Find a Friend at the Connecticut Humane Society

Some say the bond between human and pet is everlasting. In a world piled high with financial responsibilities, animals are becoming increasingly overlooked in the grand scheme of things. Relocation, debt, or long hours at work make people question their ability to take care of their feline and canine companions.

The Connecticut Humane Society has three different adoption centers around the state in Newington, Waterford, and Westport that take in animals that are of any size, shape or form. Giving up a pet can be a difficult task, but the humane society welcomes pets with open arms.

“Owners come in telling us they can no longer care for their pet and we take them in and find them a new home,” said the Society’s Public Relations Director Alicia Wright.

For prospective new pet owners, the humane society should be the first pit-stop. With an annual adoption rate of 90 percent out of 9,500 pets, it is almost certain that upon a visit, one will inevitably fall in love with one of the sweet, adoring creatures the society houses.

These unique, one-of-a-kind animals need extra love and care for what they’ve lived through; each has a separate story, whether it be a relocation, behavior, or medical problem. After an individual walks in and picks their new friend, the staff of the CHS has an interview with them to see if they are capable of handling the pet.

“We look to make a match be- tween the owner and the pet so we can avoid the pet becoming homeless a second time,” said Wright. “One of the main things we look for is if the person understands the basic financial responsibilities and what kind of experience they have with animals.”

Wright made a strong point of calling these relocations “forever homes,” because that is the main emphasis; it would be heartbreaking for the animal to end up back at the society.

The pets at the three facilities come from all over the state of Connecticut, and some picked up from animal control. CHS has also been working with a few shelters down South, where there is a very high rate of euthanasia.

An overwhelming pet overpop- ulation problem exists in the southern states. “It is just insurmountable,” said Wright, who spoke of the lack of access to veterinary care. “It is more difficult for people to practice spay/ neuter.” Shelters are faced with growing numbers of animals trying to find homes, and in worst case scenarios, have to euthanize healthy, adoptable pets.

“We started to work with them to expand our outreach services, have more animals available for Connecticut residents, and above all, place more animals for adoption,” said Wright. The Connecticut Humane Society is also paying certain veterinarians down South full salaries to educate them on how to spay and neuter in hopes of decreasing the problem.

Endless success stories pile into the humane society and are chronicled in books available to owners upon their visits to read and be inspired from.

One of the more recent success stories involves an older woman crippled with the passing of her pet and with her own medical problems, which were causing her to become too much of a homebody.

She visited one of the locations every day in hopes of finding a new friend. “Our staff continued to work with her, and one day, it just happened,” Wright said. “She came in, the perfect pet was there, and she adopted it.”

Since then, Wright told of how the pet helped the woman become more involved in her community. “We gained an amazing friend,” said Wright. “She gained a new pet and a renewed lease on life.”

The big question on most perspective owners’ minds might be, how much are adoptions? Puppies ($110) are the most expensive, while kittens are $100, adult dogs are $80, adult cats are $70, and small animals are $30. The cost includes spay/neuter, vaccinations, and if the animal came in with health conditions, they are stabilized or cured.

Now with that said, you may be planning on bringing home a new addition to your home, whether you’re a single owner, or a young couple. Wright has advice for young adults, especially if they’re just graduating, buying a new home, or committing themselves to a new job. “Think about time management,” she said. “If you are going to be out of the house for 12 plus hours, you may want to consider an easily manageable pet rather than a dog or cat.”

She urges people to do their research on realistic costs, especially when one may be juggling student loans and rent on a new job’s salary. “Having a pet as a member of the family, it is a huge commitment. Do your research and are you’re more likely to be happy with your end result,” said Wright.

Fly to New Heights Via Songbirds

There is a place for individuals who would rather shop for jewelry with more character than what can be found in overpriced department stores or fine jewelers. For tobacco enthusiasts, the avid smoker would be equally as thrilled to know that this specific shop also carries Connecticut’s largest collection of glass pipes, hookahs, vaporizers and more.

Songbirds, located at 2551 Berlin Turnpike, has an eclectic range of handcrafted goods from all over the world. “The majority of our selection comes from overseas,” said Datura Damiano, who has worked at the shop for half of its two-year existence.

Privately owned by a couple who has traveled all over the world, the establishment is an eye-opener for true cosmopolitans. As a selection of music from different countries and time periods satiate the eardrums, your sense of smell is f looded with the fruity, musky scent of incense.

Sterling silver rings, bracelets and necklaces are on display in the glass cases, each embedded with varying gemstones such as moonstone, tiger’s eye, turquoise, amber and others. Gemstones have more personality than your typical 18K white platinum diamond ring, and Songbirds’ jewelry is reasonably priced and affordable. “We have jewelry sales every weekend,” Damiano said.

“Our stock is constantly new,” she explained while pointing out some particular pieces. Wooden drawers shaped like tree stumps are displayed throughout, which would be perfect to hold one’s newly-purchased gemstone jewels. These draw- ers were specially handcrafted and shipped by an artisan from Costa Rica. Near the drawers are handcrafted wooden layered puzzles, in shapes ranging from puppies to guitars.

