Sunday, May 09, 2004
Nas, on "The Beat": "Ain't nevah gonna stop."
There comes a time when we heed a certain call, and all the little scavemaniacs must come together as one. That time has come and gone, and I think we've all learned how to live...and how to love (thanks to Agape Squad 2004.) Congratulations to all the teams, but especially Snell-Hitchcock, Palevsky, and the FIST for taking first, second, and third, respectively. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy with the outcome, but only because it exemplified the glories of a Scav well done, not because a big man fell. This is a distinct volte-face from what I would have felt had this happened last year (and indeed, this is likely what many a non-Palevsky is feeling now), but as a Judge, I've learned and grown out of the petty rivalries that are central to any major competition, be it organized college sports or our organized college madness. That's not to say that I'm not proud that "the ol' team" managed to pull it through with a frankly stellar performance. One must understand, I was raised in the classic "glory days" of Snell-Hitchcock Scav dominance. I remember these as joyous times, but as with all nostalgia, that rose tint is a tad artificial. Although I never realized it while I was a grunt in the ranks, we were the "bad guys" of the time. It really was more of a military operation than a focused devotion to fun. Hence, the feeling in the first year of Palevsky's existence that they were the Young Turks taking down an establishment that, if not outrightly wicked, was a little too intense to be allowed to survive (a vibe that definitely comes across in the otherwise stellar film The Hunt.) Of course, we all know what came after, as the military regime of S-H gave way to the nouveau-riche corporate air of Palevsky, and huddled masses of small teams lived in fear under the yoke of bloated, pumpkin-orange oppressors. Those of us veterans on the Snell-Hitchcock teams wept openly at our unceremonious unseating, and it pained us to see incoming first years raised without knowledge of their glorious heritage, only of their current existence under the Max heel. We went underground, plotting, scheming, all the time hoping for a brighter tomorrow.
Of course, most of what I just wrote is not true, nor is it completely reflective of my own views. Rather, it is the sort of house-specific propaganda that has run throughout the dorms in the two years since the Crystal cracked, the communal feelings of a once-proud clan bested at its own game. Like most fancies, it has some basis in truth. If I was truly propagandizing, I would have left out the militaristic aspects of Snell-Hitchcock's earlier victories altogether. The truth is, Max was (and is) a very powerful and well-supported team, but their dominance has not crippled the rest of the teams. No, the other teams have only grown stronger, while retaining the unique powers that make each of them special. Those teams that have suffered hits of late can blame their problems on simple stochastic processes, not Palevsky (I mourn the once-Notorious Amphioxus Posse, still the greatest team name ever.) It's not like other teams wallowed in woe and fell in the face of an insurmountable foe. Far from it. Teams like the FIST, despite a lengthy pedigree, carved their true persona in opposition to the specific kind of Hunting that Palevsky brought to the field (which made uber-FISTer Sawyer's time as one of the Palevsky All-Stars this year ultimately ironic.) Snell-Hitchcock became a little less lockstep in their Hunting, but yeah (and were I to speak about this topic for a longer time, you'd realize it pains me to admit this), we had a better time because of it. Really small teams with no chance of winning focused on making their presence known through sheer force of cool, like BJ's 2003 team with their wicked coding skills. Really, teams have been bettered by having to compete with Palevsky. But what of Max itself? When forced to consider them from an impartial basis, rather than from within a dorm team (in the halls of Hitchcock, posters emblazoned with "When you share Scotch tape with Palevsky, YOU RIDE WITH HITLER!" would not have been out of place in the past few years), one realizes that gee, the Palevskites really aren't evil. This should be obvious: they work and study among us, and we interbreed with them. But such niceties are forgotten during the Hunt. However, as I've said, my views have changed somewhat since leaving the College. Let me relate a story of Hunts past and present: Watching The Hunt in the dorm last year, my kin and I burst into uproarious laughter during the classic scene in which then-captain of Palevsky Joe Anderson loses a blank check. "Ha, ha! Stupid Palevsky! So profligate and foolish!" I didn't even know that red-headed dude's name at that time, he was merely one of the heads of the Palevskian Hydra begging for its incineration. Watching The Hunt with Judge Joe Anderson this year, yeah, I still laughed at that scene, it's hilarious, but it wasn't the bitter, mocking laughter of before. Rather, it was the well-intentioned ribbing of a someone who has turned out to be a really cool guy. Besides, Palevsky was the only team this year to get me a real Goombay Punch: that totally rocked.
