coster3.com

I’ve moved my blog to join the blogs of my 2 older brothers, Adam and Seth Coster, on coster3.com. Check it out!

Book Buy-Back

The first item listed in a book directed towards personal finance should be:

DON’T BUY BOOKS FOR COLLEGE. EVER.

These bastardly creations can cost upwards of $400 or even $500 in introductory courses. Once you’re in med school you may as well wish all of your hard-earned monies good-bye!

Or at least thank your parents for shielding you from debilitating debt.

My friends Steven and Sunny, who live conveniently across the hall (roughly 6.5 feet), and I decided to sell our first semester books back to the campus bookstore. We packed our backpacks with between 10 and 25lbs of books each and headed to the shop to find our new books and peddle our old ones for what we assumed would be quite a bit of money.

Given the starting costs of the books (between $60 and $160 for me), I figured I’d make enough to pay for half or at least one of my books. My friend Sunny logically thought the same.

However, as we discussed prices with the Buy-Back ladies, it became immediately clear that we were going to get next to nothing for books we had payed a hell of a lot to read. My Writing 1 book sold back for a hefty $15 (comparitively it cost about $70, if memory serves me), and 2 of my other books sold until I reached $45 in total sales. However, I was required to purchase 7 books for my courses last semester.

What happened to the other 4 books?

Well, to earn extra money, and perhaps to further burden students with debt, publishers and authors come out with new “editions” of books every so often. These new editions often fix typos or address formatting concerns, but generally contain the same information +- a foreword and a rearranging of the chapters or organization of the material. This creates problems for students because Edition 7 of a Western Civilization book may contain just about all the same information as Edition 6, but the pages will be in a slightly different order. When a professor declares Edition 7 to be the required book for coursework, a student who had purchased Edition 6 may read the wrong material since the pages have been switched around.

And so, we college kids, living on 36 cent ramen packs and Easy-Mac bowls, shell out additional cash to avoid the problem of not knowing where the hell the information we were assigned to read has gone. This would not be such a large problem if the books we purchased were able to be sold directly back…

HOWEVER, because of the new editions coming out, apparently on schedule with semester changes (BASTAAAAAAARDS!), books are rarely able to be sold back. I was lucky to have three of my books taken off my hands, but the value of my other books dropped 100% of their value a few weeks before the courses were over.

This is aggravating, to say the least. But my friend Sunny had it worse. All of his books had new editions released within the previous two weeks. If that weren’t enough, the Business school books he had to purchase were among the most expensive in the store!

Often people say that cars have the fastest depreciating value of all. However, the resale value of our books went from roughly 60% to “wholesale” value, which came out to be about 6% of the actual value of the book within a few weeks.

WHAT. THE HELL.

Poetry Slam

The poetry organization at WashU (Inklings) is having their Grand Slam of poetry later this month.

Though I will not be competing, do to an inability to participate in the last round of qualifications (CHEERLEADING, DAMN YOUUU!), I have been asked to be an opening poet and/or a sac poet.

What exactly a sac poet is is beyond me. Though I’m inquiring.

In any event, this is all very exciting news. I get quite a thrill from public speaking and have been writing poetry like a madman ever since school started in the fall.

To give all of you a taste of my poetry I’ve posted a few of my first poems on this post and will continue to add from my archive of about 15 until I am forced to write more to keep up with your insatiable appetites for sexy words.

***

This first poem is one I wrote a few weeks ago for an open-mic session during a poetry slam. I have the terrible curse of thinking far too fast, or perhaps too nebulously, for my mouth to keep up. To me, it sounds as though I am saying exactly what I am thinking, but, evidently, I fail. This poem expresses my inability to speak properly in nicely articulated metaphors or similes. If you love Helen Keller, though, this poem is not for you.

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THE MUMBLER

I mumble like:

Water over rocks

Bees who forget the steps to their dance

A fourteen car pile up where no one gets injured

A piano played with the forehead

Evolution when the platypus emerged

Colorblind people operating Rubik’s cubes

and Helen Keller, caught in a Chinese finger trap

Airport Shenanigans

I am not one to get angry. So long as there is no intended slight, as in someone commiting an act of douchebaggery, I remain rather calm in the face of adverse situations. There is no need, so far as I’m concerned, for me to waste my rage on random world events that seemingly conspire to create outrageous situations for me to blunder through. My attitude in situations where the absurdity stacks up higher and higher is generally an exasperated “REALLY?” or “SERIOUSLY?” sandwiched by chuckling. Sometimes my language is a bit more colorful, but you get the point.