Local artists’ paintings adorn the walls, from oil-based to prints, and elegant yet funky bells and wind chimes hang from the ceiling. Sculptures of ethnic faces stare up at you from display tables, balanced out with treasures from all over the globe.

There are even some cute odds and ends in the store, such as bowls made out of old records, bongos, tiedye shirts, hand puppets and natural soy wax candles made in Connecticut.

Smoking objects are in a room adjacent to the main section of the store, which is off-limits to minors under 18 years of age; individuals are carded as they enter. Songbirds represents the Illadelph Glass Company, which is a manufacturer of innovative hand-blown glass water pipes, sent here all the way from Hollywood, California.

Supporting small businesses and artists is crucial, and Songbirds understands this often forgotten fact. It’s beneficial to the consumer because of the quality, not quantity, and it can open up a world of insight to adventurous souls. Heck, it might even compel you to do a little exploration of your own.

Shady Glen: Keeping it Old School

February 27, 2008


Photo Cred: Stephanie Bergeron


Sixty years ago, one man created the world's first lactic attack of a cheeseburger that has become a historical, yet delectable monument to the city of Manchester.

As of today, customers at Shady Glen, located at 840 Middle Turnpike, frequently order this well-known burger, having been aptly named after its creator, Bernice Reig.

For newcomers, coming face-to-face with this edible masterpiece of art can solicit an odd reaction; to describe it in words isn't doing it enough justice. To really tell its tale is to explain the preparation process.

With an ordinary slab of meat and three to four pieces of your everyday American cheese, both are combined to make something extraordinary. The slices of cheese are carefully placed as a mosaic on top of the meat patty as it sizzles, so that the edges untouched by the meat melt directly onto the grill. Contact with the hot surface allows the edges to turn chewy and crispy, and when dolled up with a bun, curves around the sandwich as if a clam was sticking its tongue out at someone.

A rather fun aspect of Shady Glen is the customers' experience of getting to watch everything being prepared right in the middle of the old dairy bar. That's because the booths and tables rest around the restaurant's cooking area; waitresses adorned in 1950s garb of pine-green dresses with aprons take orders, while cooks and bus boys saunter around in white button down shirts, bow ties and hats.

Shady Glen Dairy Bar is accustomed to their old-fashioned appeal, because it is what keeps customers coming back, that and their delicious burgers and homemade ice cream.

A common favorite platter amongst visitors would be the Bernice Special. For nine dollars, a decent sized platter of French fries and homemade coleslaw comes alongside your cheese-nificent burger. The waitress then sets a caddy full of ketchup, mustard, onions and relish down so that the customer can decorate his/her burger however they wish. For just a small additional cost, tomatoes and lettuce can be added as well.

Once seated, little paper cups of water are served, but what drink complements the burger the best? An old-fashioned milkshake of course, filled to the brim in a tall silver cup. The waitress gives you the entire beaker, so that you may help yourself to a couple chilly refills. Milkshakes are available in every flavor; some are rather eclectic, and range from vanilla, to grape-nuts or even chocolate Almond Joy ice cream.

For desserts, Shady Glen offers sundaes and fruit ice creams, which are crammed with fresh fruit from local and regional farms. "From the ice cream to the burgers, everything is fresh," says William Hoch, the executive manager of Shady Glen. Hoch goes to work at the crack of dawn everyday, and is very dedicated to the business. "The cleanliness, product and service are what counts, even down to the 1950s atmosphere."

Let me describe one process in hopes of making your mouth water. Some of the ice creams are topped with a rich, gooey chocolate sauce that hardens upon impact with the chilly treat, causing an explosion of rich, fudgy chunks.

Six dollars can take home your very own selection of hand-packed ice cream, and around the holidays, a half-gallon of Christmas ice cream (with red and green cherries) or some Thanksgiving pumpkin ice cream.

Amidst the shiny, stainless steel communal counters and colorful murals adorning the walls, lay booths full of amazingly satisfied customers. "It has been a great business," Hoch said as he spoke about the 60 year annivesary. The food is the same as it was in 1948, and won't be changing anytime soon.

The art of Shady Glen's cheeseburger has made this roadside restaurant a must, and even if Bernice made his signature burger mistakenly, it proves that good always comes out of the bad.

Goldfrapp: Seventh Tree

Alison Goldfrapp's voice is mesmerizing. From the moment you press play on Goldfrapp's latest album, Seventh Tree, you are charioted away to an elegant sound-world of ambient, soothing tempos that are accentuated by Alison's sensuous, drawn-out notes and perfectly played-out pitches.

Goldfrapp's newest release stands out from most of their collection; before Seventh Tree, Goldfrapp was a bit more tantalizing. Their most recognizable hit on Supernature, "Ooh La La," was featured in commercials for the scintillating FX television series "Nip/ Tuck." Most of the tracks on Supernature resonate a Kylie Minogue feel, even a hint of Gwen Stefani. As if the crazy electronic party got a little too out of hand for Goldfrapp, Seventh Tree is seen as a bit of a 'rehab' album for the band.