Yes, many things rocked during this Scav Hunt, and I had a heck of a good time being a Judge. But of course, it's not all fun and games. Look, guys, you don't know what it's like. I'm the one out there every day putting his tokhes on the line. And I'm not out of order! You're out of order. The whole freaking system is out of order. You want the truth? You want the truth?! You can't handle the truth! 'Cause when you reach over and put your hand into a pile of goo that was your best friend's face, you'll know what to do. Forget it, guys, it's Chinatown.
On the subject of nudity: at one point, there were honestly people afraid that this year's Hunt would be deficient in both the naked and the nude. Hoo baby were they wrong. Indeed, the time between midnight on Wednesday (the official start of the Hunt) and the first incidence of nudity was the shortest in Scav History (24 minutes, for the record, and involving public urination to boot.) Some people have (wrongly) characterized nudity during the Hunt as something inflicted on a virginal campus by pervy Judges. Not true (well, not entirely true.) Scav nudity is like many conceptions of Hell. Or at least, the kind-of-cool one in Sandman and the really lame one in What Dreams May Come. At any rate, we are not condemned to Hell by a vengeful God. Rather, our own guilt causes us to inflict eternal punishment upon ourselves. Similarly, the Judges do not force teams to get naked. There are certain Judges who would prefer Hunt nudity be done away with altogether (Judges, you know who I am...er, you are.) Nevertheless, nudity occurs. This is because, deep down, folks want to get freaky. Latent exhibitionist tendencies, simmering after a year of repression, burst forth in all their tumescence. The degree to which this occurs differs from person to person. I have sometimes commented that I lead a buttoned-down, if eccentric, life, and that Scav Hunt is the one time of year when I can get a little "wild." Highly conservative as I tend to be, "wild" has, in the past, consisted of such things as wearing a wetsuit in public or appearing in the same room as, er, various devices one does not mention in polite company. This year, out-of-control as many things got, I ramped up the crazy a mite, as Calvinball amply demonstrated. Other folks decided to be yet-crazier, some of them (Vegans, naturally) adopting it less as a momentary release than as a way of life (trying to return to an idyllic state of nature, perhaps?) If that's your prerogative, so be it. Far be it from me to judge those things that float one's boat. That said, I would like to stress that qoitus on the quads is never cool (qool?)
On the subject of "Getting Naked", those who carefully inspect the video for this year's Theme Song ("Move Your Feet", by the unimpeachable Junior Senior) will notice that it references pretty much all of the major events of the Hunt. Coincidence? Decide for yourselves.
My favorite events: Scavolympics all the way. Personally, I was a big fan of the expanded time for it, and found it to be the "best Olympics ever" as a result. Previous Scavolympics were wedged into the 8 A.M. slot before judgement, and, as a result, were limited in what they could accomplish. There were worries that the six (six!) hours away from headquarters would hamstring building projects, but I think the Showcases alone illustrated that this was not the case. And, even if building had been hamstrung, I think it would have been worth it. Atlaspheres (or zorbs, if you will) were amazing. In particular, the FIST's near-spherical engine of gladiatorial destruction was a thing of beauty. Also, mad props to the Shoreland for building the cardboard zorb, because its destruction (and near-death of its occupant at the hands of the mighty Gladiatrix Plutonium) made the event all that much cooler. Burtonian Dodgeball managed to fulfill a level of awesome worthy of its venerable namesake (Even going so far as having by far the lamest costumes corresponding to his lamest movie: Planet of the Apes.) Much love to my man E. Scis, who managed to stay in the game for a dang long time despite having hands minimally suited to grasping spherical objects. I was disappointed that Betelgeuse didn't show up, though. We had wanted to keep summoning him back to the field by chanting his name. Calvinball proceeded exactly as planned, which was 15 minutes of sheer chaos. If not for the scrapes, bruises, and grass stains incurred during the Wattersonesque fracas, my Hunt experience would not have been complete. Also, soaking my shirt in pineapple juice managed to mask the wicked funk of non-washing for five straight days. This alphabetical trinity alone made the day, but the other events were also enjoyable. Anagram Olympics provided some delightful wrong answers, in many cases better than the intended phrases (Nick Einhorn's response of "Epic Dalmation" instead of "Decimal Point" being the highlight.) Gus's Games proved that a comedy ploy much-loved by Scooby Doo and Vaudeville, people covered in flour, really is always funny. And finally, it was pretty well established that Real Love is Forever, especially when said Love consists of rocking this HARD.
