Everybody's Working for the Weekend

Funny thing about responsibility. We spend a great deal of our lives earning the rights bestowed upon those of elder age, and swallow the responsibilities associated therewith as a mark of pride, a way of showing we've made it. We embrace responsibility, but the sad truth is that, all too often, it takes us away from the things we truly enjoy.

Responsibility reared its ugly head and did just that to me last week, causing me to not only spend every day wishing that the week was over -- a tactic I thought I'd sworn, back in my undergraduate days, I'd never do again -- but also taking me away from the simple pleasures of life that I truly love. Such as, for instance, writing in this blog. You'll note it's been about a week and a half since I've updated, and this is not for lack of eventful, blogworthy happenings to note. On the contrary, the intervening 10 days have been filled with excitement and entertainment.

When last we left our intrepid amateur writer, he was on the cusp of a momentous moment in his young life. Just a day after the September 21 post, I awoke in Princeton, New Jersey, next to the most beautiful woman in the world, with whom I was celebrating the fifth anniversary of our dating life. Contrary to the opinion of several friends from high school who predicted that we simply wouldn't last, we have managed -- granted, not without our share of bumps in the road, but those bumps really do build character -- to survive five years together. Returning to Princeton, the site of many an anniversary past, was no accident, at least not after a short blurb in the Sunday paper revealed that the Great Grapes wine and food festival would be taking place on the very same day as our anniversary, September 22. It was just far too convenient and appropriate to forgo.

Of course, when traveling, one must ensure that one obtains the necessary accoutrements; namely, the basic human necessities of food and shelter. Food we knew would be no issue: notwithstanding the copious food samples available at the festival, we've compiled, over four years, a nice sampling of Princetonian fare that caters to our discriminating palates. Shelter, by contrast, would be a bit of a challenge: after recalling, much to my dismay, that I simply couldn't put Danielle up in my room anymore at Princeton, we realized that a hotel room would be necessary. And only shortly after this realization came the follow-up: that our "traditional" location of respite, a certain Hampton Inn in Somerset, was priced a little too richly for our poor (read: cheap-ass) grad student tastes.

At which point came arguably the great stroke of brilliance I've had in some time: Hotwire! See, Hotwire is a pretty craptacular resource if you're looking for a flight, as you can't know the airline or even the time of day of your flight before you book. But hotels are a totally different story: they give you the star rating, the relative location, and the amount you're saving on the rate. Which means, if you're savvy enough (and we, of the poor/cheap-ass grad student lot, most certainly are), you can go to another travel site (Travelocity, for instance) and be able to successfully deduce precisely which hotel you're paying for.

So when Hotwire told us we could get a hotel in the Princeton area at 3.5 stars for just $54/night, a little research told us that we would most likely be staying at the Wyndham at Forrestal Village. Good guess. We booked, ecstatically, and were greeted with precisely the expected location. The only thing we held our breath about was the possibility that we might end up in a smoking room, but when the night of the 21st came around and the woman at the front desk informed me that the entire facility was non-smoking -- and, oh, will a Deluxe King room suffice, or would we prefer two Queens instead? -- I knew we were in business.

The festival, and the weekend as a whole, was spectacular. We were able to enjoy lots of delicious free wine, meet Ted Allen (the food critic from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Iron Chef America), spend a little time at Charter with my still-undergraduate friends, and even have a nice dinner at our favorite local Mexican restaurant, with a dollop of the best ice cream in town for dessert. All in all, it was a wonderful weekend.

As tends to happen on wonderful weekends, though, work doesn't get done, and this weekend, it fucked me big time. I'd brought three novels along -- The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman (275 pages); A Scanner Darkly, by Philip K. Dick (275 pages); and The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins (625 pages) -- and read a total of 0 pages from them by the time Monday morning rolled around. Which meant I had to read all, oh, 1200+ pages during the week. Not to mention the fact that I had reading for two other seminars to do. Plus a response paper for one seminar. Plus a presentation on modern criticism of The Woman in White.

Plus 24 papers to grade, because I was a fucking slacker. Oh, hell.

Needless to say, last week was not fun. I did manage to get all of it done -- with the exception of my presentation, but I didn't finish that not because I didn't prepare for it, but because the books I'd taken out of the library as part of my research ended up, along with my notes, left on the Blue Loop and, promptly, vanished into the netherworld, from which I'm not sure they've returned (and if they haven't, I owe a shit ton of money to the library, on the first two books I ever checked out, which, in case you were wondering, has me psyched) -- but the result was little fun, even less sleep, and a whole lot of resentment.

Part of my problem, frankly, was that D and I had had plans for some time to visit Pittsburgh this past weekend, during which time one Charles Pence would be meeting up with his girlfriend, current Carnegie Mellon grad student Julia Philip. We were to have a weekend of reminiscing, partying, and generally good times -- a sort of reminder that, though we've all gone past our undergraduate days, the times that bound us remain strong.

Despite a certain fear that things wouldn't quite be the same, I was pleased to see things slip quickly back into the old ways when we arrived in Pittsburgh. We sat and chatted for a while before heading out to dinner (Wendy's, always purveyors of gourmet expeditious cuisine, to put it kindly) and returning for an aperitif of Macallan 12 amongst the gentlemen. Ahh yes, some things hadn't changed at all. And that's more of a comfort than anyone could possibly know.

