversary weekend came in 2015, Ty talked me into attending, as I wasn't going to do so.  He said he would walk with me to the House from the hotel to support me.  He also told me of pre-event happies in another brother's room.  At the event (which he helped plan and run) he was a dynamo of energy, and made sure to check in with me occasionally to make sure I was ok.  Seeing him, was really the highlight of the trip.  I told him his beard made him look old.  

The last time I saw him alive was last was at a mini-reunion.. 

With Ty 2015

We kept in touch, usually via text or facialbook.  We had fun destroying the arguments of 45 cultists on Ty's fb feed.  We talked baseball and Penn State football.  The last text I sent that he saw was a meme making fun of his Yankees, who had just lost the World Series.  

Then, the day after the election- a chilly, rainy day here in State College- I received a text from my dear friend (and fraternity little sister) Iva disclosing the horrific news.  I was downtown running an errand for work.  I walked back to work, stunned (I must've looked like a zombie.)  Once back at work, I went into the breakroom and broke down sobbing.  One of the undergrads I work with gave me a hug.  But my life and the world had changed.  

Ty was gone.  

I can't imagine how his family felt.  I can't comprehend the magnitude of their loss.  

His vigil

Soon, tributes popped up online- FB, Insta... all social media.  I knew Ty was popular and amazing, but I didn't realize how many lives he'd touched and changed. I shouldn't have been surprised.  People all around the world: former students, classmates from various schools, co-workers... family.  HIS family.  The family he created one smile at a time.  

Such a long long time to be gone and a short time to be there.  (Grateful Dead)

The following night was a candlelight vigil at Salt Creek beach (Dana Point, CA- south of LA) where he surfed, and a shrine created on the large rock that...  I saw pictures of the vigil.  So many people; so many candles; so many lives.

Ty was one of a kind.  He was a beacon of optimism and, yes, kindness.  This world has been around for billions of years, and may be here a lot longer, but I'm blessed to say that not only did I live at the same time as Ty, but I also had the honor of calling him "brother."  The world desperately needs more people like Ty Arthur Torres, but he was one of a kind.  He was one of the finest men I've ever known.

My deepest condolences to Robin, Coltrane, and his extended family.

May the four winds blow you safely home, Ty.  The world is lesser without you in it.  

Comps II: Oral Boogaloo

On Monday, August 15, 2022, at 10 AM, I started my oral comprehensive exam.  I already finished the written portion (which I wrote about here), so this was where I defended my work and answered additional questions.  

I was allowed to do a ten minute presentation if I wished to explain my answers, so I did (good thing too!).  At this point, a ten minute presentation is nothing.  I worked a few hours on power point slides, rehearsed it a couple of times, and was ready.  All I needed was a good night's sleep.  I took melatonin and went to bed early-ish.  

One of the slides.  On the right is Michel Foucault

And had nasty insomnia.  

When I did sleep, I dreamed of being back in a school setting. Physically, the building was a school I encounter often in my dreams- a random, rambling monstrosity with hills, a multi-level shopping mall, a food court, and hallways that intersect at odd angles.  I had assignments to finish, but it was the last day of school, and the final bell had sounded.  Students were in a desperate rush to begin summer, and the hallways were crowded with kids throwing papers in the air and shouting.  I managed to find my locker somehow (in my dreams, I normally can't) and was putting away books (huh?) worried about the assignments I never did.  

I originally planned to wake up early, shower, do my hair and makeup and read through my written exam one more time before the 10 AM test on zoom.  Well, in the end, I skipped the makeup, and only dried my hair instead of doing anything fancy.  I managed to read through my paper though, as my advisor had technical difficulties so the exam started a little late.

So there they were- the four members of my dissertation committee, each a scholar of note within their field, and each, in my mind, ready to tear me to pieces.  I selected three of these professors as they made an impression on me in class or out.  The chair was my advisor, and also very good.  I gave my presentation, which lasted just a hair under ten minutes (as timed.)  Then the questions began.

I suppose there's no harm in revealing the four questions I was asked to discuss in the written part, as they were tailored to my work.

1) Review the existing academic literature on transgender awareness and inclusion programs (training) for adults, including the types of programs and their outcomes (effectiveness). In addition, how do these programs address the root causes of violence toward transgender people, if at all? Finally, explain how Foucault’s theories of power and knowledge can help us understand transmisogyny and transgender violence.

2) Review the adult education literature on transformative learning, exploring both its central tenets and critiques. How are theories of transformative learning relevant to your proposed study on transgender awareness and inclusion programs? What kinds of verbal statements and actions (practices) would indicate that participants in transgender programs have experienced transformative learning? 