Biggest disappointment: Thursday night theme song challenge. Ye gods, people! I guess I've lost all conception of what is ridiculously obscure pop cultural trivia and what constitutes the collective cultural history of our generation. Those were supposed to be the easy ones! Well, all I can say is don't come crying to me when some guy puts a gun to your back in a dark alley and says, "A quick rendition of the Wild West C.O.W.-Boys of Moo Mesa theme or your life!" Thank Grodd that Poulos managed to score Pokémon for the Shoreland team. Brought a tear to me eye, it did.
Now that the Hunt is over, I know that many are in the grips of the dreaded (and now AMA-defined) ScavHunt Withdrawal. It's not a funny matter--the combination of crashing after a four-day adrenaline high and realizing that we must all return to a life a little less whimsical is the stuff of serious depression. But not for me. Hunting is not dead, merely in remission. This applies to all, from the bright-eyed first year who has just sipped from the cup of Scav to those whose time in the Chicagoan plane is coming to an end. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even the interscavengum may die. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day. (God, I am such a loser.) A day may come when the human race will wither and fall, like the Earth plums we have seen on the Observoscope, but it is not this day.
Until that day, The Beat will never stop.
Don't stop the beat.
Can't stop the beat.
Won't stop the beat.
So Retardos #1 Forever.
There comes a time when we heed a certain call, and all the little scavemaniacs must come together as one. That time has come and gone, and I think we've all learned how to live...and how to love (thanks to Agape Squad 2004.) Congratulations to all the teams, but especially Snell-Hitchcock, Palevsky, and the FIST for taking first, second, and third, respectively. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy with the outcome, but only because it exemplified the glories of a Scav well done, not because a big man fell. This is a distinct volte-face from what I would have felt had this happened last year (and indeed, this is likely what many a non-Palevsky is feeling now), but as a Judge, I've learned and grown out of the petty rivalries that are central to any major competition, be it organized college sports or our organized college madness. That's not to say that I'm not proud that "the ol' team" managed to pull it through with a frankly stellar performance. One must understand, I was raised in the classic "glory days" of Snell-Hitchcock Scav dominance. I remember these as joyous times, but as with all nostalgia, that rose tint is a tad artificial. Although I never realized it while I was a grunt in the ranks, we were the "bad guys" of the time. It really was more of a military operation than a focused devotion to fun. Hence, the feeling in the first year of Palevsky's existence that they were the Young Turks taking down an establishment that, if not outrightly wicked, was a little too intense to be allowed to survive (a vibe that definitely comes across in the otherwise stellar film The Hunt.) Of course, we all know what came after, as the military regime of S-H gave way to the nouveau-riche corporate air of Palevsky, and huddled masses of small teams lived in fear under the yoke of bloated, pumpkin-orange oppressors. Those of us veterans on the Snell-Hitchcock teams wept openly at our unceremonious unseating, and it pained us to see incoming first years raised without knowledge of their glorious heritage, only of their current existence under the Max heel. We went underground, plotting, scheming, all the time hoping for a brighter tomorrow.
