Why We Hate Winter in Chicago

This bitch is clearly asking for it.

Yesterday, December 22^nd, was the winter solstice, and thus the first day of winter.  For our readers in southern California and coastal Florida, winter is a season of the year in which temperatures are extremely cold and there is often snowfall.  You may not be too familiar with it, since you’re all raging assnuggets and the rest of the nation hates you.  Anyway, winter in the Chicagoland area is especially atrocious, so – seeing as we’re lucky enough to spend our winters there – I’ve compiled a brief elaboration on the trials and tribulations of winter in Chicago.

Snow – Okay, we all love the first snowfall.  Why wouldn’t we?  It’s fun and everyone has their own traditions.  I, for one, make an attempt every year to write the first stanza of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” in the snow with urine (I’ve never made it past “dreary”).  Ultimately, however, snow is like an emotionally vulnerable prostitute – it’s great until you realize it’ll never go away.  Thanks to Chicago’s two to three month streak of below freezing temperatures, the snow never melts.  It just stays there.  Like a fucking douche.

Imminence of Another Cubs’ Season – After winter comes spring, and with spring comes baseball season.  For many, this is cause for jubilation, but for the resilient residents of Chicagoland (many of whom are Cubs fans), it means nothing more than another six months of unmitigated despair and self-loathing.  Yes, the spring weather might begin to hover up into the 70s and 80s (it also might not), but there’s no way in hell you’re going to haul your ass over to Wrigley Field to see your team lose to the Pittsburgh Pirates.  Okay, maybe not the Pittsburgh Pirates, but any other team.  The point stands:  the inevitable heinousness of the Chicago Cubs ruins spring for everyone.

Obligatory Alcoholism – There are certain problems that have a very limited scope of solutions.  The bitter lakeside cold is, without doubt, one of those problems, and the only real solution is a three-pronged attack – staying indoors, dressing in layers, and drowning your sorrows in the cheapest, grimiest vodka available.  Now, I hate alcoholism as much as the next guy (despite its hand in the auspicious death of Joseph McCarthy), but when the number of degrees outside repeatedly fails to exceed the number of well-written Nickelback songs, the resulting pent-up aggression needs an outlet, and sadly, that outlet tends to be the liver.  It’s not like I want to get inappropriately intoxicated three times a week, it’s just a necessity.  If I die early, I fully intend on shifting the blame toward the Chicago climate.

This guy landed #1 on the list.

Genital Hibernation – A few weeks ago, I drew up a list titled “Things I Don’t Want Inside of my Body.”  Saddled between #6 (George Takei) and #8 (a petrushka doll), you’ll find #7:  The entirety of my junk.  There is literally nothing more uncomfortable than genital hibernation – and that’s coming from a guy who watched “Superbad” with his parents.  If you’ll kindly pretend for a moment that the theory of creationism is even remotely plausible, consider this: If Adam and Eve had lived in a place like Chicago during the winter, Adam’s primitive package would’ve retracted so far that he would’ve had to wait until May or June before figuring out how to populate this fucked up planet.  With all this in mind, I’d like to add that skinny-dipping on the reg doesn’t alleviate the situation an awful lot.

The Lamentable Improbability of Snowpocalypse Part 2 – Last February, the gods of the Chicago climate (who, might I mention, outdo even the Greek gods in their levels of crude and dickish practical jokes) threw us a bone by granting us “Snowpocalypse.”  Snowpocalypse was a badass blizzard that froze much of Lake Michigan, forced people to abandon their cars on Lake Shore Drive, and left over two feet of snow on the ground in the metro area.

