Funemployment Day 1: Now With More Plugs!

I did a multimedia article (read: article and slideshow) that appeared on the www.inc.com website. Check it out!

7 New Technology Marvels!

In other news, I'm officially on Day 1 of being an unemployee and I've been keeping busy. I did take some time to play a little Megaman X (which kicks @$$)! Really random aside, I used to call @$$ "a and change" as a euphemism for ass. Then again I use a lot of portmanteaus and weird phrases. As of yesterday, I now call my game show host voice "Pat Sa-black." Ironically there's no Vanna White in my act.

Another aside, this is the problem of being a personal blogger and a comedian. I end up strip-mining my life for information, to the point where my memories feel like an exploited territory. No wonder the pro memoir-ists are liars.

Worst Week Archive 2

Well, clearly I'm a great blogger; look at how well I stick to a set schedule. I have a show tomorrow and I don't have any liner notes. Needless to say, you guys should come (all 5 of you out there). This article wasn't the second one I wrote but it is the one I enjoyed writing the most. Plus, I might be reading it tomorrow. So here it is. Enjoy!

Out Of Hand:

It’s 3:00 AM, everyone’s asleep, and I’m in bed alone and restless. My fingers wander down to my pajama pants and slip underneath the elastic. A slight wind perks up my nipples; I remove my shirt and place it on the bedpost. My heart races, my penis stiffens, a fantasy involving scantily clad supervillains enters my head—the stage is set for an experience. Half-heartedly, I yank at my member—a mere test to see how alive it is. I settle back, close my eyes and prepare to work my auto-erotic mojo…and then I hear a thump in the other room. The fantasy world implodes, my penis shrivels in fear, and I close my eyes pretending to count sheep.

Don’t judge me, I’m not the only person this has happened to. Did you know that every twenty-five seconds a college student has a masturbatory fantasy interrupted by a person in the next room? If you don’t believe me, look it up—it’s a Wesfact. And don’t say “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I never do that!” because you’re a bad liar. Birds do it, bees do it, bonobos do it (quite often, apparently). And there shouldn’t be any shame in it—at least in theory.

Masturbation is a safe and healthy practice. Since humans first learned to walk upright, people have been spilling their love juices in an attempt to unwind and relieve some sexual tension. I’m quite positive bachelor cavemen looked forward to a jerk after successfully killing a woolly mammoth with a stone spear and a rock. And every ethnic group had its own euphemisms for the practice. I believe the Ancient Egyptians called it “stroking the asp.” Chinese philosophers referred to it as “handling the bamboo.” And even the Incas had their term—“fondling the meat maize.” Entire songs have been devoted to the subject—from Cyndi Lauper’s “She-Bop” to Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.” And as Bill Hicks said, “It’s sex with someone I love.” Besides, it doesn’t lead to negative consequences like herpes or pregnancy.

In regards to my practices, I’m no spider monkey, but I am in my twenties and under a lot of stress. Between classes, extracurricular activities and fending off whackos, I need some time to decompress. I’m not an obsessive individual about it—I don’t have a shrine devoted to pornography. All I need is five minutes, some obscene pictures and a box of tissues. Back at home, scheduling a penis play-date was simple. My parents worked in the afternoons and went to bed early. This gave me tons of free time to lie back, relax and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. There were some close calls but a quick duck-and-roll under the covers quashed all suspicion.

In college, the rules changed dramatically. If you think it’s bad having to worry about parents and siblings walking in on you, try masturbating next door to a resident advisor, an art freak, a video game addict and a sexaholic. Spontaneously self-love cannot happen in an environment when people are knocking on your door every five minutes or having a loud conversation about chlamydia in the hallway. And heaven forbid if you leave the door closed but unlocked—we all know it is not a deterrent. Don’t get me started on the whole window situation. I know everyone needs some natural light but what’s up with the huge windows facing the major pathways. I can barely change in my room without feeling like I’m stripteasing, let alone attempt to spank the monkey in front of a live studio audience.

And this is where performance anxiety sets in. After four years of being a wank ninja, I’ve gotten so used to aborting private sessions in media res that even when I do have ample time to fully indulge I can’t stay in the moment. It’s a sorry state to be in when you have to say to yourself, “I’m sorry I’ve been a total tease. Let’s try again another time.” It’s one thing to disappoint someone else—at least there, you can make up an excuse. But what can you tell yourself to feel better? “Look, it’s not me—it’s me.” Damn it, this isn’t fair! I shouldn’t have to work around other people’s schedules in order to sneak a couple minutes of personal time. Thus, the award of the week goes to the onanists on campus.