"Clowns," the first track on Seventh Tree, has a Joni Mitchell appeal; lest we all remember Mitchell's impressive range, where she could dip low into false baritone and bounce back immediately to sharper, high notes. Alison shows her ability to do the same and could give Mitchell a run for her money.

Recorded out in the English countryside of Somerset, most of the album reflects that serene feeling that is evident in most of the tracks, especially "Little Bird" and "Happiness." They also have that psychedelic '60s feel, with a mix of reverberating sounds and noises in the background of Alison's lyrics, which feel very Beatles- oriented.

Every single track is as aesthetically pleasing as the next; "Road to Somewhere" and "Eat Yourself" are two dazzling gems of Seventh Tree, and in "Cologne Cerrone Houdini," a beautiful string arrangement sashays its way through four minutes of bliss, whilst Alison asks, "Could we be together in another world?"

Wild Bill's Nostalgia Center

Calling all collectors and novelty enthusiasts: search no longer for that vintage Hannah Barbara lunch- box or giant Pez dispenser! In need of a bobble-head or two? Look no further, and stop digging through your parents’ old junk in the attic!

There is a living monument to the unforgettable time periods that are well-passed and long gone: an ode to the pop culture that defined us as Americans.

Driving down Newfield Street in Middletown is quite ordinary; that is, until Wild Bill’s Nostalgia Center comes into sight. It is as if you began to trip right then and there, as the explosion of colors numb your senses.

The building’s exterior is difficult to describe; it is that intense. Each side has been painted with historical figures and cartoon characters, from Jim Morrison to Superman. Janis Joplin is seen hanging out by an unmarked entrance and next to it, a sign painted with the old phrase: “Hippies use side door.”

“It’s good to have high ceilings,” said owner Wild Bill. “Makes it easier to pile a lot of crap up.”

For 25 years, Wild Bill has been living a dream, owning sacred novelties that people constantly are pining after. As an early distributor of Funko, Bill started out selling Wacky Wobblers, otherwise known as bobble-heads. Funko has also made a bobble-head of Wild Bill, which resembles him with his long locks in an Uncle Sam top hat and peace sign necklace.

Bill then increased his store’s merchandise to hold rarities, ranging from hard-to-find vinyl records to recreations of old concert f lyers, along with the millions of posters and postcards.

Wild Bill’s past is as colorful and adventurous as his store. Having worked for the Barry Goldwater campaign in 1964, he then enlisted in the Air Force in 1966 while most were avoiding the misery that was Vietnam. After coming home, he settled down, got hitched, and had three children, all of whom work at the establishment as well. “My children and grandchildren work here; it’s strictly a family business,” Bill said.

Outside the store, on his 45-acre lot sit, 28 tractor-trailers full of rare finds. The store is already filled to the brim as-is, so Wild Bill takes out handfuls of loot from the trailers when he has the time, and the space. “This is what happens when you don’t throw anything away for 60 years,” he said.

One item in his store holds a personal meaning to Wild Bill: a life-sized, electronic, animated clown built in the 1920s, straight from Coney Island. As he plugged it in and turned on the semi-disturbing laugh track, I watched the clown’s haunting movements. “This is sentimental to me because my grandfather was a Barnum & Bailey clown,” Bill explained.

Random objects hang from the ceilings, whether it’s a giant Mini-Me (Austin Powers) or a section from a kiddy carnival ride from the 1940s. “Anything goes here,” said Wild Bill. “Whatever I find, I sell.”

While scouring the inside of the store, I stopped to gander at myself in a warped mirror, attempted to talk myself into purchasing a liquor bottle lamp and eventually ended up at a $550 Coca-Cola soda machine, starting at it intently and wishing it could reside in The Recorder office.

From vintage toys to wigs, suspenders, model cars, sunglasses and more, nothing in the store can be classified as “normal.” “It’s oddball stuff, but people do buy it,” Wild Bill said. “I started the kind of place I’d like to shop in.”

Distributors from all over the U.S. and Europe know about Wild Bill’s Nostalgia Center. “They know we’re here and that we buy strange things,” he said.

Even Rob Zombie knows; he used a Wild Bill’s poster in one of his latest movies. Speaking of great publicity, A well-known television station is noticing the store’s outer beauty as well. “MTV is shooting a music video here next Sunday,” Bill noted. “It should be interesting.”

Wild Bill is planning an action-packed summer full of outdoor concerts, f lea markets, and better yet, a fun house built behind the store that will be open to the public. “I was thinking of having a hot dog stand built into the fun house,” Bill said. “You’d order your hot dog, go through the fun house, and then receive your hot dog as you walk out.”

Exercise Your Inner Dude At Bowl-O-Rama

Late at night when the city of Newington sleeps, there lies a place alive and thriving with the thunderous sound of a collision so recognizable, yet so rarely seen or practiced by the youth of today.

When thinking of an exciting late night out with friends, ever consider a few rounds of some bowl-on-pin action?

Bowl-O-Rama, located on the northern end of the Berlin Turnpike, is a 24-hour family owned and operated establishment committed to “an inexpensive way of having fun,” says owner Rip Callahan.