This travel story, though, ranks up in the top three of the most ridiculous things that has ever happened to me in my nineteen years of living.

My plane was due to leave Des Moines International Airport at 10:30 AM on Saturday, January 11th. Following with the usual order of airport traditions, I set my alarm to wake up at 7 so I could be ready by 7:30 and be at the airport shortly after 8:30, therefore allowing ample time for the zealous molestation of my privacy that TSO (or is it A?) guards would likely engage in.

However, in the deep sleep I got in my home-bed (I’d been in mexico for the last 7 days, waking up with a crick in my neck every other day), I either failed to wake-up to my alarm or shut it off before I was conscious enough to realize the importance of rolling my ass out of bed. Maybe I  failed to slide the bar far enough for the alarm to work in because of my fatigue the night before. Why an alarm would be so damn complicated is beyond me, but the point is that I woke up, for whatever reason, at 7:32 (the red digits are burnt into my memory) to my mom wondering if I was awake.

DAMMIT, I thought as I raced to clothe myself, practice morning hygiene, and slather lotion on my hands.  I was prepared to go by 7:45 and we leapt onto the road, which had been blizzarded the night before, and made our way to Des Moines, an hour from my house.

After an hour and fifteen minutes of snow-road navigation, we arrived at the airport. Typically when I travel I like to just have a carry-on, to avoid losing anything and for simplicity’s sake. However, due to the holidays and my birthday on the 18th, I had quite a few presents to mule back to St. Louis. I’d packed these the night prior into a large shipping box my mother had found. My brother, who had traveled with us, helped me by carrying the box while I carried my bag and baby-top (an ASUS laptop he had gifted me). After a mix up with the check-in machines (wrong airline), we waited in line behind a Chinese family who was (I would find out later) moving to Florida. It was now 9:15 and, though I do not get angry, I am terribly impatient. The family checked about 7 boxes, which took a whole of five torturous minutes, and then the attendant happily took my box and slapped it onto a conveyor belt behind her. So long, my precious! I didn’t have much trust that hours later that box would come out of another conveyor belt.

I made my way through security unhindered, though I did get to practice my quick-disrobing skills in order to prove to them that I wasn’t carrying explosives. As the x-rays radiated through my bag, coat, belt, jacket, scarf, laptop, books, and shoes, I practiced my quick-dressing skills and subsequently moved on to the gate.

We boarded the plane. Our captain came on the intercom and told us that Chicago had initiated a ground-freeze for planes and wasn’t allowing us to take-off. He said we’d wait for a bit and hope they’d take it back.

45 minutes later, he got on the intercom and told us the good news. Chicago had rescinded their ground-freeze. Bad news though, he said, they won’t be accepting our plan for another two hours.

So we deplaned.

Then began the chaotic changing of connecting flights for the entire passenger list, as we were told that we would be delayed for 2 hours because the Chicago airport decided it wasn’t accepting planes for a while. I was content by playing Diablo II on my laptop so I took the further delay in stride. It would lend me some time to kill more demons, anyways.

I stood in line to get my flights rearranged and found myself next to the Chinese mother who had checked so many boxes a few hours before. After smiling as disarmingly as I could, which apparently is a natural expression for me, I chatted with her about her moving to Florida and explained the flight situation to her. Her english was easily understandable, but she didn’t understand some of the overhead announcements and didn’t know the plane vocabulary I’d deem necessary to not have a rough time at an airport. I helped her daughter open a bottle of orange juice and aided her in getting her flight plans changed up so she could get to where she was going. We’d developed quite the rapport at this point in time, and chatted further while the plane was again situated for departure. After boarding yet again, around 2:30PM, we completed the 45 minute flight to Chicago.

On the flight I met an Indian guy heading to south India to have a family vacation. He was terribly friendly and a computer programmer operating out of Des Moines. We had an extensive conversation about college and life by the time the plane landed and we parted ways. I didn’t see either the Indian programmer or the Chinese mother of three again.