3) Use the gender and women’s studies literature on gender justice to explain how transgender advocacy is related to broader gender justice movements in the USA. How is transgender liberation a disruption or threat to hegemonic and traditional conceptualizations of gender roles, gender identity, and gender as an organizing structure of society? 

4) You have proposed using an ethnographic and autoethnographic approach to answering your research questions. Discuss the central elements of ethnography and autoethnography and why these methods are appropriate for answering your research questions. Consider this a draft of the methods section for your dissertation proposal to include: research design, main research questions, sampling and participants, data collection, and data analysis.

My oral exam focused on these questions as well.  I was sweating like crazy due to nerves.  I didn't want to look like a complete idiot in front of these professors, whom I admire.  That said, I felt like a complete fraud.  I didn't belong in this meeting.  I was a poser- and they knew it.  They were going to fail me most heinously and were going through the motions- I was sure of it.

As I wrote in the earlier bit, there were three possible outcomes of this exam:

1. Pass.  I would then be an ABD (All But Dissertation) and could start work on my dissertation.

2. Partial Pass: If I screw up one question, I will have an opportunity to re-write it and go again.  I get one chance at that.

3. Fail.  Done.  Get out.  Finished.  No soup for you.  Wasted three years.  Go away, loser.  And the horse you rode in on.

I answered their questions to the best of my ability, with only one that was a bit unexpected.  Then, they put me in a "break out room" as they debated my fate.  I was told it would be around ten minutes.  I went to the bathroom.  grabbed another bottle of water.  Organized the desk a little.  Checked the news.  

Ten minutes passed.

                                            

                                            15

                                                                                                        20

After 23 minutes, the break out room closed, and there were the four professors.  I was informed that after considerable debate, I...

PASSED.

However, the debate was on whether or not I should re-write (do over) my answers to questions one and three.  Y'know, the two I was most confident that I'd aced.  Three professors congratulated me and disappeared.  My advisor told me that it was a close thing- and that if I had to re-write, there was still a chance I could salvage a PhD.  

After that, she gave me instructions as to what I had to do next.  I then dragged my roomie/bestie Linda downtown to Cafe 210 West and had lunch and celebratory Long Island Iced tea pitchers.  Then home for a celebratory nap.

At the Cafe

The next day, my advisor sent me six typed pages of notes about the exam: questions she had but didn't ask as well as critiques.  To read these made me think that passing me was a mercy- a concession because I ticked off several diversity boxes.  One of my fellow students doesn't think so- she thinks I'm reading into it.  Maybe I'm letting my imposter syndrome get the best of me.  

As I type this, it's Friday.  The upper classmen are back, and I'm sure the bars downtown are packed with reunions, summer stories, flirtations, and shots.  Me? I haven't showered in a couple days, feel scummy, and need to shave as the laser I had 12 years ago has worn off.  I'd love to be downtown enjoying the day, and the fact that I'm no longer a PhD Student- I'm now a PhD Candidate.  But the Darkness has me, and besides, I'm broke.  As usual.

So there you have it. dear readers.  Somehow, for whatever reason, I passed.  I feel tremendous relief.  Now it's time for the dissertation proposal; fifty pages of fun.  

But not today.

Be well.

Men of the Skull: Chapter 69: George and Chapter 70: Kamikazes

It's been a while since I posted sequential chapters from my book about PSU in the 80s; Men of the Skull.  These two are short and related, so I combined them (as I would if I were to publish this.

George generously gave me permission to use his name (one of only two brave souls to do so.)  We're still great friends all these years later, and he has been very supportive of my transition.  And- he's a member of this group.  

I was a very mentally wounded person back then, and very unsure of myself, especially in relationships.  My relationship with "Virginia" was only my second long lasting one, and my first, um, sexual one.  At the beginning of these chapters, she and her mother have left for a several week trip to Florida.  

Another bit; I mention my James Bond image.  I grew up wanting to emulate Bond ("he's a REAL man!"), so I wanted to learn to dance, make drinks, drive defensively (or offensively), etc.  Eventually, I took ballroom dance class, I already had defensive (stunt-ish) driving class, so now it was time to learn drinks.  I just wish someone would've shown me how to dress fashionably, as I was (and still am) a mess.   

**********************************************************************

Chapter 2.69:  George

Monday, May 18, 1987 U.S. Ship is Attacked in Gulf

            Virginia was gone.  She left that morning.  I was a mess.

            Yeah I missed her but that wasn’t it.  Last time a girlfriend went away for a trip it was Julianne and she cheated on me.  Would Virginia?

