Get Your Geek On

November 11, 2009

There’s no better person to eat lunch with than a raging geek—and I mean raging. There are just some people so interesting, so charismatic, and so passionate about what they do, that it’s impossible not to be entranced by them. I’m constantly on the lookout for these people, because a) I’m supremely jealous of them and b) I want to consume food with them. I’m perpetually distracted by their Web sites, Youtube videos, books, commercials, wardrobes, drug habits, etc. So here’s a list of my favorite nerds. Learn them, love them, geek out a bit, and don’t forget the chips and dip.

Chuck Klosterman. The reigning king of my geek list will always be Chuck. A mag-reporter-turned-author—but best known as a cultural guru—he has an opinion on just about everything, from nemesis versus archenemy, the Gen-X qualities of Luke Skywalker, & how to do drugs at a Rockstar's grave—and he’s hilarious. I’ve read three of his six books, and I’ve fallen in love with his wit. His only downfall is that he’s serious lacking an online persona. He doesn’t have a Web site or blog—and even his Wikipedia page is sparse. Luckily, he’s still compiling his fabulous articles and essays into books, and “Fargo Rock City” is being made into a movie. Good work, Chuck. Let’s do lunch.

Michael Emerson. I’ve been hooked on LOST since the first episode, and I almost peed my pants when I found out that one of the most marvelous bad guys ever scripted—Benjamin Linus—is a Drake grad. DrakeMag has been trying to contact him for years, but he will have none of it (like any true artist). But if I could meet one celebrity, I’d bypass Tyra Banks, Milo Ventimiglia, and Adam Lambert (maybe), to visit Joe’s Crab Shack with Michael Emerson. We’d discuss LOST to no end. And philosophy. And the meaning of life. (They go together, you know.) We’d be BGFF—best geek friends forever. Sigh.

John Hodgman. You probably know him as PC on the infamous Mac vs. PC commercials, but Hodg is the man. He’s a correspondent for “The Daily Show” and a self-proclaimed “resident expert” on many a subject. He’s written a few books, most recently, “More Information Than You Require.” A lunch with this man would probably be the single most enlightening experience of my life. And that’s something to write home about—on my Macbook.

Ze Frank. Meet my newest obsession, Ze Frank. He’s a hilarious online performance artist known for “The Show,” his short, quippy video blog that discusses important issues of our time. Like a brief history of Afghanistan and the fact that the Earth has never been made into a sandwich. He makes videos for Time.com, too, and I’ve never been so transfixed by a speaker—except for maybe Maya Angelou. I’m hypnotized by Ze’s buggy blue eyes, unwavering eye contact, and extremely acrobatic eyebrows—not to mention the fact that he speaks flawlessly without ever looking at a script. He probably likes BLTs. Mmm.


Riane Menardi
Executive Editor, drakemagazine.com


It’s Always Sunny in Cupertino

November 11, 2009

My Mac’s weather widget has failed me. Every morning I turn on my computer, click on the Dashboard, and check the temp. Unfortunately for me, AccuWeather.com thinks I live in Cupertino, Calif. And no matter how many times I enter Des Moines’ zip code, it doesn’t listen to me.

Here’s the problem: Cupertino is a lovely town in central California, with gentle ocean breezes and warm, sunny days made for lying on the beach. Des Moines, on the other hand, has blistering 70 mph winds and torrential downpours that could make Noah’s Ark sink. And because my blurry, early morning eyes fail to notice the difference between these two cities, I’m always inappropriately dressed for the weather.

I wear tank tops and flip-flops while walking to class in 40-degree temperatures. On a number of occasions I’ve soaked my feet in warm water hoping the purple tint would go away so my toes won’t have to be amputated. I forget to bring an umbrella every time it rains—and the wet hair look went out of style in the ’90s. I didn’t even start wearing a jacket until a few weeks ago when my roomie took my coat out of the closet, shoved it at me, and commanded, “Wear this or die.”

To counter this horrible weather faux-pas, I’ve started overdressing. I now leave my apartment with three sweaters, two pairs of knee-high socks, mittens, a hat, a winter coat, and, on occasion, long underwear. Hey, I may sweat while sitting in class, but at least I’m not at risk for hypothermia.