Arriving in the O’Hare airport at 4:20, I rushed across three terminals to get to my second flight which would be departing at 4:45. Much to my “luck,” the flight was delayed until 6:45, apparently because they didn’t have any flight attendants. To think that a flight would be scheduled when no attendants were available seemed absurdly inappropriate, considering the amount of money I was paying to be carted through the air. Granted, I took a connecting flight to cut the cost by $500, but plane rides are still damn expensive.

I ate at Chili’s and moved on to the waiting area outside the gate, where I ran across an older Chinese guy who was trying to reach his family in Pennsylvania by pay phone. Much to his dismay, the damn phones wouldn’t work. I haven’t used a pay phone for years, and have little knowledge of their workings, so I donated the man some extra quarters to see if maybe the machine simply costed more than $1. After that failed, the man apologized, said thanks, and left.

The plane was then delayed another thirty minutes, for reasons unknown. We began boarding at 6:45 and I was on the plane and well-situated by 7:00. As we waited for take-off, I listened to the banter between a Chinese college student and her friend who sandwiched me. This wouldn’t have been entirely unpleasant, had I been able to understand what they were saying. However, with my chinese skills lacking, I sat between them and attempted to read while they giggled like stereotypical asian school girls.

After waiting until 7:45, and growing ever more curious as to what the hell was going on, the pilot of the plane came on the intercom and said something to this effect.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to apologize but I have currently worked past the hours I am legally able to today, and so we’re going to have to find another pilot to take you to St. Louis.”

Many “WHAT THE FUCK” ’s erupted from behind me, and a large man with a striped shirt rummaged through the overhead bins to find some pills to consume.

The asian girls were rather confused, so I explained to them the ridiculous story that was unfolding.

Venus, the chinese schoolgirl on my left, offered her cell-phone games to me for some entertainment. We played super-mario, a racing game, and a game involving missiles and worms. We discussed her major in finance and her home in Shanghai, and then the captain came on the intercom yet again. Only it wasn’t the captain. He had escaped. It was the first lieutenant of the plane.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m sorry but we’ve just been informed that the available pilot has landed and will be making his way over here shortly. However, he just came in from Mexico and so he has to go through customs, which will take around 45 minutes. We’ll have to de-ice the plan after he gets back, which will take around twenty minutes. If you wish to deplane and sit in the gate area you are welcome to.”

The batteries on my lap top had ran out six hours prior, and I decided it was time for me to charge the damn thing. Considering we’d be sitting for another hour, or maybe seventeen, I got up with my charger and laptop and excused myself from the middle seat of row 29.

I approached the male flight attendant. He looked like he would usually be rather chipper but was radiating waves of agitation at this point. The people on the plane had apparently decided to stop being kind.

“Excuse me, sir?” I poked him in the shoulder. He looked at me with the weakest smile I’ve ever seen and averted his eyes. “Could I deplane to charge my laptop?” I held up the charger and baby-top as I said this.

“Oh! Yeah, of course!” He was apparently relieved. “Is that all your stuff?”

“Well, no.” I stated, rather obviously. Who the hell would only wear a t-shirt in freezing weather and carry a laptop as their only possession?

The flight attendant shook his head side to side and frowned. “Well, you can’t go off the plane unless you take your stuff with you.” He explained, sounding a little angry.

“What? Why?” I held up the charger and baby top for emphasis. Meanwhile he looked at me like a teacher scolding a kindergartner who called fingers toes.

“You could get off the plane and there would be something in your bag. It’s a matter of security.” He said.

I said “OKAY” and went back to my seat. What kind of stupid terrorist plot would I have to dream-up where the success of my plan depended on a pilot not realizing he was unable to work, and the next pilot in line flying in from mexico and having to go through customs for 45 minutes before he got on the plane? What kind of twisted chromosome depraved logic was that flight attendant following?

Venus and I started up our banter and, an eternity later, the new pilot arrived. At last, we were off!

45 minutes later we arrived in St. Louis. Finally reaching my destination at 11:30 at night, roughly seven hours after I was scheduled to, I was in quite a hurry to get my damn box and get the hell out of the airport. I hurried to baggage claim where, ten minutes later, my box emerged on the conveyor belt…with a beautiful fist-sized hole in the top of it.