            Wait- this was a whole different thing.  Julianne was in high school.  I may have been in college when that happened, but she still in high school as was the relationship.  This relationship with Virginia- it was College.  We were having sex- a lot of it.  We were both currently committed to getting an education.  It was a whole different world: a whole different relationship.

            So would she stay faithful?

            Did I mention how fucked up my mind was at that time?

            Anyway, I had something to take my mind off it.  I saw an ad in the Pottstown Mercury for Bartending School!  Wow!

            This fit right into my whole “James Bond” image thing.  A man should know how to mix drinks.  Besides, I could get a job at one of State College’s many bars that would pay much more than retail, Burger King, or selling plasma.  And- And- it would get me OUT OF THE HOUSE!

            I had a little savings left so I paid up and that night drove up the road to Pottstown.  The class was held at the Holiday Inn on King St near rte 100.

June 15, 1987 Collegian

            First thing I noticed when I walked in- no chairs.  There were a lot of fake bars made of stainless steel.  Each one had room for two people.  I stood at one hoping a cute girl would partner with me.  That would make things more fun.

            The room filled quickly.  One of the guys wore a Kelly green t-shirt with yellow lettering that said “Lambda Chi Melon Bust” over some kind of yellow stenciled picture.  A fellow Greek!  He came in with a cute girl and partnered with her.  The room filled until the only empty spot was the one next to me.  That sure helped my self esteem.

            The instructor stepped out of a side room.  He was a little shorter than me, with brown hair parted to the side and a cheesy moustache.  He had sleepy eyes, was just a bit overweight, figure he was around forty, and he wore black pants, white tuxedo shirt and a black bow tie.  He looked like the bartender in every movie you’ve ever seen. 

            He introduced himself as Paul Mernoff, Instructor for Bartender Excaliber, and gave us an overview of his qualifications:  AC, Vegas, New York, Philly.  Impressive!  Why was he here?  In any case, he was going to teach us to be bartenders, and if there were anyone in the world I’d want to teach me, it was this guy.

            He started with basics and built from there.  (Whoever designed this course knew what they were doing.)  We poured colored water into glasses with fake plastic ice cubes.  “Seeing the proper drink color is important.”

            At the end of the night’s lessons, I walked over to the green shirted guy.  He was shorter than me- maybe five foot seven.  He was slim but cut- obviously strong.  His face was cherubic, with big blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a perpetual smile.  His wavy blonde hair may as well have been a halo. 

            “Hey Lambda Chi!  What campus?”  I asked.

            “Penn State,” he replied, looking a little annoyed that I interrupted his walk out the door.  “Why?”

            I smiled.  “I’m a Skull at Penn State.  My name’s Lance.”

            “George” he said, offering his hand and visibly less tense.  “You can’t be a Skull, you’re too fucking thin!”

            “I transferred from Drexel.”

            “That explains that.  Hey, I gotta go,” George said.  “Team up next week?”

            “Sure!”

            So George left, and I wandered out into the humid night to my Mustang and…

            FUCK!

            I locked the fucking keys in the God damned car!

 

Chapter 2.70: Kamikazes

Monday, June 15, 1987 Arms pact reportedly is at hand

So it was the last bartending class.  The idea was that each team of students would bring alcohol and make one kind of drink.  Then, we would all sample each other’s drinks.  Not really a final exam, but sort of.  More of a pride thing.

Lambda Chi George, myself, and this one blond had been a team for a while.  We decided to make Kamikazes!  He said he’d bring the vodka, she brought triple sec and all I needed to do was buy the damn lime juice (as I was still underage.) Simple enough, right?

Of course I forgot.

So I arrived early to class just to have George ream me out a bit.  I ran across a road and a parking lot to a grocery store to pick up the juice.  Felt like a fucking idiot.  I returned sweaty and out of breath just as class was starting.

Every group was doing simple shit like martinis and screwdrivers.  We did Kamikazes that had three ingredients.  Yeah- go us!

June 15, 1987 Collegian

George brought a yellow plastic cocktail shaker from homecoming last year.  So as Paul said “ReadyReady!” and called out a drink for us to make, George was loudly shaking kamikazes.  Never mind that you really don’t need to shake kamikazes.

            “Readyready: vodka martini rocks with a twist.”

            SHAKESHAKESHAKE

            Soon, Paul figured out that the class was descending into chaos.  Oh well.  Everyone drink and enjoy!

            “Are you going to be good to drive home?”  Paul asked George.

            “Sure, no problem!”  George replied, and gave him a kamikaze I made.

            Damn good one too.