The alley, opened in 1959, is a way of life to the three generations of Callahans who have kept it af loat throughout the turnpike’s constant f luctuation. “We’ve seen [the turnpike] at its peak, its decline, and now current upswing,” said Rip, who has been a bowling aficionado since the age of 16.

Despite the turnpike’s ins and outs, Bowl-O-Rama has always had a constant inf lux of customers. Great for family get-togethers, celebrations and birthdays, the alley is surely a cost-effective, yet elating way of having some friendly, fun competition.

“It gets very busy on the weekends,” Rip admitted.

It is a rarity to find any place open much later than 10 p.m. on most nights, especially weekdays. Having begun its 24-hour, seven-day-weeks ritual in 1960, Bowl-O-Rama caters to night owls and insomniacs alike. This works especially well for college students, who are always on the lookout for some excitement after their long, class-filled days.

There are plenty of perks to selecting a night out bowling compared to some ritualistic club or party. With a bar open till 2 a.m. on weekends, a legal bowler may sit back and sip a cold beer as they watch their partner-in-crime bowl a goose egg. What can a college ID get you? A free pair of bowling shoes. Being a mere five miles away from campus, it’s friendly on your gas tank. Need any more convincing?

Rip’s son, Fred Callahan, wants to organize leagues for colleges within a 15-mile radius for a bit of a “Best Campus Wins”-kind of competition. “It would be very flexible,” said Fred, in terms of working around class schedules. “I think it would be awesome to attempt.”

Bowl-O-Rama also offers normal leagues, which take part in winter and summer sessions. “There has been a decline in league bowling,” Rip said. “Luckily, we still have around 1,600 to 2,000 members.”

With that said, there’s no stopping you from bringing out your inner Dude (think The Big Lebowski) and creating your own team, or just taking a night out to enhance your chances of attaining a turkey (three strikes in a row). Just remember, bumper bowling will not impress your date.

Alchemy Juice Bar Cafe: Something for the Stomach and Mind

February 6, 2008


Photo Cred: Conrad Akier


Sequestered away amidst the hustle and bustle of Hartford's busy streets is a place of rejuvenation and relaxation.

The Alchemy Juice Bar Cafe livens up a rather dismal-looking section of New Britain Avenue, serving as home to an assortment of vegan and organic treats from fruit smoothies to soups and sandwiches.

For the past five years, Alchemy has opened their doors to individuals seeking a different alternative to large chains that serve anything, and leave their customers clueless as to what is in it or how it is prepared.

The Juice Bar, which has won numerous awards from the Hartford Advocate and Co-op America, has forever committed itself to only using fresh, organic, raw produce that has been locally grown.

"This is basically the way we live," says Alchemy's owner, Imani. 203 New Britain Ave is not just a restaurant, it is what she, her husband and their six home-schooled children call home. Imani, who has a Master's Degree in Early Elementary Education, raises her children with a "green" awareness, stressing the importance of an eco-friendly lifestyle.

With this knowledge, her children will go into schools to teach others about the wonders of organic food, and other elements that surround a healthy way of living.

With an oxygen bar, yoga studio and an eco-boutique included on the premises as well, it's hard to stay narrow-minded at such an eye-opening place. Herbal remedies, dried fruits and even non-toxic cleaning supplies and hemp-made journals are scattered throughout the site for purchasing; and, of course, there are freshly-made delicacies.

Speaking of smoothies, Alchemy's selection includes some interesting mixes, from the Antioxidant Acai ($6, with acai, banana, coconut and pineapple juice) to the Tantric Love ($10, with cacao, goji, strawberries, banana, coconut, dates and berry tea), and one could even select a milkshake smoothie ($6) made with dairy or vegan ice cream.

It is a definite must to get a bowl of the Soup Du Jour ($5) and, from a personal standpoint, the Veggie Miso was excellent, especially with its fresh mixture of potatoes, carrots, tofu and scallions.

What is so great about an oxygen bar? Pure oxygen "gives you energy, calms your mind, and stimulates your senses," read a handmade sign next to the machines. It is $7.50 for 15 minutes of use and should definitely be tried at least once for the sweet smells of lemon grass and cedar wood proliferating ones nostrils.

"We are committed to this neighborhood and are aiming to revitalize Hartford," said Imani eagerly. She and her husband, John Vito, are planning to create a co-op for sustainable living, aptly named The Growing Green Project.

"I would love to see more young people involved," she admitted, hoping that college students will stop by, enjoy the atmosphere and learn more about the cause. What you do spend, you gain in health, knowledge and empowerment. It's a good feeling.

Losing My Tanning Bed V-Card

What is particularly pleasing about going to a tanning bed? I’ve always pondered this question and have been strongly against ever stufing myself into one of those terribly hot, cramped quarters. So, this made me 22 years old and still a tanning bed virgin.

Why was I so against it? One summer, my mother was going to some tropical island down south and needed a “base tan,” meaning she didn’t want anyone to see how translucent she was. Going to a tanning bed a few times a week for 15-minute intervals, she claimed she then had skin problems. Her legs had seemed to become permanently chapped, and thus she had to use lotion more frequently. To me it sounded like what could develop into something more serious, and I have never wanted to risk getting skin cancer. I’m worse enough when it’s 95 degrees and sunny - I sometimes forget to wear sunscreen. I’m not completely paranoid; I just didn’t understand the point of voluntary skin cancer.