On Saturday, Julia attended a baby shower whilst the remaining trio took off in Charles's MINI Cooper (dubbed "The Professor") and went a-motoring. Though endlessly jealous of the fact that I never actually found myself behind the wheel -- after all, Charles's ownership of this car is owed in large part to the unsatisfied obsession I hold for this particular automobile -- I was able to provide a rollicking soundtrack as we motored through the hills and dales of beyond-suburban Pittsburgh, speeding past the world-famous Fallingwater and driving along narrow, curvy roads that led to nowhere. It was a supremely pleasurable experience, one to which I was able to provide what I felt was an adequate-at-best soundtrack from my humble iPod.

When we all returned to Julia's Squirrel Hill digs, we set out again, this time for dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings. It was worth the drive for the taste of Blazin' wings alone, but regret was quick to kick in on the drive home. See, we'd schemed to spend the evening at (also world-famous) Kennywood Amusement Park, partaking in the seasonal joy of what they dubbed Phantom Fright Nights. But here's the problem: B-Dubs is by the airport, which is to the west of downtown Pittsburgh by about 10 miles or so; Kennywood, in West Mifflin, is right on the Monongahela River, but is several miles east of downtown. In total, they can't be more than 15 miles (or roughly 30 minutes driving) apart. But that time becomes exponentially increased when the Interstate that leads downtown decides it's going to be stopped dead several miles out. We improvised, using a number of maps and Julia's rudimentary knowledge of highways and biways, but the trips from the B-Dubs to Kennywood took almost 2 hours. (Of course, we did get to see what looked suspiciously like a drug deal transpire directly in front of us en route, so it was kinda worth it.)

Fortunately, the sight of the familiar Kennywood arrow eliminated any sense of frustration I'd felt. We parked, headed down the monstrous hill to the front gate, and entered a drastically different Kennywood than the one I'd remembered from two summers ago. Instantly, we were met with clouds of fog and lighting effects, as well as the sense that actors in frightening costumes could be lurking around any corner, even if we weren't in one of the many "haunts" scattered across the park. None of us, truth be told, like being scared, so we tried our best to avoid the haunts and make the most of park while not putting ourselves in a position to be taunted or frightened by any of the actors. Unfortunately, as an accidental trip through "Death Valley" taught us, this was far easier said than done.

Though we didn't get a PFN-specific map until about halfway through the evening, we managed to mostly avoid the haunts and simply soak in the traditional Kennywood experience. Jack Rabbit was just as air-tastic as I remembered, and the Racer was just as much of a hoot as it was in '06 (even if the bums on the other train were totally unwilling to slap hands around the long, sweeping turns). Once we survived Death Valley (which was, in fairness, only scary because a group of obnoxious teenage girls were screaming and pushing us forward into the fog and, thusly, into the actors themselves), we rode the Thunderbolt, which I remembered was truly the gem of the park. If you're a wooden coaster fan at all, and haven't been to Kennywood to ride the Thunderbolt, do it now. It would be a sin if I gave away why.

After finishing our run through the Kennywoodies, we decided to tackle the event's namesake, The Phantom's Revenge. This coaster continues to surprise me, with both the smoothness of the ride and the forcefulness of the airtime. However, much of the pleasure of the ride was sucked out of me by the realization that the exit put us smack dab in the middle of a haunt, with no way around it. We tried to play it cool, hustling as quickly as possible to the line for the SwingShot, and then watching carefully as an actor scared other teenage girls as we departed expeditiously from "Gory Park." We all agreed that a lap on The Exterminator, an indoor wild mouse coaster that was "extra-themed" for PFN and was at the far end of Gory Park, was a lost cause, and instead opted for a basket of Potato Patch fries (which lasted, as expected, for all of about 15 seconds) and one last lap on Thunderbolt before we left and I again bid farewell to Kennywood, which continues to work its way up my list of favorite small parks.

Sunday was a far more relaxing day. We slept in, took in a delicious lunch of fried seafood at Wholey's, the famous fish market in the Strip district, and then walked about a mile to PNC Park, where we watched the final game of the NL season between the Pittsburgh Pirates and the St. Louis Cardinals. The park, situated on the Allegheny just shy of the Three Rivers Point, is beautiful, with a wide, open outfield free of seating and open to the unusual but pretty Pittsburgh skyline. Our seats, roughly 25 rows back behind shallow left field, were wonderful, and left us susceptible to a number of near-miss foul balls. The game, though it started slow, became much more exciting by the end, and came down to the wire, though the Pirates ended up losing by 1. In the end, we had three important things to show for our journey to the park: a complimentary Pirates blanket (for fan appreciation day), a plastic helmet which once held a soft serve sundae but now was a memento of our sojourn, and the knowledge that my success rate at visiting Major League ballparks now stood at 20% (6 of 30).

For a weekend, not too shabby.

I hated to bid adieu to Charles and Julia, but State College called us back and we simply had to leave. So I spent much of today regretting that the weekend had gone so quickly, but also savoring the enjoyment of something that I'd been looking forward to for a whole week but was simply unable to touch. Because, really, it's these journeys, these entertaining endeavors, that make up the bulk of what we remember and value from our lives, not the hours, days, weeks, months, and years spent resorting to some sense of responsibility we've been burdened with. Yeah, that stuff is important, but it's the good times we'll remember when it's all said and done.

And sometimes, you need to say, "Fuck responsibility!" and do something fun, adventurous, and a bit uncharacteristic in order to truly appreciate what you have.

Which is why I finally decided today that a little purchase regret is a small price to pay for knowing I won't have to think about how badly I really want to get a Nintendo DS Lite.

But that's a story for another blog post, because right now I'm tired, and I have a lot to do tomorrow. So I should get some rest.

That is, after all, the responsible thing to do.