So, until Des Moines thaws in spring and gains temperatures rivaling that of good-ol’ Cupertino, I’m doomed to balance on the teeter-totter of uncomfortable clothing choices.


Lindsay Fullington
Section Editor, drakemagazine.com


It’s No Surprise

November 11, 2009

As if I’m not already excited enough to be up at 7 a.m., crappy rock music blares down the hallway every morning, irritating my zombie-like state. Groggy and with eyes half opened, I hear the sounds of Daughtry. My RA has kindly put a radio in the bathroom that plays music throughout the day. Although I don’t mind music while doing my homework, I really don’t want to listen to a man belt out love songs while I’m sudsing up.

Every morning lead singer Chris Daughtry sings, “It’s no surprise I won’t be here tomorrow.” It’s like God is rubbing it in my face that I have class at such an early hour. It taunts me. I don’t know why I’m surprised every morning, because the song just keeps coming back. Maybe I should start waking up earlier, so I can skip the song—but that would mean missing valuable minutes of sleep.

What I don’t get is how this song is always on at this time of day. Some mornings I’ll even notice that the radio is on a different station. And on top of that, Chris Daughtry didn’t even win American Idol—he lost to Taylor Hicks, whom I’ve never had to listen to while I shower.

I’d change the station if it wasn’t a communal radio playing. If only I could bring my iPod.


Matt Smith
Section Editor, drakemagazine.com


Ginger, Interrupted

November 11, 2009

You have no soul.

If this sounds familiar, then you must be a Ginger. With my fiery hair, I receive this comment on a daily basis from a multitude of people. A statement originating from a South Park episode has somehow made its way to my roommate, professors, neighbors, parents, and even my high school bus driver.

I grew up in a social bubble that allowed me to live a happy life as a tiny, little redhead. I knew “Ginger” as the teenage girl from the Nickelodeon series “As Told By Ginger.” I loved watching that crazy redhead get herself into those life situations that we’re supposed to be able to relate to. Of course it’s a small tragedy when your childhood crush gets a hold of your diary—it happens to the best of us. My mother only bought me Barbies with burning locks so that I would feel like a part of the world. A few years later my college roommate would jump with joy when she found out she’d be living with a Ginger, unbeknownst to me.

Despite what you may think, being a Ginger hasn’t had a negative impact on my life at all. We can do the same things as any blonde or brunette. We can:

Take a walk in the park. Gingers, or Day-Walkers as you may be more familiar with, can tolerate the sunlight. Who cares if we are more susceptible to various skin cancers—we aren’t talking about vampires here. Get real.

Be exposed to the public. Ginger-vitis isn’t real. Touching us will not turn you into a Ginger. Honestly though, who wouldn’t want to be a Ginger—we only make up two percent of the world’s population. We’re practically an endangered species.

Feel pain. “Kick a Ginger Day” is not nice. How would you like to be walking to class one morning only to arrive with bloody shins—didn’t think so.

Feel love. On another note, “Hug a Ginger Day” is the best day of the entire year—even better than Christmas. Don’t forget about your favorite Assistant Editor Ginger on Dec. 19.

As for you wannabes: Don’t think that you can just dye your hair some unruly shade of red and receive the status of the two percent minority. It’s not going to happen.

True Gingers—unite.


Erika Owen
Assistant Editor, drakemagazine.com


Des Moines’ Mexican’t

October 25, 2009

There is no good Mexican food in Des Moines. This sucks, because I love my grande burritos, green chile, tamales, and spicy salsa. But every time I go out to eat, my salivary glands dry up when I spot the fluorescent white tortilla, unidentified ground meat, bland beans, and tame red sauce. Bleh.

Let’s be honest. I hail from the West—not Tex-Mex country—and the tomatillo sauce I’m used to will knock your socks off. For birthdays we cook carnitas—delicious slow-cooked pork inside tiny corn tortillas. Super Bowls and New Year’s Eves are not complete without tortilla chips and queso dip, and my grandpa is the best fajita-griller around.

But when I departed on my grand college adventure, one thing became painfully clear—there would be no more Mexican food. Drake tries, but when students in the cafeteria order fa-JI-tuhs instead of fa-HEE-tas, you know you’re SOL. And even though I haven’t been to every Mexican restaurant in the city, I’ve eaten at enough to know I should opt for Chinese instead.