REALLY?!

I picked up the forty pound box and made my way to the taxi station. A driver flagged me down, my hands being busy and all, and I situated my packages in the back of the van. Before I was able to escape without any further blunders, the taxi pulled up near a man in a uniform with a clipboard who began raging through the window. Sitting in the back I only understood a bit of the conversation, but the fellow said “AND HE SAID HE WAS GOING TO SLIT MY THROAT. I’VE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH THAT MAN. YOU ARE A WITNESS AND WILL HAVE TO TELL THE COMMISSIONER ABOUT THIS.”

My driver nodded and mumbled some accented english and we were off, to my dormitory home at washu.

Goddamn, I thought…

really?

With a sitting around to flying time ratio of approximately 14:1, this was by far the least efficient trip I’ve ever been on. I plan on contacting the airlines tomorrow to see if I can get some free flights out of the deal.

ABSURD.

Mujeres is Spanish for Women

I had forgotten. Bathrooms in Mexico are labeled with a solid M for women, and H for men (hombres). I prefer pictures on the door, now, after this savage mishap my brother and I got into at a beautiful restaurant in Cabo.

I got up from the table and tried to find the bathroom. My brother had left 20 seconds before, and I, not taking the opportunity to explore the restaurant with him, meandered around the restaurant until I found a waiter near the kitchen.

“Excuse me, sir, where’s the bathroom?” I asked.

He didn’t say a word but led me around a few corners and to two doors at the end of a rather wide hallway. Both were well lit and only four or five feet apart. One had an M on it and the other, a W. The waiter pointed to the door on the right, the one with an M, and so I proceeded to the door. The waiter evidently disappeared back around the corner, as he definitely did not see what happened next.

I brazenly opened the M door and, to my utter dismay, saw two women adjusting their hair and dresses in the reflection of a mirror situated behind them. My mind panicked and I drop the handle of the door, turning away in embarrassment. In my haste, the door caught the sandal of my right foot and trapped it, tearing it off my foot. I stumbled a few feet backwards, retrieved my sandal, and dove into the door with a W.

In my panicked state I failed to notice all the notifications in the bathroom. Firstly, the W on the door. Secondly, as I rushed past the sinks and counter, there were no urinals. I opened the nearest door and went to the bathroom, wondering why the hell they wouldn’t place urinals in the mens’ bathroom. Luckily I had locked the slatted door behind me, because after I flushed the toilet and resituated myself, the door burst open with two women giggling and speaking spanish so rapidly that my three years experience in the language was no help.

Apparently my brother had been relieving himself in the proper bathroom, the M one, when the women came careening in to fix themselves up and have a discussion. After peeking around a small wall and seeing my brother at the urinals, the women screamed and fled. I, of course, saw them about 12 seconds before this all happened, and dove into the W restroom. Fifteen seconds later, I was joined by the women my brother had frightened out of the other bathroom.

“MUJERES! BAAHAHAHAHHAH!” They laughed for a solid three minutes, chatting merrily next to the sink. The door to my stall went straight to the floor and was positioned in such a way that there was no way to see inside, lest someone laid on the floor and looked up through the slats in the door.

I leaned against the wall with my forearm and stifled my laughter until the women left. I was trapped in that bathroom for about 5 minutes while they giggled at the absurdity of what happened and I laughed at the fact that I was imprisoned in a womens’ restroom. I heard the door open and close as they left, waited 10 seconds, and threw the stall door open to escape.

It was only upon returning to my family’s table with a smile on my face that I learned what had happened to Adam, and had therefore caused my blunder.

It’s remarkable the difference a few seconds can play in the events of our lives!

Cheerleading

YES.

I haven’t written for a LOOONG time.

But so be it. I’m venturing back into the blogosphere with a new utility belt and a pressurized biohazard suit composed of an impenetrable ego and woven with words, so save your criticism and get the HELL OUT OF MY WAY.

Since it’s been so long since my last post, I find it necessary to update all those who may read this in the future as to my current standing in the world. I’m a freshman at Washington University in St. Louis, and while I certainly enjoy academia, I thrive in social situations.