 

 

 

  Next Chapter

Last Chapter

First Chapter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Men of the Skull Chapter 141 (out of order): Laying Out

I saw a facialbook post that reminded me of this chapter, which I hadn't yet posted.  Deb lived across the hall from me in Armenara Plaza during summer 1988.  In an earlier chapter (136) I described her:

"She wore a white one piece bathing suit and mirrored sunglasses as she relaxed on the lounge chair on the balcony reading a book.  She had a gorgeous body: huge breasts, perfect legs, and fiery red hair.  She was an absolute knockout- I’d never seen anyone like her in my life.  A woman among girls.  And she didn’t notice me- but why would she?  She was reading a book. [cut] Debbie was maybe five seven.  She had a round Irish face with prominent apple cheeks speckled with freckles.  She had almond shaped hazel eyes and a wide full mouth.  Her red hair touched the bottom of her shoulder blades and framed everything beautifully. [cut] I felt comfortable around Debbie.  As she was so far out of my league, I didn’t feel any pressure to impress her, and she didn’t have that snobby “hot girl attitude” that all the sorority girls had." 

The strange bit is that we felt comfortable around each other- maybe because I wasn't (consciously) hitting on her, and respected her intelligence.  Or maybe she, like so many other women, sensed that I was different (due to my "dark secret": transgender.)  In any case, this, like every other chapter was written before my "reawakening" in 2008, so it has a distinctly male point of view.  I present it here, as written.  I'll comment here and there, and those comments will be in italics.  

*************************************************************************

Chapter 2.141: Laying Out

Thursday, May 26, 1988 U.S. breaks off talks with Noriega

            I was reading my homework when I heard a knock at the door.  I opened it to see Deb.  She was wearing her white swimsuit with a pale green towel wrapped around her hips and white Vuarnet sunglasses pushed atop her red hair.  She was so fucking hot!

            Me?  I still hadn’t showered and I was a wreck.  I was hungover.  Thanks George!

            “Hi Lance!  I’m going over to the HUB lawn!  Wanna come?”

            That was a loaded question!  (And she knew it.)

            “Sure!  Just let me get a quick shower…”

            “Just throw on a hat and grab a towel,” she said.

            So off we went to the HUB lawn.  I was going to hang out (and be seen) with a goddess!

          

HUB Lawn, May 1987.  it looked like this on the day off this chapter as well.

            The HUB lawn wasn’t too crowded so we found a decent spot away from the hacky-sack players and the Frisbee tossers.  Every guy on the lawn stopped to watch Deb settle down onto her towel.  She was graceful as she lay down on her back.  I clunked down like a puppet with cut strings.

            Someone nearby had a radio just to add to the atmosphere.

She's out of my league
Just a fool to believe
I have anything she needs
She's like the wind

            Thanks Patrick.  Like I didn’t already know.  (I was so fucking sick of Dirty Dancing.)

Anyway, we lay there talking about classes and stuff.  I was frying because I didn’t put on any suntan lotion.  I was ghostly pale so it was OK by me.

Even then, I burned instead of tanned.  This has become worse with time, as I now burn seriously hardcore in the sun.  I blame my northern European ancestry. 

            Deb rolled over to her stomach. 

            “Can you put some lotion on my back please?” she asked.

            “I guess” I said.

            Every guy on the HUB lawn wanted to be me at that moment.

            I rubbed it on slowly and firmly (why not?)  I had a perfect view of her incredible ass, and I was in no hurry.

            “Mmmm your girlfriend must love you!”  Deb said.

            “Don’t have one.  The last one cheated and everything went to hell.”

            “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject,” she said.

            “No apology necessary.  Speaking of which, when do I get to meet your football player?”

            She smirked.  “Between classes and the weight room, I hardly see him.  Someday, I’m sure.”

            “You don’t sound too thrilled.”

            “It is what it is” she said, sounding very tired.  “So aside from suntan lotion backrubs, what other skills do you have to offer a girl?”

            “Well, I’m a trained bartender, I know how to ballroom dance, I can make a mean steak, and other things I’m not telling a football player’s girlfriend.”

            She laughed and smirked.  “Are you afraid you won’t measure up?” she said.

            I laughed.  “I’m not saying a word!”

            How could skinny little me compete with a varsity football player?  Wasn't happening and I knew it.  Yes, I know who he was (is) but am not saying.  

            Deb looked back at my towel, where I had the book I was reading for homework.

            “What are you reading?”  She asked as I continued massaging lotion onto her back.          

“Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin.  I’m reading it for my Victorian Lit class,” I said.

“Oh!  I read that!  What do you think of it?”  She said, almost purring.