One night last month, my stepsister and I had just returned from gallivanting at the mall. Driving back, she subtly asked, “Want to go to the tanning place? The irst visit is free.” She had already paid for a month’s worth of visits to the “fryer,” and she knew I had been curious about it. The only reason I agreed is because it was free. What could honestly happen to me in one visit?

Walking inside the newly-opened establishment, I peered around and a bronze-faced, blond-haired lady noticed my puzzlement. I was a deer caught in the headlights; I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. My stepsister, having already been acquainted with the procedure, told the woman that I was new. I had to pick up two little eye gadgets so that my retinas wouldn’t be sizzled out of my sockets.

Sitting and waiting for a room to open up, I spaced out and stared down the aisle. The tanning rooms were on both sides, all full of naked bodies in mechanisms that remind me of giant clams. As I waited, the lady gave me suggestions on how long I should go for my irst time.

“Personally, I think it would be good to go for about seven minutes,” she said so matter-of-factly. “You have a very fair skin type.” I agreed, and she said if I wanted to jump out before then, all I had to do was press a button inside the bed that turns it off.

A room opened up, and after the bed had been cleaned and wiped down, I was escorted inside. Never before had I gotten naked in a public place, besides the doctors ofice. Luckily, the rooms were very private and spacious. I got undressed, applied some weird lotion that I had been given for free, implanted the eye goggles and slowly crawled into the blue illuminated machine.

I began to sweat profusely; my back was slippery against the glass bulbs, and beads were dripping down my face. It was deinitely not for the claustrophobic, but I am not; oddly I was rather relaxed. Seven minutes felt like two, and I opened the shell of the bed feeling like nothing was different.

It wasn’t till the next day that I noticed how burned I was. My face was lushed, my upper body was a bit scorched and I was quasi-darker than usual. The real “fun” didn’t occur until about a week later, when I began to peel like a snake sheds its scales.

Weirdly enough, it was a rather calming experience; in the winter especially, relaxing in a heated bed is just as good as it gets. I could never be a slave to the tanning bed; but maybe once in a blue moon I will go for seven minutes in heaven. In reality though, I enjoy the skin I’m in, and I don’t think an overly-bronzed look would suit me.

True Life: I Worked At McDonalds

The unemployment rate is on the rise everyday. As more individuals are laid off, many barely making ends meet as it is, where can they honestly turn these days? People will practically do anything to make life affordable and provide for their families. High school and college students require money for paying rent, car insurance, phone bills and tuition, among other things. Not everyone can land their dream job, especially when they don’t yet carry the credentials nor have the connections to do so. With our current economic situation, you take what you can get and suck it up.

Is it really that painful, working at a fast food restaurant such as McDonald’s? It’s rather simple, and can be a great opportunity for individuals seeking to expand their leadership and business skills. Many who work there long term end up becom- ing managers or can go on to create their personally owned enterprise of McDonald’s establishments. Is there money in that? Of course; most store owners have made decent lives for themselves and are very respected within their communities. With any major company there is always a chance to advance; that is, if you have the commitment and willpower to stay on track.

Sadly, the “stereotypical” McDonald’s worker is seen as lazy, unintelligent and incapable of advanced skills. This couldn’t be more untrue; in fact, these are the people who deal with more hardship and inconsistency in their lives then people who can completely bypass a fast food job in general.

McDonald’s can be demanding in more ways than one. Take socialization for example: since the key objective is “Fast, friendly service with a smile,” the public has a high expectation for their quick, cheap meal. With most on the run, they expect instant gratiication; if this is not met, most grow very impatient and can be rude. Once the employee puts on that uniform, they become a commoner. This doesn’t always give them the respect they deserve as a person. Employees deal with the crabby, insulting people who just don’t understand how much it can suck for them, the workers who have to grin and bare the customers’ needs and remarks. This applies to any customer service job, whether you’re a waiter, a supermarket cashier, and even a hairdresser! If someone is dissatisied, employees have to give them what they want. The customer is always right, correct?

During my short few-week stint at McDonald’s over winter break, I was subjected to the annual SOR, which is when a McDonald’s representative comes in to do an inspec- tion. Everything must be perfect because the store is graded on cleanliness, quality and performance. Prior to the visit, each of us individually had extra cleaning jobs and duties to be prepared for the visit; I even had to be ready for answers to questions such as, “What was the target rate of customers during lunch hour?” Seems ridiculous to most, but it is very important and crucial to the business. It was taken very seriously by most, as even the store owner was present, and our general manager was obviously nervous and eager to please. Hard work paid off in the end, as all of our scores were in the mid 90s. My co-workers and I were showered with praise, and then work continued in the same format it had always been in.