This social addiction I have lends itself to plenty of interesting situations. I find myself in curious predicaments at a rather alarming rate, which is only exasperated further by my inability to look even slightly unfriendly at strangers, be they terrifying spanish gangsters on the streets of Cabo San Lucas or giddy chinese college students on the airplane.

So, now that we’ve established an introductory relationship of sorts

*handshake*

on with the blogasm!

When I first arrived at Washu in the fall I attended the activities fair to see which extra-curriculars I wanted to commit myself to. The fair is situated in one of the older gyms in the activities complex, and the cavernous, yellow lighting of the room lent the student groups peddling their wears a sense of illegality I found slightly disturbing. I had just come from the gym two floors below and was wearing a cut-off shirt which screamed YALE across it, a testament to my choice of WashU, and so I looked much more muscly than usual. With my biceps pumped to absurd proportions, I perused the tables of student groups until I walked past the WASHU CHEERLEADERS  booth.

I will say at this point that I truly did walk past the booth. My eyes may have wandered from pathfinding to the women on the cheer team, but I had no intent on stopping what-so-ever.

That is, until a tiny woman (who would later become my projectile) named Danielle ran up and poked me in the back.

“Hi! Want to be a cheerleader?” she said.

“Psh! I, uh, I’m a MAN.” I hastily responded.

“Well, we have practice at 8 tonight if you want to come. It’s really fun and you get to throw us.”

*chuckling* “I, uh… no thanks. I actually have a dentist appointment around that time…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

*awkward pause*

Danielle looked giddy but uncomfortable. I smiled.

“If you come to practice you can go out on a date with some of us.”

Damn seductress! Succubus from the furthest depths of hell!

“Well… What time did you say?”

“Eight.”

“I’ll maybe be there at nine. Maybe.”

Danielle smiled. I returned to the table and filled out an email form while chatting with the coaches and wondering what the hell I was doing.

I would later go to cheer practice (at 9, don’t you forget) and find that throwing women by the bony parts of their hips was quite to my liking. I didn’t necessarily excel at the activity, but with my strength and Danielle’s tininess I began to pull off harder and harder stunts. Now, quite addicted to throwing women around, I’m a full fledged member of the cheer squad, along with five other guys who joined around the same time or shortly after I did. Two of them are giant football players, one of whom left his position as a defensive tackle halfway through the season to turn women into projectiles for other people’s entertainment.

We had a holiday party as a cheer squad, but due to a change of transportation plans on my part I was unable to attend. In my stead I left a poem to convey my general thoughts about cheering and the amount of pain involved. Apparently it was quite a big hit, and so I will post it here, along with some of my other poetry (later, perhaps), for you all to enjoy.

Before you read it you must understand one term my fellow cheermen (battlecallers, we’ll say) and I are painfully acquainted with. Air brakes are deployed by cheerleaders far too frequently when, for whatever reason, they are startled by being thrown into the air (absurd, right?). In a sadistic act, whose consequences I will leave the poem to explain, a single leg of the cheerleader will bend at the knee before they’ve cleared chest level of their launcher, who is then struck in the man-parts by a small but quickly moving foot. This is, as you might guess, painful and startling.

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Air Brakes

A five hour drive is what it takes

To escape the torture of air brakes.

Those slaps to the test-ee-clees

Which some of you, daily,

Render upon me.

BREAK TO STARE AT DANIELLE ANGRILY

Be it from fists, heels, foreheads or toes

Claws, butts, or scissor-kick throws,

You’ve all shown your love

In a manner of ways

Some of which are

Much less depraved

Than that dreaded air brake.

For one month

No bitches will be thrown

My claws will heal

And my shoulders re-sewn

Though I will miss

Those of you who are air-brake prone

I can look forward to

Not bending forward and emitting a groan.

A storm approaches Iowa, my home

And it is for this reason that I do bemoan

My inability to be with you this night

Though I hope this poem as a stand-in is right

Be it christmas, hannukah, or an atheist gift-exchange

I wish you the best in dealing with derange-

Damn relatives that are sure to come and go

Just remember that the Atheist Cheerleading Minister

Who’s home laid covered in snow

Wished you a great break

Even without bitches to throw

From a book

In a fit of bored rage today I decided to grow something! Though not in the usual sense of a plot of fertile ground fixed between a fence and a cow pasture. Even entertaining the notion of me perched atop a farm house with a .308 varmint killer at the ready is something of a stretch for my imagination at this point.