I’ll spare you the rather long discussion about literature.  I don’t want to put you to sleep.  Speaking of sleep, my massage extended to her arms, legs, shoulders, neck, anywhere that wasn’t covered by bathing suit.  Part of me figured that this was going to be one of the highlights of my life, so I took it slow and enjoyed it.  The net result was that I was putting her to sleep.  She rolled over and asked me to do the front of her legs as well.  I noticed that by this time there were many other blankets with lots of guys nearby. 

Deb’s white bathing suit was a one-piece, and while it had no back, it covered the whole front.  I guess she needed that for support.  In any case, no tummy rubs.

After a minute or so, she said “So you make a mean steak?”

“Absolutely.  And I know which wines to select for it.”

Deb propped herself up on her elbows.  “I have a couple of good steaks.  Do you want to work your ‘magic’ on them?”

“When were you thinking?”

“Well, tonight.  I’d say you’ve had enough sun, Lobster-boy.  I supply the steaks and you show me what you can do.”

“Are you sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”

“He won’t know or care.  He already has plans for tonight.  So what do you say?”

I looked at her, but couldn’t see her eyes through the dark lenses of the Vuarnets. 

“Tonight!  Sure!  I can do that!”  I said, maybe a bit too enthusiastically.

“Great!” she said, laughing a little.  “Now lay on your stomach.”

“Why?”  I said.

“I’m going to rub some of this on you before you catch sun poisoning, you pale boy!”  Deb said.

Wow!  EVERY guy on the HUB lawn wanted to be me at that point.  I couldn’t believe my luck!

 

I spent the rest of my day cleaning the place, preparing the steaks, then showering in cold water as I had burned myself nicely in the few hours we were on the lawn. 

Deb knocked on my door at seven as agreed.  She wore a loose white top over a tight pale orange tank top and white shorts, none of which did anything to hide her body one bit.  Her hair was down and shone in the late afternoon light.  She was barefoot. 

I seated her at my table, decorated pitifully with the one candle I could buy and dishes that didn’t match.  I’d opened the merlot earlier (I’d bought it to share with Judy someday), so I poured that immediately.  At least the wine glasses matched.  I then served the steak (which I cooked Medium with Cajun spices) with canned green beans and canned potatoes.  If she was repulsed by the set-up, she didn’t let on.

Looking back, the table set really was pathetic.  Also, setting for two used every plate in the place.  I was embarrassed then and now.  Like I have much better these days.  Sigh.

After serving it all (and getting glasses of water in glasses that also didn’t match), I sat and offered a toast. 

“To new friends” I said raising my glass.

“To good friends” Debbie said raising hers.

Heaven.

 

And the steaks fucking ruled.

            Deb and I remained friends until graduation, then lost touch.  I even brought her to my homecoming formal that fall, but that's another chapter.  She went on to a great career, but for privacy sake I won't say doing what or where.

Next Chapter

Last Chapter 

First Chapter

Men of the Skull: Chapter 147 (out of order) Macaroni and Cheese Party!

 I don't remember if I posted this before, so...

This post prominently features "Debbie," whose introduction I haven't posted yet.  From that chapter:

She wore a white one piece bathing suit and mirrored sunglasses as she relaxed on the lounge chair on the balcony reading a book.  She had a gorgeous body: huge breasts, perfect legs, and fiery red hair.  She was an absolute knockout- I’d never seen anyone like her in my life.  A woman among girls.  And she didn’t notice me- but why would she?  She was reading a book. 

...

A minute later, she opened the door.  She’d wrapped a white towel around her hips.

Debbie was maybe five seven.  She had a round Irish face with prominent apple cheeks speckled with freckles.  She had almond shaped hazel eyes and a wide full mouth.  Her red hair touched the bottom of her shoulder blades and framed everything beautifully. 

...

Debbie was a criminology major going into her senior year.  She stayed up for the summer to do an internship for a law firm out on University Drive, where she was well paid.

            Jones asked her about her boyfriend, and she made a sour face.

            “She dates a football player” he said in a mocking tone.

 “Shut up!” she said as she kicked his chair.  She then turned toward me and smiled. 

"Jones" was the guy I was subletting from- a Marine ROTC about to go on his summer obligation.  The apartment was in Armenara Plaza, on Beaver Ave.  

Armenara Plaza, Summer 1988

***********************************************************

Chapter 2.147: Macaroni and Cheese Party

Wednesday, June 22, 1988 The region grows parched-with no break in sight

            I hate macaroni and cheese.  No, really- I fucking HATE macaroni and cheese!  My mom made it all the time while I was growing up because that is what we could afford, and I ate it because I was hungry.  But I hated it, and now I don’t have to eat it.  I’ve held brains in my hand.  Want to know what it feels like?  Macaroni and cheese.