The Greek Gods discussing their jealously of the twatrocious Chicago weather gods

And yes, I do realize that I just went on a brief tirade about how much I hate snow, but once the amount of snowfall reaches the optimal level, the benefits outweigh the costs. (Good god, when did this become an example from a Macroeconomics textbook?)  In the aftermath of Snowpocalypse, classes were cancelled at Northwestern for the first time since the Pax Romana, copious amounts of snowball fighting transpired, and dumbasses like me were granted the opportunity to walk on Lake Michigan and power-trip about it.  Unfortunately, this magnitude of a storm doesn’t grace the Windy City every year, and the likelihood of it happening again is minimal.  It looks like we’ll just be stuck with the run-of-the-mill clinical depression this winter.  Happy holidays.

Sherman Ave Freshman Guide: Making Friends

I see 2,000 future friends

One of the best aspects of the college experience is how many fascinating people you meet and subsequently engage in raucous shenanigans with. A good collection of bffles can be an essential asset in all of the tasks that you will face during your freshman year, from drunkenly yelling at buoys in Lake Michigan to figuring out how to torrent The Lion King 1 1/2 without getting caught.

At first, making friends with complete strangers in a strange, strange land replete with fraternities, an all-night Burger King, and theater students can seem like a frightening challenge. But that’s no cause for alarm. Everybody is in the same boat as you, and upon completion of your freshman year you will be astounded by how many cool friends you have made and how many mysterious names still remain in your phone’s contacts — the forgotten identities of all your over-eager peers who decided to try and befriend you due to your proximity to one another at March through the Arch. Just remember that friendships grow organically and cannot be forced, unless, of course, you follow our sage wisdom on how to meet new friends.

Sherman Ave Freshman Guide: Campus

Just remember: The lake is East

I’m going to be brutally honest: Your first week on campus is going to be awkward as tits. Think of that time you watched Superbad with your parents, combine it with that time Severus Snape’s doppelganger was lurking at The Keg, multiply that by twenty, and that’s roughly how awkward it’s going to be. However, one surefire way to minimize this apocalyptic awkwardness is by knowing your way around campus; the Awk Hawk loves nothing more than watching a lanyard-sporting freshman discreetly approach a group of upperclassmen and feebly ask for directions to Sheridan Road. Therefore, in my never-ending mission to better the world around me and help those in need, I have developed a descriptive blueprint of the nation’s 47th most attractive campus.

KEY BUILDINGS

Tech

Also sporting the least coherent room numbering system known to man

Soon to be known as “that one building we drunkenly roamed three times a week during fall quarter,” the Technological Institute (Tech, for short) is one of the main buildings on campus. This North Campus structure – as any tour guide will obnoxiously boast – is the 2nd largest low-rise building in the United States, right behind the Pentagon (a building which, ruefully, is much harder to get into at 3:30am on a Saturday). Home to science majors, math majors, and a few other majors that appeal solely to Asians, Tech is a very mysterious entity to many South Campus students. I would certainly advise the intoxicated exploration of this building, but beware: Your idea to bathe in the emergency shower on the way back from the Frat Quad is not as brilliant as it may seem.

Summer Bucket List

This dog doesn't know how good he has it.

Only three weeks after leaving Northwestern for Summer vacation, and you’re already bored as hell. By now, I can only assume that the allure of your unpaid internship at the Wichita Falls Times Record News has started to wear off, you’ve realized that your friends from home are no longer interested in your stories of hedonism and debauchery that pale in comparison to a standard Tuesday evening in Champaign, IL, or you’re just desperately missing everything about being at school for the first time since Kindergarten. That is why, as your faithful and spectacularly humble servant, I have compiled my very own Summer Bucket List, in an attempt to shake off my own Summer doldrums while simultaneously inspiring our readers to perpetrate majestic acts of grandeur over the break. Please bear in mind that if you suffer any sort of egregious harm due to my suggestions, I cannot be held responsible. But if you happen to get laid as a direct result of my sage advice, you know who to thank.

I mean... seriously?