Of course, most of what I just wrote is not true, nor is it completely reflective of my own views. Rather, it is the sort of house-specific propaganda that has run throughout the dorms in the two years since the Crystal cracked, the communal feelings of a once-proud clan bested at its own game. Like most fancies, it has some basis in truth. If I was truly propagandizing, I would have left out the militaristic aspects of Snell-Hitchcock's earlier victories altogether. The truth is, Max was (and is) a very powerful and well-supported team, but their dominance has not crippled the rest of the teams. No, the other teams have only grown stronger, while retaining the unique powers that make each of them special. Those teams that have suffered hits of late can blame their problems on simple stochastic processes, not Palevsky (I mourn the once-Notorious Amphioxus Posse, still the greatest team name ever.) It's not like other teams wallowed in woe and fell in the face of an insurmountable foe. Far from it. Teams like the FIST, despite a lengthy pedigree, carved their true persona in opposition to the specific kind of Hunting that Palevsky brought to the field (which made uber-FISTer Sawyer's time as one of the Palevsky All-Stars this year ultimately ironic.) Snell-Hitchcock became a little less lockstep in their Hunting, but yeah (and were I to speak about this topic for a longer time, you'd realize it pains me to admit this), we had a better time because of it. Really small teams with no chance of winning focused on making their presence known through sheer force of cool, like BJ's 2003 team with their wicked coding skills. Really, teams have been bettered by having to compete with Palevsky. But what of Max itself? When forced to consider them from an impartial basis, rather than from within a dorm team (in the halls of Hitchcock, posters emblazoned with "When you share Scotch tape with Palevsky, YOU RIDE WITH HITLER!" would not have been out of place in the past few years), one realizes that gee, the Palevskites really aren't evil. This should be obvious: they work and study among us, and we interbreed with them. But such niceties are forgotten during the Hunt. However, as I've said, my views have changed somewhat since leaving the College. Let me relate a story of Hunts past and present: Watching The Hunt in the dorm last year, my kin and I burst into uproarious laughter during the classic scene in which then-captain of Palevsky Joe Anderson loses a blank check. "Ha, ha! Stupid Palevsky! So profligate and foolish!" I didn't even know that red-headed dude's name at that time, he was merely one of the heads of the Palevskian Hydra begging for its incineration. Watching The Hunt with Judge Joe Anderson this year, yeah, I still laughed at that scene, it's hilarious, but it wasn't the bitter, mocking laughter of before. Rather, it was the well-intentioned ribbing of a someone who has turned out to be a really cool guy. Besides, Palevsky was the only team this year to get me a real Goombay Punch: that totally rocked.
Yes, many things rocked during this Scav Hunt, and I had a heck of a good time being a Judge. But of course, it's not all fun and games. Look, guys, you don't know what it's like. I'm the one out there every day putting his tokhes on the line. And I'm not out of order! You're out of order. The whole freaking system is out of order. You want the truth? You want the truth?! You can't handle the truth! 'Cause when you reach over and put your hand into a pile of goo that was your best friend's face, you'll know what to do. Forget it, guys, it's Chinatown.
On the subject of nudity: at one point, there were honestly people afraid that this year's Hunt would be deficient in both the naked and the nude. Hoo baby were they wrong. Indeed, the time between midnight on Wednesday (the official start of the Hunt) and the first incidence of nudity was the shortest in Scav History (24 minutes, for the record, and involving public urination to boot.) Some people have (wrongly) characterized nudity during the Hunt as something inflicted on a virginal campus by pervy Judges. Not true (well, not entirely true.) Scav nudity is like many conceptions of Hell. Or at least, the kind-of-cool one in Sandman and the really lame one in What Dreams May Come. At any rate, we are not condemned to Hell by a vengeful God. Rather, our own guilt causes us to inflict eternal punishment upon ourselves. Similarly, the Judges do not force teams to get naked. There are certain Judges who would prefer Hunt nudity be done away with altogether (Judges, you know who I am...er, you are.) Nevertheless, nudity occurs. This is because, deep down, folks want to get freaky. Latent exhibitionist tendencies, simmering after a year of repression, burst forth in all their tumescence. The degree to which this occurs differs from person to person. I have sometimes commented that I lead a buttoned-down, if eccentric, life, and that Scav Hunt is the one time of year when I can get a little "wild." Highly conservative as I tend to be, "wild" has, in the past, consisted of such things as wearing a wetsuit in public or appearing in the same room as, er, various devices one does not mention in polite company. This year, out-of-control as many things got, I ramped up the crazy a mite, as Calvinball amply demonstrated. Other folks decided to be yet-crazier, some of them (Vegans, naturally) adopting it less as a momentary release than as a way of life (trying to return to an idyllic state of nature, perhaps?) If that's your prerogative, so be it. Far be it from me to judge those things that float one's boat. That said, I would like to stress that qoitus on the quads is never cool (qool?)