            Whenever I visited home during a semester, when I came back to school my mom always gave me a “care package” and it always contained five boxes of macaroni and cheese.  In the dorm at Drexel, or the apartment or in the house there was always someone who wanted them, so I’d trade for stuff I found edible.

            Problem was, during that summer I had no one with whom to trade.  After a few quick trips, I had more than thirty fucking boxes of macaroni and cheese lying around and I still was not desperate enough to eat them.

            So Deb was over at my place typing something on my computer and she heard me clunking around in the kitchen.  I was reorganizing what little I had and putting all the macaroni and cheese into one big box.  Deb saw me putting the last blue box in with all the others.

            “Macaroni and cheese!  Oh I love that!  It’s so good!”  Her whole body radiated happiness.  Eye contact, Lance. 

“Wanna make some?” she asked.

            “Um, you can if you want.  I can’t stand it.”

            “Oh what’s wrong with you?  It’s so creamy and cheesy, especially the Kraft kind you have!  Wow!  How many boxes do you have?”

            “I dunno.  Maybe thirty?”

            “Why do you have so much if you hate it?”

            “My mom puts it in care packages.  Usually I trade it away, but I haven’t found anyone to trade with since I moved in here.”

            “Awww!  Isn’t that cute?  Mommy makes you care packages!”  She said, trying to look sickeningly sweet.  “Still, I’ll trade!  Thirty!  That’s enough for a party!”

            Party?  A bell seemed to go off in both our heads.  Penn Staters will use any excuse for a party.

            “We should have a macaroni and cheese party!  Macaroni and cheese and drinks and music!  It’ll be awesome!”  Deb hopped up and down and clapped. 

            Fuck eye contact!

 

Thursday, June 23, 1988 Phila sweats in high of 100

            Deb made some calls, and by the time I finished work at three, the party was ready. I supplied the macaroni and cheese as well as my bartending skills, and she supplied the beer, rum, and the place.  I also negotiated another little perk, but I’ll get to that later.

            So on yet another in a long string of broiling hot summer afternoons, about twenty of Deb’s friends sat around drinking and eating steaming plates of yellow-orange goo as they got drunk off their asses.  I couldn’t reach George.  Oh well.  Me?  I had some pizza with my beer, brought by one of the guests.  It was fun to watch the guys stare more and more at Deb as they got more and more drunk.  Like I wasn’t?  Sing it Terence.

Wish me love a wishing well
To kiss and tell
A wishing well of crocodile cheers

            The macaroni and cheese kept going long after the hot sun set and we started in on the “secret stash” of vodka.  With each batch of cheesy gloppy shit Deb or someone else tried adding stuff like hot peppers, A-1, any handy spice, eggs, beer, vodka, whatever.

            There were some interesting piles of puke later, I’m sure.

            I suggested adding ground beef and tomatoes, which Deb did.  (That’s how my mom always used to make it.)  I used some of the beef, mixed with A-1 to make a sloppy sandwich.  The new single from INXS came on the radio.  I really liked it- especially after watching Deb bounce around to it for a bit.

Are you ready for a new sensation
A new sensation
Right now
Gonna take you on a new sensation
A new sensation

            Eventually, mercifully, we ran out of boxes.  Five people lay passed out, contentedly snoring with cheese oozing from their mouths.  One girl managed to throw up off the balcony, but no one was on the street below.  Just an orange yellow splatter. 

 

Saturday, June 25, 1988 Court says education is not a right

            The curtains masked the setting sun as I sat in Deb’s apartment at her small table.  She set it with nice dishes and two white candles.  This was the negotiated payback: Deb cooked me a nice steak dinner for two.  I bought the best red wine I could get for ten bucks. 

            A nice dinner- just the two of us.  For a while, I could pretend.

            And it was her idea.

            She served the steaks while I poured the wine.  I held her chair as she sat, and then seated myself.  We lifted our glasses to toast. 

            “To macaroni and cheese,” she said, smiling, as I looked into her eyes.

Climbing

 As many of you already know, Penn State is at the geographic center of the state, directly in the midst of the Allegheny mountains, in the appropriately named Happy Valley.  It was named that before the University got here, I’m told.  In any case, the mountains are old, and were under several miles of ice under numerous ice ages.  The ice retreating left interesting rock formations, such as Devil’s Den at Gettysburg, or really wavy ridges in the mountains, like those southeast of here on the north face of Blue Mountain.  

Map: Google maps

While those ridges are the setting for this entry, I’ve never been there.  I’ve driven past them on Rte. 322 more times than I can count (322 is the main route from Harrisburg and the southeastern part of the state to State College).  And, that’s kind of the point.  