NO. I’m talking about growing things out of a book. My dad was talking about an art exhibit he saw where barley was spread all over the waterlogged pages of a giant bible. The barley took root and the result was a very cool artistic rendering of the bible as “the bread of life,” much like barley literally is. However much I may disagree with the bible shenanigans (of which there are many), this immediately struck a very cool and laid back hobby idea to me…book growing!

I hopped in my chevy cavalier and flew down the interstate to wal-mart, where I picked up some grass and a few flowers to try growing in a book.

The book is currently marinating downstairs in the sun-room in a water-filled tray. Once marination is complete I’ll sprinkle the seeds on and hopefully create a meadow on the two open pages of that book!

Aside from this shiny new idea which has struck me at an alarming rate, not much else has been happening. Last night a few friends came over and we baked two cakes for one of our lady friend’s birthdays, much to her delight. Things went south when the Wii Tennis tournament erupted into an all out brawl which eventually led to the smearing of frosting across several happy but annoyed people. How good it is!

I’ll keep this blog updated on any future shenanigans and the success that is surely to become my book meadow.

Pokemon and Rubik’s Cubes

I KNOW. I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING!

but wait.

Fads have been flying through my school like asteroids through tissue paper. That is, they come with such force as to tear a (sometimes massive) hole in the culture of the school which everyone hurriedly fills. Recently, all those pokemon games I played on my gameboy from 3rd grade up until now have come back with a vengeance worthy of some sort of deity.

My best friend (possibly forever, though we’ve yet to purchase those half-heart necklaces solidifying our relationship) Jones recently approached me with his old-school color gameboy in hand and a grin that could only belong to a pokemon master. After a 3 minute discussion period, during which I was easily coerced into picking up my game (Diamond, of course), I drove home, found my games and began my adventure!

Strangely now, nearly the entire school is involved in this frenzy of pokemon activity. It’s like someone got rabies and also happened to possess seven heads and a neck that swivels 360 degrees. We’ve all been infected! The girls are playing it, the guys, and perhaps even the teachers have been caught up in this Poketastic tornado.

Even more interesting, considering the memorization and dedication required, during the second month of school we went through a Rubik’s Cube outbreak that would’ve needed quarantine if it were anything less than benevolent.

Jones, yet again, brought this fad to my attention. In biology he completed the cube in his then record of 3:13 and i was astounded. He explained how another student had taught him, and then he proceeded to write-up a cheat sheet on how to solve the thing.

Two-weeks later I was dominating cubes left and right. The memorization was the hardest part… but after that was completed and I was actually able to watch the individual pieces fall into perfect place, the act of solving a Rubik’s Cube became a religious ritual for me. Anyone who has ever completed a Rubik’s Cube or seen someone fiddling with one knows what I speak of. The satisfaction received from completing something difficult that only a small percentage of the population is capable of doing is glorious.

Nearly as glorious as Catching Them All (pokemon).

Which is exactly what I’m determined to do with the fads that come my way. They may be temporary, but they’ve a tendency to leave some fantastic memories in their stead.

Shenanigans.

My first trip into the blogosphere. The smell of epic hangs heavy in the air!

This site is all about my shenanigans. And my thoughts on other people’s shenanigans, or simply shenanigans in general. Now, you may ask yourself “What, dear Mr. Coster, are these shenanigans you speak of?”

Well. Let me tell you, Proud Patron of the grand Blogosphere.

Shenanigans are the activities of people. More often than not, shenanigans are the activities that either cause some level of entertainment or alarm in the people they involve. They are the most interesting of stories and sometimes the most boring, but are always fun to listen to and comment on. Because of this inherent nature of shenanigans, I found it would be awesome to create a blog on my personal shenanigans, and my thoughts on international shenanigans.

I first began using the word a year or two back, at most. I have no idea where it came from, and neither do any members of my family. All we know is that within a few weeks of our exposure to this word we became addicts to its use.

With that… let the shenanigans begin!