Get Kicked Out of a Museum
Northwestern already has a great history with some of Chicago’s finest museums. And who doesn’t love to spend their Summer evenings in the Art Institute, escaping the sweltering heat by loudly discussing the monochromatic tendencies of Postminamilism or the intricate details of the sexual connotations Salvador Dali found in lobsters and telephones? I sure do. But one of these days I’m going to snap, and if I’m going to be forcibly escorted from a museum, I want to make sure it happens in the most badass way imaginable. Dressing up as a mummy in the Field Museum’s pyramid, taking an axe to a Rothko, or fishing for a shark in the Shedd Aquarium all sound pretty good to me. But I have nothing against leaving my dog’s excrement in the MCA as art, wearing a lab coat in the Adler Planetarium and assuring everybody that the sun will be extinguished next Friday, or getting drunk with a Chimpanzee at the Brookfield Zoo, just as long as notoriety ensues.

Oh, sì! Conjuga los verbos para mì!

Seduce a Professor
Summer at Northwestern is a magical thing. Boredom and loneliness coalesce into a formidable cyclone of pure libido, and nobody is safe. Perhaps Summer School professors are particularly susceptible to this phenomenon, especially when their students are charming, witty, and strapping young lads who tend to spend their time writing self-indulgent posts on the internet instead of playing outside. Here’s how a hypothetical situation might play itself out between the clumsy, yet affable, student and his Spanish professor:

El Estudiante: Hola. Estoy teniendo algunas problemas con mi tarea. Puedo obtener instrucciòn adicional despuès de la clase?

La Profesora: Por supuesto! Nunca notè que bello de una sonrisa que tienes, y lo sensible y tranquilizador que eres. Estoy ruborizada?

El Estudiante: Es el calor del amor. Venga, vamos a navegar en el Lago Michigan, mientras leìa la la poesìa de Neruda.

La Profesora: Dios mio!

Kick-off My ASG Student President Campaign
As ASG Student Body President, I would work tirelessly to bring an inter-campus zip line to Northwestern, replace our football team with the starting lineup of defending Lingerie Bowl Champions the Los Angeles Temptation, put a keg in every dorm room, and a segway in every garage. I will also work hard to meet student demands for a grow house in Tech, the extension of formal recognition to the Merpeople living in Lake Michigan, and the construction of a border wall between the University and the City of Evanston. Most importantly, however, I will not rest until my bill declaring Morton “Morty” O. Schapiro as “Supreme Master of the Universe” and endowing him with plenipotentiary power over the Galaxy is passed by the United Nations. What better time to get the jump on my fellow opponents for next year than during the summer?

It would be like dining with the Ghost of Hookups Past

Eat Lunch at The Keg
Doing so would be in direct violation of the only two rules that govern The Keg: Never go when sober, and never go when it’s bright enough to see the floor. Even the notion of entering the Keg through the front door fills me with fright. But how can I resist such temptation in the face of unparalleled danger?

Skinny Dip in Lake Michigan
This might be a difficult challenge, considering the regrettable dearth of cheap booze and impressionable friends over the summer, but a challenge that must be surmounted nevertheless. The Snowpocalypse is over, Summer is here, and the time is ripe to brave the Evanston Police and an E-Coli outbreak for the blissful few seconds when I can freely wade into Lake Michigan before my love apples turn into kiwis. I like to remind myself that there is no federal law against nudity, and channel the notable nudist President John Quincy Adams while I free myself from the physical constraints of modern life. I am also willing to provide a sizable reward for anybody who can supply me with a dependable cure for shrinkage.

Using sophisticated computer technology, this is a graphical representation of what I would look like with a mustache

Grow a Mustache
Being clean-shaven and presentable is sooooo passè. And there’s no chance in hell I can grow a full beard. The solution: a compromise. Maybe if I just focus all of my hair-growing power on my upper lip, I can valiantly return to class in the fall sporting facial hair with the tenacity of Burt Reynolds and sex appeal of Geraldo Rivera. As Walter Cronkite proved, all you need is a well-groomed and bristling ‘stache to gain cred in the world of journalism. But then again, when it comes to journalistic street cred, I think Sherman Ave’s doing alright.

Get the Blog Back Together
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