A few weeks ago I told my Midwestern friends that I was craving green chile. Instead of the “Oh man, me too!” comments, I got the “Watchu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” response. After recovering from momentary shock I called my mom, and we decided the only solution was to host a fiesta. We made a huge batch of green chile goodness, complete with tamales, cheese dip, and fresh salsa. We brought it to the people, and they loved it—at least, that’s what they told me.

Lately, there are a few restaurants that make me believe there’s hope in the DSM. I was pleasantly surprised by La Hacienda, a new chain on Ingersoll. The burrito I had there was reminiscent of my favorite entrées back home, although it could use a little more kick. I’ll definitely be going back to test the rest of the menu, though.

But by far the best Mexican food I’ve eaten here was served at La Rosa, the small family-owned restaurant on Forest. I had gorditas, rice, and beans—and hot sauce that made my friend cry. The food was great, the service was excellent, and the price was perfect for a starving college student.

There are a few more holes-in-the-wall that I’m dying to try, but tonight I think I’ll order in—who’s up for crab rangoons?


Riane Menardi
Executive Editor, drakemagazine.com


Blog to the Blog

October 25, 2009

We know them, we love them, and I’m writing one now—blogs. They’ve come a long way since the whiney (and now embarrassing) “Xangas” and “Greatest Journals” we had in middle school. They’re even becoming a legitimate source of news in some cases. But the best blogs are the ones that consume our daily lives and are dropped into countless conversations.

I don’t know how many times a day I receive a text or a Facebook message that has come from a blog. We’ve added acronyms—TFLN, MLIA, etc.— to our vernacular because of blogs, and they’re always fun to chat about. However, the popularity of these Web sites changes more frequently than Lady Gaga’s VMA outfit changes.

My first encounter came with fmylife.com. At its height, it was so popular that it even inspired a DrakeMag story. The best part was that it always made my day feel so much better when I read stories like: “Today, my friend thought it would be funny to dress in all black with a ski mask and use my spare key to break into my house as a joke. He thought it was even funnier when I jumped out the window and broke my leg. FML.”

Then came the shortest blog craze—mylifeisaverage.com. Much like FML, MLIA was a place where people could tell stories about their boring lives. The problem was that I actually didn’t find them boring—I found their lives hilarious. “Today, I happened to stop behind a minivan at the traffic light. There were a few old people on board. On the back window, the oldies had stuck a 'Honk if you're horny' sign. I honked. The three old ladies sitting at the back giggled uncontrollably. It made my day. MLIA.”

When that died, the saying “third time’s a charm” meant a whole lot more to me. Textsfromlastnight.com—fondly known as TFLN—was born. As a college student, I love swapping crazy stories from the weekends. With TFLN, you get to share crazy stories with all of America. Now I know that my friends aren’t as weird as I thought. Especially with people like this in the world: “(201): Last night Brynn convinced every person at the party wearing glasses that they stole hers, and she woke up with 8 pairs of prescription glasses in her bag."

So whether it’s FML, MLIA, or TFLN, the Internet is an alphabet soup of hilarious musings that can make your life better—or at least make you feel better about it.


Matt Smith
Section Editor, drakemagazine.com


Give Me Snuggie, or Give Me Death

October 25, 2009

Meet the Snug Bug. It’s more serious than H1N1 and much easier to catch. Through infomercials and clever packaging the Snug leaks into your brain, creating a full-blown obsession—with Snuggies . While there are different degrees of seriousness, the worst side effect will only damage your bank account—and maybe your pride.

I remember where I was when I caught the Snug. Darn you, Walgreens of Whitewater, Wis., for having such bright and colorful made-for-TV product displays. I just can’t resist a good ShamWow! commercial, and I tear up when I see Billy Mays posthumously on TV. Present me with a blanket with arms, and I will love you forever.

But the Snug doesn’t affect everyone equally. During my short time as a Snuggie enthusiast, here are the general varieties I’ve encountered:

The Drunken Snuggie Buddy. These are the Snuggie owners that attend Snuggie bar crawls and find their liquid confidence with the help of none other than the backwards robe. Forget designated drivers—throw me my Snuggie.

The Poseur. They love everything Snuggie. They have three in different colors for their dog, but oddly enough, don’t own one themselves. We can tell the difference between the real deal and a dyed robe. Give it up, poseur, and just pay the $19.95 for your own—you even get a free book light.