In retrospect, I have saved up a decent amount of cash for my next semester at college. If it will help me financially, why should I be embarrassed about having worked there? We’ve all had jobs that we’ve been embarrassed to tell our friends about, but why should we care what they think? And more importantly, if they would make fun of you, are they really worth keeping around? Even if you’re working a job that you know isn’t the greatest, it will shape you into a stronger individual that is more akin to understanding the ups and downs in life. For those who don’t experience it, well, they’ll just continue to be ignorant; but let’s be hopeful that won’t become a true statement. As the father in Calvin and Hobbes always tells young Calvin after doing jobs he despises, they just simply “build character.”

Tangled Up in Blue: My Journey With the Blue Devils

Photo cred: Conrad Akier


I groggily slipped out of bed last Tuesday morning after four hours of sleep, the irregular kind where no actual sleep takes place. My phone rang at 6:20 a.m., and I made a mad dash to answer as to not awaken my roommate. "We're still working on the newspaper," said Conrad, and to this I replied, "Yeah you better hurry up. We have to meet the team at 6:45 a.m. to board the bus."

Shuffling out of my residence hall into the early dawn light, I struggled with my annoyingly heavy bag all the way to Kaiser Gym, where I watched Conrad, who hadn't slept in 24 hours, strain with his three enormous bags up the four sets of stairs adjacent to the building.

Walking together to the opposite side of the building, we boarded a charter bus. Not just any charter bus, but one filled with 30 of the most athletic, talented group of soccer players ever to grace Central's campus, more notably known as Blue Devils. The boys were on their way to Oklahoma to challenge the University of Tulsa Wednesday evening in their second NCAA tournament match-up.

The team showed signs of an exuberant post-game high from reigning victorious over Harvard three days prior, when the Crimson put up a tough battle on their home turf until the very last second in their first NCAA match. It was the men's first time in history advancing in the NCAA tournament, and they were doing it in style: a bus ride to the tarmac where their private jet was sitting and ready to take off.

On the bus ride to the airport, Conrad and Head Coach Shaun Green exchanged conversation about our coverage of the team. Conrad handed Green hot-off-the-press pages of the Monmouth and Harvard victories, and Green practically beamed as he looked at them. He repeatedly told Conrad he could win awards with the photos he took of the team.

As the team exited the bus in a single-file line onto the tarmac, they huddled together in a group aside the plane and Conrad took his first photos of the trip. The teammates' pumped their fists in the air, excitedly cheering and goofing off as they hopped up the plane's foldout step stool of a ladder.

"Can we have a coloring book back here for the little boy?" jeered junior Captains David Tyrie of Norwich-Norfolk, England and Yan Klukowski of Wiltshire, England. They were sitting directly behind Conrad and I, and were poking fun of their freshman teammate, Connor Smith of Burnley, England. Being the jesters of the plane, they asked for alcoholic beverages and gave the stewardess quite the time when asked if they were willing to perform the duties necessary to be sitting in the emergency exit row seats. After take off, the plane grew silent as most found the flight to be a perfect opportunity to catch up on lost sleep.

"We will be landing in Dayton, Ohio to refuel," said the stewardess over the intercom an hour or so later. My face lit up like a light bulb; I grew up in Dayton for the first 11 years of my life. As we were landing, the boys looked out the window, making remarks about the flat, brown, desolate fields, calling it 'farm country.' It's not that they were wrong in saying that, it was true. Having lived there, it made me chuckle.

After swiping a copy of the Dayton Daily News and another round of tarmac-picture taking with Conrad, we were on our way to our final destination. I amused myself for the rest of the flight by drawing cartoons of soccer players and handed them to Coach Green who sat in front of me. He passed them around to the rest of the boys and drew his own picture of the team as little stick figures holding the NEC trophy above their heads. After having survived a trail mix food fight and drinking my weight in carbonated soda and water, we touched down in the Sooner state.

Tulsa was a complete change of scenery. As we boarded the bus and drove through downtown, the city seemed to be stuck in the 1960s. Bystanders would wave, highways were large but calm; people seemed to take their time. Once our bus conquered some agitating road construction and orange cones, we settled into the Doubletree Hotel, where they welcomed us with warm freshly baked cookies, which is a tradition the hotel has had for years, apparently.

Conrad and I checked our itinerary, and it was time to 'chillax.' Coach Green lives by this word, and in the itinerary it indicated downtime, so we laid in our king-sized comfortable bed and watched Cristiano Ronaldo of Manchester United score the final blow to Sporting Lisbon on ESPN. As we boarded the bus for dinner, Ronaldo's victorious goal was the talk of the team. One or two boys asked, "Did you see it?" while others responded in detail of their thoughts on it. It was a mere ounce of insight to their involvement with soccer outside of their own team.

After chowing down on some nice rib eyes and silently giggling at the waiters saying 'pop' instead of soda, we stopped back at the hotel so the guys could pick up their warm-up gear and it was off to practice at University of Tulsa's soccer complex. Riding into campus we noticed their facilities were astonishing. "This is the biggest pitch you guys have ever played on," said Green to his players.

Watching the practice made Conrad and I want to kick a ball around, so whenever the ball came sailing our way, we'd retrieve it and kick it back. "You must be good at soccer," Flavio Simao said as my ball seemed to land perfectly in front of one of the players. "Not really," I said. "I played from first to eighth grade, and that's it."