Map: Google maps

First, I need to give a little background.  In summer 1988, I stayed up at PSU to complete two classes so I could graduate “on time” after five years of college: two at Drexel and three at PSU.  The summer before, I met a guy named George at bartending class.  Yes, he’s good with me using his name, as I used it in my book Men of the Skull.  George was/is a brother of Lambda Chi Alpha, and… well, I’ll include a short book chapter here.

********************************

Chapter 70: Kamikazes

Monday, June 15, 1987 Arms pact reportedly is at hand

So it was the last bartending class.  The idea was that each team of students would bring alcohol and make one kind of drink.  Then, we would all sample each other’s drinks.  Not really a final exam, but sort of.  More of a pride thing.

Lambda Chi George, myself, and this one blond had been a team for a while.  We decided to make Kamikazes!  He said he’d bring the vodka, she brought triple sec and all I needed to do was buy the damn lime juice (as I was still underage.) Simple enough, right?

Of course I forgot.

So I arrived early to class just to have George ream me out a bit.  I ran across a road and a parking lot to a grocery store to pick up the juice.  Felt like a fucking idiot.  I returned sweaty and out of breath just as class was starting.

Every group was doing simple shit like martinis and screwdrivers.  We did Kamikazes that had three ingredients.  Yeah- go us! 

George brought a yellow plastic cocktail shaker from homecoming last year.  So as Paul said “ReadyReady!” and called out a drink for us to make, George was loudly shaking kamikazes.  Never mind that you really don’t need to shake kamikazes.

“Readyready: vodka martini rocks with a twist.”

SHAKESHAKESHAKE

Soon, Paul figured out that the class was descending into chaos.  Oh well.  Everyone drink and enjoy!

“Are you going to be good to drive home?”  Paul asked George.

“Sure, no problem!”  George replied, and gave him a kamikaze I made.

Damn good one too.

*************************************

In any case, George was up for the summer as well, and we hung out a LOT, usually going to the bars or fraternity parties together at night, when George would find his latest hookup and I, his wingman, would fail miserably.  I also helped him with his business course by editing his papers for grammar (his other summer course was golf.)  

George lived near enough to me back home that we would share rides back when necessary.  I think we went four times.  The trip with George was an experience, as he liked to drive fast, and would stop at every bar on the way.  Every bar.  They all knew him by name, and one particular bar near Dauphin (long gone) would see him walk in and know his drink AND food order before he said a word.  This made the usual three-hour trip into a five or six hour rather dangerous one.  

Each time we passed those particular ridges, we noticed how steep they were, and the fields of loose rock dotting their sides.  I'd seen this sort of thing before this: on the eastern face of Mount Misery at Valley Forge park, where it plunges to Valley Creek below.  However, Mount Misery is only about 577 feet high, while these ridges southeast of Lewistown are a bit over 2000 feet.

Close up of one of many stone fields visible from the road (Google maps)

George and I would say the same thing every trip: "we have to climb that someday."  The subject came up occasionally while we were drinking, including the last time I saw him in 1994, but we never made plans.  Hell, I don't even think we considered how hard that climb would be, and what equipment we'd need.

In summer 1989, I was driving through Valley Forge Park with my friend Mike, and decided that I'd climb that rock field on Mount Misery.  So I went, with Mike following reluctantly behind.  I was wearing penny loafers.  I made it to the top, but twisted my ankle several times doing it.  That wasn't as steep as those ridges.  I would've needed hiking boots for that.  

The years drifted by.  As I wrote, the last time I saw George was on October 7, 1994, when we went to a Grateful Dead show together.  He'd secured a limo so we could drink our faces off, which we certainly did.  I didn't know that within a few weeks my life would radically change, as by the end of that month I was living and working in Baltimore.  

Now it's (as of this writing) 2021.  I'm 54 with bad knees, sciatica, and a host of other issues.  I'm nowhere near the 22 year old who was winded climbing Mount Joy.  I haven't seen George in nearly 28 years.  He lives in Florida now, and has been sober for almost 15 years.  We speak and text occasionally.  He's one of the friends I did NOT lose when I transitioned.

There is no way I could climb that mountain now, just like there's no way George would appear at my door asking me to do so.  It's like so many other plans I had.  Someday I'm gonna...  You know someday I really will...  We all have these, right?  Regrets.  I seem to be the queen of them.

In many ways, that mountain: steep and impassable; that I've passed so many times is a metaphor dragged out of its cliché closet.  I can't look at it without thinking about those summer trips and the idea that my youthful limbs would carry me (and, undoubtedly some drinks) to the summit.  There George and I would down a few while gazing around the landscape.  

So many plans for little things that would've meant so much.  So many regrets piled up in my memory and my soul.  