On the subject of "Getting Naked", those who carefully inspect the video for this year's Theme Song ("Move Your Feet", by the unimpeachable Junior Senior) will notice that it references pretty much all of the major events of the Hunt. Coincidence? Decide for yourselves.
My favorite events: Scavolympics all the way. Personally, I was a big fan of the expanded time for it, and found it to be the "best Olympics ever" as a result. Previous Scavolympics were wedged into the 8 A.M. slot before judgement, and, as a result, were limited in what they could accomplish. There were worries that the six (six!) hours away from headquarters would hamstring building projects, but I think the Showcases alone illustrated that this was not the case. And, even if building had been hamstrung, I think it would have been worth it. Atlaspheres (or zorbs, if you will) were amazing. In particular, the FIST's near-spherical engine of gladiatorial destruction was a thing of beauty. Also, mad props to the Shoreland for building the cardboard zorb, because its destruction (and near-death of its occupant at the hands of the mighty Gladiatrix Plutonium) made the event all that much cooler. Burtonian Dodgeball managed to fulfill a level of awesome worthy of its venerable namesake (Even going so far as having by far the lamest costumes corresponding to his lamest movie: Planet of the Apes.) Much love to my man E. Scis, who managed to stay in the game for a dang long time despite having hands minimally suited to grasping spherical objects. I was disappointed that Betelgeuse didn't show up, though. We had wanted to keep summoning him back to the field by chanting his name. Calvinball proceeded exactly as planned, which was 15 minutes of sheer chaos. If not for the scrapes, bruises, and grass stains incurred during the Wattersonesque fracas, my Hunt experience would not have been complete. Also, soaking my shirt in pineapple juice managed to mask the wicked funk of non-washing for five straight days. This alphabetical trinity alone made the day, but the other events were also enjoyable. Anagram Olympics provided some delightful wrong answers, in many cases better than the intended phrases (Nick Einhorn's response of "Epic Dalmation" instead of "Decimal Point" being the highlight.) Gus's Games proved that a comedy ploy much-loved by Scooby Doo and Vaudeville, people covered in flour, really is always funny. And finally, it was pretty well established that Real Love is Forever, especially when said Love consists of rocking this HARD.
Biggest disappointment: Thursday night theme song challenge. Ye gods, people! I guess I've lost all conception of what is ridiculously obscure pop cultural trivia and what constitutes the collective cultural history of our generation. Those were supposed to be the easy ones! Well, all I can say is don't come crying to me when some guy puts a gun to your back in a dark alley and says, "A quick rendition of the Wild West C.O.W.-Boys of Moo Mesa theme or your life!" Thank Grodd that Poulos managed to score Pokémon for the Shoreland team. Brought a tear to me eye, it did.
Now that the Hunt is over, I know that many are in the grips of the dreaded (and now AMA-defined) ScavHunt Withdrawal. It's not a funny matter--the combination of crashing after a four-day adrenaline high and realizing that we must all return to a life a little less whimsical is the stuff of serious depression. But not for me. Hunting is not dead, merely in remission. This applies to all, from the bright-eyed first year who has just sipped from the cup of Scav to those whose time in the Chicagoan plane is coming to an end. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even the interscavengum may die. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day. (God, I am such a loser.) A day may come when the human race will wither and fall, like the Earth plums we have seen on the Observoscope, but it is not this day.
Until that day, The Beat will never stop.
Don't stop the beat.
Can't stop the beat.
Won't stop the beat.
So Retardos #1 Forever.
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