Simao's job was to warm-up the guys by making them run back and forth across the pitch, making them twist, turn, jump and pounce. Donning orange, blue and yellow jerseys, they also practiced defending, passing and communicating to one another. Christian Benjamin, assistant coach of the Blue Devils, cranked out some shots directed towards Central goalkeeper Paul Armstrong, who blocked them with consistency and ease.

Once we returned back to the hotel for the night, Conrad and I bought a couple rounds of beers and talked with the coaching staff. "Whether or not we win tomorrow night, we'll be celebrating. It's my birthday on Thursday," said Green. "But we will win."

Indeed the next day would be an unforgettable one.

After getting a rousing 10 hours of sleep, I woke up at eight in the morning feeling refreshed. I ate breakfast with the coaches sans Conrad and the entire team, because obviously no one felt like waking up. I took part in a quick hour trip to the mall, where the players ate lunch at the food court and the team's athletic director Elizabeth Kane and I spent money we didn't really have. On the way back, we watched the American football movie Friday Night Lights on the bus, but had to stop it short of the last 10 minutes.

When I returned to room 320, Conrad had finally awoken. We scurried down to the hotel lobby for a pre-game briefing from Coach Green. "They don't know us, we don't know them," said Green to his players. "Tulsa hasn't played since November 18; they've had a rest for 10 days."

Central however, was prepared. They had played Harvard the Saturday prior, and had practiced every day. "These teams have not been through what we've been through," he reminded his team. Having grabbed a hold of some Tulsa game videos the night before, Coach Green had analyzed and recognized some of Tulsa's key players to focus on each of their abilities so his team would know who to watch out for.

"We need to be committed to defending," Green reminded his team. "When they get the ball, we need to keep our block. Don't mistake their possession for dominance. Keeping our shape is crucial to the game."

We had arrived to Tulsa's soccer complex early, and the team was eager to finish the rest of Friday Night Lights. Suspense was building as the Permian Panthers had less than a half a minute on the clock to score, and then, Blue Devils assistant coach Paul Wright abruptly turned off the movie. "Let's go you guys," he said, as he ushered the team off of the bus.

The Central Connecticut Blue Devils began warming up as the University of Tulsa Golden Hurricanes began to arrive at the pitch. Tulsa fans were filing in, and the officials were expecting a crowd of two thousand. When I finally reached my seat alongside the field, the players from each team lined up midfield for the National Anthem. Tulsa reacted to Central as they probably did with the 12 previous teams, but little did they know they were in for a treat.

The first 15 minutes were like a meet and greet; the teams were playing footsie under the table, slowly warming up to each other. The icebreaker came five minutes later when a Golden Hurricane blinded Central goalkeeper Paul Armstrong from saving the ball. Tulsa fans erupted with shrills and screams.

It was time to show Tulsa what they were missing on the East Coast.

Less than two minutes later, Yan Klukowski sank the ball in past Tulsa's 6-foot-4 goalkeeper Dominic Cervi from 16 yards away. The first half ended with a 1-1 tie.

During half-time, Coach Green gave the Blue Devils a pep talk.

"This is for your family, friends and colleagues back home. This is for all the other little state schools!" Green yelled. He pointed out that Tulsa was playing sloppy. "We are playing better than them. Keep it up!"

In the 48th minute of the game, Klukowski set forward Johan Rundquist up for a brilliant header into the goal. A half an hour later, Tulsa's Cervi sauntered his way out of the net. Connor Smith took advantage of the goalie's mistake and beat him to the net with a finger breaking performance, literally. With nine minutes left and a leading 3-1, it was practically gift-wrapped, sent with love and care from the Golden Hurricanes.

Not really. Fans were growling, screaming, calling each and every call against their team blasphemous. Never before had they ever seen their team teeter on the edge of defeat. Tulsa was rewarded a penalty kick with five minutes to spare and succeeded, but did not halt the performance of Central's players, for they persevered till the very last second. The final score of 3-2 shimmered on the Hurricane's giant scoreboard.

Fans grimaced and Tulsa players sat in disbelief, dumbfounded, as the Blue Devils, coaching staff and player's parents rushed the field to hug each other, screaming, "We're in the sweet 16!"

After Conrad photographed the team in front of the scoreboard, players were on their cell-phones, telling relatives and friends of their success. Coach Green yelled, "Thank God for cell-phones and computers!" as he was barraged with one phone call after the next. Overhearing some of the players ask why we hadn't finished Friday Night Lights, assistant coach Paul Wright said, "Because they lose at the end! I didn't want you guys to see that before the game!"

Driving back to the Doubletree, the entire bus rang out in celebration. Teammates joined their voices in stunning renditions of 'Build Me Up, Buttercup' and 'Don't Stop Believing,' as Coach Green and Simao danced standing up in the middle of the bus.

Once we arrived and settled back in, beers and cheers filled the hotel bar. A cowboy hat was given to Green for his birthday, and I had given him a birthday card I had purchased the previous day with the entire teams signatures inside. The best birthday present Green had received, was the victory. "Thank you guys," Green said as he lifted a glass of cabernet in his hand.