Perhaps, after I've passed through the veil, my spirit will climb that mountain and finally see that view that, in my youth, I never bothered to seek.  I hope it's a clear day, so I can see forever.

Be well.

Men of the Skull Chapter 67: Room Pricks

There's something bittersweet about the end of a school year in college.  Most people get four of them- with the last one being final.  As a transfer, I got three at PSU.  The first three mean a summer apart: from the people and place you love.  I desperately missed PSU over the summer.  I missed the freedom, the parties, and the people.  Yes, I still saw Virginia over the summer, but the relationship was already falling apart.  

Penn State was already my home, and my parents' house was a purgatory.  I stayed away as much as possible- working two bartending jobs.  I was working during my grandfather's funeral that summer.  Going back for Arts fest was one of the best weekends of my life, as it reminded me to be grateful for what I had.

What I didn't know is how different the experience would be when I returned in the fall, for so many reasons.  That first year at PSU was the best of my time there, but I didn't know that at the time.  

*********************************************************************************

Chapter 2.67: Room Pricks

Friday, May 1, 1987 FBI knew of North’s contra work

            Suit and tie were required- not just the jacket and tie that allowed many brothers to show up in shorts or whatever.  This was a big deal- Senior Dinner, and more important: Room Pricks.

            Senior dinner meant that several tables were lined up near the dining room fireplace separate from all the others.  These were for the guys graduating that semester.  Everyone else sat in their normal spots.

            Dinner was very fancy- the seniors had a veal and crab dish that Sparky prepared.  The rest of us got catered lasagna which wasn’t bad.  When we finished, the Deltas cleared all the plates and shots of good bourbon in nice rocks glasses were set in front of each senior.  The rest of us had beer in plastic cups distributed by the pledges. 

            Maple, the Alpha, raised his glass.  “To the class of 1987: you will be missed.  Go far, succeed, and always remember you are a SKULL!”  Everyone (except the seniors) started to sing.

Hail to thee, loyal Skull House, Sweetheart of my youth,
Crown'd thy brow with fadeless laurels, Pledge we now our troth.
Join in chorus, wake the echoes,
Shout it loyal chaps!

BUMDEBUM BUM BUM BUM!
Here's a toast, now drink it hearty,
Hail, all hail Skull House!

With that, the seniors drank their shots while everyone else chugged their beer.  Then, one by one each senior threw his glass into the fireplace, shattering it for all time.  When all were broken, the brothers surrounded the senior table and the new alumni.  There were handshakes, hugs, and maybe a tear or two.  After all, this was Goodbye to Big Brothers, Pledge Brothers, or just treasured friends.

The seniors then left for the Adam’s Apple to drink together as was tradition. 

This sounds so sad- an opportunity lost to...?  May 1, 1987 Collegian

The rest of us?  It was time for Room Pricks!  LPC or pledges set up a keg near the kitchen.  Two huge brown papers with a map of the Bone’s third floor on one and second floor on the other were hung on the wall above where the seniors were so recently sitting.

The whole thing was run by the Pi (Academic chairman.)  The rules were simple.  Oldest pledge class chose first, and then in order as time went by.  Within a pledge class, the selection went by GPA: best GPA chooses first.  The person can choose any available room, and can also “pull someone in” to his suite as a suite mate (or roommate if desired.)  Also, the first person in a suite chose which of the center doors would always be locked, thus assuring that no one would walk through his room to the center (suites were three connected rooms).  Got all that?

So, why was it called “Room Pricks?”  Often one guy would keep talking for weeks about how he wanted a given room, just to have a guy above him in the picking order take that room on purpose, or pull someone into that room, again just to piss that guy off.

Why?  Because it’s Room Pricks!  You don’t need a reason!

Anyway, my big question was when would I pick?  Would I pick with Spring ‘85, which is when I pledged?  Would I pick with the pledge class that was initiated just after I arrived?

Nope.  I picked dead last.

Where's Squee?  May 1, 1987 Collegian

So after an hour of screaming, yelling, laughing, chugging, and one near fistfight, there was one room left.  As last to choose, I was asked if I wanted it and I said “yes.” 

The room was on the second floor, front side of the house above the club room.  It was very small and it was the first one a person would pass if heading down the hall toward the icebox.  The guy in the center room of the suite, Wags, was really cool, so that helped.  I didn’t want an asshole marching through my room at all times of the day and night.

I would have a roommate, but I hadn’t met him yet.  He was a football player from Penn transferring up next year.  I guess the “football player” part allowed him to avoid the bullshit I had to tolerate.

Oh well.  I didn’t matter.

 

I was IN!!!!

 

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