The Clinger. If you touch their Snuggies, be prepared to feel their wrath, and don’t even think about stealing them. They have photo albums dedicated to their Snuggies on Facebook, and their profile pictures generally feature these special givers of warmth.

The Closet Snuggie Admirer. They only wear their Snuggies when no one else is around—including the cat.

The Love/Hate Relationship. These Snuggie owners wear their Snuggies to bed. Happy and warm, they awaken in the middle of the night tied up in a deathtrap and extremely unhappy.

The Confused Snuggie Lover. They wear them backwards and don’t even think twice. Enough said.

Aside from looking like a practicing monk, I have no complaints about my blueberry-colored Snuggie. In fact, I was completely crushed my first night at college when someone stole my beloved blanket. Don’t worry though, a few weeks later for my birthday, a brand spanking new Snuggie arrived in my mailbox with a card from my mother. Not only did she buy me a new one, but I am also currently trying to convince her to embroider my name on the back of it. Take that, Snuggie bandit.

While there is no known cure, I, among many others, have learned to embrace my bout of the Snug Bug. Let that obsession creep in and take over—it may be the best, and warmest, decision you’ve ever made.


Erika Owen
Assistant Editor, drakemagazine.com


Regis is My Final Answer

October 25, 2009

There’s a new man in my life. Every night at 11 p.m., he comes into my bedroom and provides me with an enormous amount of entertainment. He makes me laugh, he challenges me intellectually, and he’s extremely well dressed. We’re not exclusive, though. I’m pretty sure he’s involved with millions of other people—men and women. This man is Regis Philbin, and he’s my current obsession.

My new apartment comes equipped with DIRECTV. Hello, Game Show Network. The GSN shows the old ’90s version of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” every weekday. Forget Meredith Vieira—Regis Philbin is totally the best host.

Every night, I cut meetings short, throw down homework, and hang up the phone with friends and family to give my undivided attention to Reg. There’s something about him that drives me wild. The cut of his suit is always classy, his face stays consistently tan, and his hair is never out of place. Even when he’s under the stress of forcing small talk with the awkward 30-something-year-old contestant with braces, he still manages to look like he’s just gotten back from a two-week vacation in the Caribbean.

Besides Regis’ good looks and charm, the trivia makes me swoon. I’ve always been the go-to person for strange and unknown facts. For example, did you know that there are 548 peanuts in a jar of peanut butter, or that lightening is hotter than the surface of the sun? “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” provides me with these facts and more. This show is the place to come to for useless (although interesting) information.

I would thrive at the “Fastest Finger” and would avoid using my lifelines until the $32,000 question. I wouldn’t break a sweat when asked what the cartilage separating the nostrils is called. (It’s the septum.) And I wouldn’t bat an eyelash when asked what famous building is named after its architect. (The Eiffel Tower, of course.)

While I’m fairly confident about my abilities while laying in my bed at night, I know as soon as I’d get on the set in front of Regis, I wouldn’t be able to form a complete thought, and I especially wouldn’t be able to answer any question while staring into his dreamy, hazel eyes. Alas, my college tuition will have to be paid another way, although if I keep sacrificing my homework for the GSN, I might not even have college tuition to pay for.


Lindsay Fullington
Section Editor, drakemagazine.com


Welcome to DrakeMag 2009

September 30, 2009

Once again, the editors of DrakeMag Online have settled cozily into Chair City—aka Meredith 124C. We’ve added a new member to the family (meet Erika, our assistant editor!), and have holed ourselves up long enough to bring you the first wave of stories for the best year of DrakeMag yet.

Things to see now:

The gripping feature about video game addictions will make you rethink the way you play—and what it means to live in the “real world.”

We got adventurous and interviewed Ray Lykins, a real live Hollywood stuntman. After doubling in “Spider-Man” and “Pirates of the Caribbean,” he’s the go-to guy for cinema’s biggest bashes.

It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s… my friend Bryan? We’ve found the perfect place for all of you who’ve ever wanted to play with yourself—in action figure form, that is. Check out our story on Herobuilders.com to find out how.

Deep down, we all love chewable vitamins. That healthy mastication is totally worth the taunting we endure for not being able to swallow real pills, right? If you need support, read about the new adult gummy vitamins. Help is out there.

