I had a friend in high school whose dad owned a moped. It had an aqua blue finish with honey brown leather on the seats that begged you to climb up and take it for a spin. It didn’t see much use, which added to the luster of the beast. And it didn’t see much use because, well, it was a moped. It doesn’t matter how thrilling it is to zoom down side streets with the wind in your face – for whatever reason, it’s not a motorcycle; it’s just an open invitation for your friends to shit all over you. Which we did. Because mopeds are for pussies. According to Internet, “they’re fun to ride until your friends find out,” just like tilt-a-whirls and tandem bikes. Urban Dictionary attached the term to the guy or girl you hook up with and hope to god no one finds out about. And of course Urban Dictionary’s shithead cousin Yahoo answers tried their best to take the ball and run with it saying, “fat chicks are like scooters…but they make stranger sounds.” Oof.
This is one of the images that comes up when you search “cool moped.” (via lacey-washington.olx.com)
I don’t want to hate mopeds, in fact I’d love to love them. But I never thought Continue reading
by Evander Jones
As much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think that the good old Cardiac ‘Cats have a Nebraskan hail mary’s chance of making The Grandaddady of Them All. Unfortunately, there are more impediments blocking Northwestern from making the Rose Bowl than there are ways for NU to lose a game, but these three sticking points immediately jump out to me as reasons Northwestern doesn’t have a chance to make this New Year’s Tournament of Roses:
1. “What’s it like going to school in Boston?”
It’s Northwestern, not that other school in Boston. You know, “Chicago’s Big Ten Team?”
2. “How many times have you been to the NCAA tournament?”
Who’s really counting these days (#me #shame #depression)? Anyway, Chris Collins is going to take us to the Promised Land within the next two years, and there’s like a million other sports in which we’re bomb-ass.
3. “Son, your mother and I are getting a divorce.”
Seriously? Have you seen our ACT scores?
Back so soon? Funny, I could have sworn it was just last year that Fitz and the Wildcats came into the Carrier Dome and fucked you silly. I guess there must have been something magical about that hot and sweaty Prose Bowl, because here you are in Evanston, back for more of Northwestern’s 19th-ranked carnal manhood.
The next Keg?
Sherman Ave editor Evander Jones teamed up with food blog What I’m Eating for Lunch’s curator Jameson Bulwinkle to provide a comprehensive statistical analysis—or bartistical analysis, if you will—of the Evanston and Chicago bars most frequently frequented by Northwestern undergraduates. But first, an explanation of the bartistical categories analyzed by Evander and Jameson:
Yelp Rating: How many Yelp starts the bar received, out of a maximum potential of five.
Distance from the Arch: As estimated in walking distance by Google Something Maps.
Best Weekly Special: The best available special the bar offers on a day of the week.
VORN: Value Over Replacement Night. This bartistic measures how much more valuable the bar’s weekly special night is compared to a random night at the same bar given the same blood alcohol content. A VORN of 5.4, for instance, means that the bar’s weekly special night is 5.4 times better than a random non-special average night at the same bar.
Food, Ambiance, and Drinks: All subjective scores, out of a maximum of ten points, assigned by Evander and Jameson.
OoS: Odds of Scoring. What is the percentage chance of an average Northwestern student patron hooking up with another patron from the bar?
BPT: Biddies per Townie. What is the ratio of biddies to townies at the bar?
ABP: Average beer price. ABP’s with asterisks are actual average prices, not estimates.
Sherman Ave countercultural correspondent Evander Jones recounts last year’s drunken, debauched scene at the infield of Churchill Downs.
I GOT OFF the charter bus around midnight and no one spoke as I walked into the Seymour, Indiana Days Inn. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into the men’s bathroom of the Keg. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands … big grins and a whoop here and there: “By God! You old bastard! Come here bro.”
In the air-conditioned lounge I met an Econ major who said his name was something or other — “but just call me Jimbo” — and he was here to get it on. “I’m ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?” I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn’t hear of it: “Naw, naw … what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What’s wrong with you, boy?” He grinned and winked at the bartender. “Goddam, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey … ”
I shrugged. “Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice.” Jimbo nodded his approval.