I do have a suggestion for the Wesleyan administration. In order to stop masturbators from continually having bad weeks, please invest in better soundproofing and smaller windows so we solo performance artists can express ourselves without fear of eavesdropping—or even worse listening to someone else’s clandestine habits. The walls here are so thin I suspect they’re made of whipped cream and rice paper. Assuming the heating pipes aren’t clanking louder than a steel drum, I can hear a person sneeze from five doors down. And while I could just play some loud music and turn up the television, walking the dog while listening to Jewel with The Weather Channel in the background just doesn’t feel right. Some of you may be into that and that’s cool (the aerial shots of hurricanes are kind of kinky), but I just want to enter a quiet fantasy realm. I can’t deal with all this paranoia crap.

C’est la vie. At 4:00 AM I can sit and rant but I’m still left high and dry—or as the case may be, sad and flaccid. Nevertheless I shall stiffen my resolve, think happy thoughts and hope that soon my fateful day will come. Until then, that orgasm will remain just beyond my grasp.

Worst Week Ever Archive 1

As promised here is the first op-ed column I ever wrote for the Wesleyan Argus. Ah, when I could get things done on time...

Worst Week Ever: Age After Beauty By Calvin Cato

After four years of deliberation and failed manuscript ideas, I have decided that I should have a column devoted to me and my big mouth. Nothing too praiseworthy of course, just something that will strike at the heart of pop culture, and have my name prominently listed at the top of each article. I want a column where style meets substance and says "See ya!" So under the influence of too little sleep, too many mind-altering drugs, and just a dash of VH1, I have come up with this: Worst Week Ever. It is a completely biased and unfair look at today's society, where idle jabs and catty swipes are commonplace. It is where I stop being polite and start getting real. Names just might be changed to protect the guilty but funny events go in as is. Now that we've got our little intros out of the way, let's talk about who's having the best week ever: freshmen. All young and wide-eyed and reeking of cheap vodka. They think they can do it all: classes, parties, acting performances, activist dinners, Argus journalism. Overachievers. When will they learn and become as bleary-eyed and lazy as I am? Everywhere I go, hordes of frosh couples are attached at the mouth, standing in the middle of the dance floor like erotic moaning totem poles. Can we make up a new word for this phenomenon? And everyone on campus wants the freshmeat, I mean freshmen and freshwomen. Who are we upper-classmen kidding? We have become the vultures at the parties, swooping down to grasp the just drunk enough frosh who has strayed away from the herd. Sigh! How did I get so old? Now I'm starting to get how the class of '03 felt when I was running around in short shorts and crushed velour screaming "Go Wes! Free booze!" And recently, we've just passed WSA election time, which really is only fun for the freshmen. Let's face it: Freshmen aren't elected based on platforms or innovative ideas. It's all about popularity—and being popular feels good. High school popularity contests may have revolved around conformity but here in college, it's the exact opposite. By being crazier and more of a misfit than the next guy, girl, trans, wymmyn, etc., you Herr Frosh get to come out on top and feel good about the fact that you excel at being the cracked-out person you could never be in high school. Because it's cool to be yourself, isn't it frosh? So who is having the worst week ever? Me! And quite possibly alternate universal versions of me. I still need to unpack, I oversleep for 7p.m. class, I have to plan out my rapidly approaching future, and I just can't find the time in my schedule of intense bong hit sessions and frivolous drinking to do anything productive. Now of course, I could have made my week better by not procrastinating and abusing substances, but that's just not as fun. I just find it completely unfair that I'm stuck in the ST Lab every weeknight surviving on Pi Café coffee and a rock-hard croissant while these freshmen are able to finish their work in five minutes, roll a joint on Foss Hill and see Bill Clinton's face in a cumulus cloud. Not to mention the copious amounts of awkward exchanges I've racked up over the years. For me, the path between Campus Center and Fisk Hall is a social guillotine. I can't walk down that Death Alley path without breaking out in nervous hives or whipping out my cell phone in order to avoid making eye contact with the offending individuals. At this point, I may have to paper bag my face between classes to avoid seeing the people I would rather not talk to. Oh frosh, you may think you know uncomfortable exchanges; it takes a full year here to understand the true meaning of "Oh God, why are you still here?!" I'll admit it; I'm jealous of you freshpeople. You've got a whole four years of drunken debauchery and awkward hook-ups ahead of you. To you, this campus is your oyster. Everyone loves you and adores you and wants you at all their parties. Soak it all in. You deserve to feel good about yourselves. And although my week is lousy, I have to smile when I see some freshperson dancing around campus in ballerina shoes and fairy wings, yelling "I love Wes!" at the top of his/her/hir lungs.