Things to see later:

As you can see, we’ve tweaked some things on the site (again). You’ll notice a new multimedia section, a few more blogs, and, of course, the stellar new design. There’s even a new search bar so you can find stories faster than ever.

This is the first of four launches this semester, so stay tuned for new content every three weeks. We promise we’ll keep trucking away to bring you great DrakeMag stories. And if you need us, we’ll be in Chair City.


Riane Menardi
Executive Editor, drakemagazine.com


Dumb Phone

September 30, 2009

My phone rang. I answered. After repeating a litany of “hellos,” I hung up. That’s when I received a text message from the friend who called me.

“I could hear u but u couldn’t hear me.” Great. I needed to pick out a new cell phone. This was just the beginning of my problems.

At the AT&T store I looked at my options. Now that my old phone had bit the dust, I was ready to get something new and advanced, so I looked at the smart phones. There were rows of them, their screens burning bright, giving an angelic glow to the room.

What I wanted was a ridiculously good looking phone that I could use to check email and surf the Web. I soon discovered that the phones that fit these specifications were all ridiculously over-priced—and that was before the required monthly data usage fee.

Like Susan Boyle losing “Britain’s Got Talent,” my dreams of an iPhone or Blackberry were shattered. Then things started looking up.

Eventually, I found a good-looking phone with a good-looking price. When the salesman came back to me, I triumphantly showed him my choice. He gave his schpiel, as if my mind wasn’t already made up.

“It has a full QWERTY keyboard, touch screen and smart phone capabilities.” That’s right—what I thought I was settling on, turned out to be exactly what I wanted. It was too good to be true.

Literally.

After ripping it out of the box, I went to set up my e-mail account. The problem was that you could only set up accounts with Gmail, Hotmail, and all the other big ones—not Drake e-mail. At this point, I was thinking, “No big deal. I’ll just have my Drake mail forwarded to my Gmail account.”

That’s when my heart broke for the second time that day. According to its terms of usage, Drake’s e-mail isn’t allowed to be forwarded to other accounts.

There went my smart phone dream—and $10 a month—just to check my Facebook more than I already do. I cancelled the Internet service, and now I’m just left with a broken dream and a dumb phone.


Matt Smith
Section Editor, drakemagazine.com


Get Out the Way

September 30, 2009

I have a problem—I’m a fast walker. I give my dog a work-out on walks, I overtake joggers (while wearing high heels), and grandmas eat my dust. If I were the First Lady, my calves would be featured in magazines across the country.

Now, you may be thinking this doesn’t seem like a major concern, especially when I get to places on time and burn extra calories. The problem comes when I encounter someone who doesn’t walk as fast as me and who won’t politely move out of my way.

It’s frustrating to have to slow down to the speed of Kirstie Alley’s metabolism when walking to class. It’s annoying to side-step a pack of texting, teenaged girls walking through the mall slower than the economy. And it ruins my day when I encounter someone in crutches taking up the majority of the sidewalk.

Seriously, in the time it takes for them to walk from Point A to Point B, I could’ve gotten my hair cut, drank a Venti Frappuccino, and bought my mom a birthday present—blindfolded.

Luckily, this purgatory of slowness isn’t something fast-walkers have to suffer forever.

Here are some tips to clear your path:

Make the call. Phone your best friend and complain loudly about the dawdling turtles in front of you. If their brains operate faster than their legs, they’ll get the hint and turn the speed up a notch.

Get too close for comfort. Walk ridiculously close to the slow walker. If possible, step on their heel so their shoe slips off a little. Then, they’ll have to find a bench to regain shoe security, leaving the sidewalk open.

Take a hint from bikers. Invest in a bike horn. Beep it obnoxiously at anyone who gets in your way.

Use force. Shove the perpetrator and pretend it was an accident caused by a shoulder spasm.

Unite. If you’re non-confrontational, join the Facebook group “Anti-Slow Walkers” and express your strong dislike through angry wall posts.

If these people are still walking slower than an iPhone downloading porn, you might be out of luck. We can’t expect walking evolution in such a short amount of time. So, until the government installs fast and slow walking lanes on sidewalks, you’ll just have to keep exerting extra energy on your way to class.


Lindsay Fullington
Section Editor, drakemagazine.com

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