As we lifted off the ground from Tulsa the next morning, Conrad and I had the distinct pleasure of sitting behind the jesters again. "Now I know where I'm spending my summer holiday," Tyrie exclaimed sarcastically as he pointed down at one of the cookie cutter houses. "And it starts with a T!"

Mother Nature decided upon an unfortunate time to swallow New England in a blustery chill as the Blue Devils returned to prepare for their next NCAA endeavor against University of Massachusetts, who had overpowered top-seeded Boston College the same day Central had conquered Tulsa.

Amherst, Massachusetts was an unlucky place to be on that fateful Sunday afternoon, as University of Massachusett's Rudd Field was a frozen solid ice rink. Ten minutes into the first half, officials stopped the game due to players slipping and sliding. After discussing all possible solutions the game continued an hour later, and after playing their hearts out, Central simply couldn't stop UMass from triumphing. The Blue Devils' season had ended in a snowy haze.

Seniors Andrew Cooper and Jonathan Agbatar hung their heads, visibly melancholy about the outcome, and that it was their final run-around with their Blue Devil squad. "We're going to miss them," said Coach Green as he spoke highly of his seniors. "It's going to be hard to fill their boots next season."

Matthew Taibbi: Well-Traveled American Journalist

American journalists would be envious of the opportunities that Matthew Taibbi has already experienced in his young adulthood. At the age of 37, Taibbi is currently the contributing editor of Rolling Stone magazine, or as he calls it, a “fancy way of saying I’m someone who contributes without technically being staff.”

A coin would represent Rolling Stone magazine most accurately: one side being politics, the other entertainment. Taibbi focuses on the former, having a natural affinity for dark humor. Being a political correspondent, Taibbi covers electoral politics in campaign years, and when there isn’t a gallop to the White House, he writes about major political events.

Rolling Stone gives Taibbi privileges that most journalists do not receive.

“Most (journalists) do not get seven to eight thousand words to spend on a topic as arcane, convoluted and unsexy as congressional procedures,” he explained.

Taibbi is never censored with his affiliation, either.

“I get to use language that is more colorful and I have a lot more leeway to describe politicians in a way I see fit,” Taibbi said. “There is no pressure to adopt other political tones.”

Hailing from a family of journalists, Taibbi had a broad sense of the field he was out to pursue.

“My father, godfather, stepmother, and almost everyone I grew up with was into journalism; it was like the family business,” he said.

Taibbi initially wanted to be a writer in high school when he immersed himself in books written by Russian comic novelists such as Mikhail Bulgakov and Nikolai Gogol.

“I wanted to be a comic novelist but it didn’t work out so I ended up in the business I knew,” recalled Taibbi.

His appreciation of Russian works set him up for an elaborate decision his senior year of college to transfer to a school in present day St. Petersburg, Russia. It was merely the beginning of a long, unusual path to becoming an established journalist. After graduating, Taibbi stayed in Russia and began freelancing very early in his career.

“I was what was called a stringer,” Taibbi said. “A stringer is a type of freelancer who lives in a remote area and contributes to various news organizations.”

After writing for the Associated Press and newspapers like The Moscow Times, Taibbi veered off onto the surprisingly unexpected path of pro-basketball. While playing for a team in Mongolia, Taibbi contracted a serious case of pneumonia and had to return to Boston. After recovering, he flew straight to Russia and didn’t look back.

With the help of another American journalist living abroad came the controversial English- language, Moscow-based newspaper, The eXile. Produced by Mark Ames and co-edited by Taibbi, the newspaper gave the two writers absolute freedom from American libel law. After writing for The eXile for six years, Taibbi’s reputation had increased exponentially.

“It allowed me to attempt journalism that was not run-of-the-mill. I was overseas; I lived somewhere that wasn’t expensive,” he said. “Even though I wasn’t making much, I was able to survive, and it eliminated the pressures that a lot of Americans have in this country where they can’t just sit around and write in their blogs, because they need to make a lot of money to live. I didn’t have that problem in Russia.”

Just as any journalist isn’t perfect, Matthew Taibbi has encountered ethical problems before.

“If someone never encounters an ethical problem, they’re probably not doing their job very well. A journalist will have to do things that are difficult and sources/bosses can and will sometimes put you in uneasy situations.” he said.

Taibbi recalled a time when he had a source that believed Taibbi had made a promise to him, but for Taibbi, the promise was of a different character.

“I consulted various experts on journalistic ethics, lots of non-profit organizations help in those situations, and I did that before I spoke with my own bosses.”

Taibbi’s advice for young journalists is to always try to work it out themselves before talking to who they work for.

“A boss might do what is in their interest and is not always the right way,” he said.

Every writer always has a favorite, and for Taibbi, one of the pieces he was proud of journeyed into the lives of four high school children who lived in a Russian ghetto. What Taibbi referred to as being like Fast Times at Ridgemont High, the story involved the relationships between the teens, and Taibbi followed and checked on them for the next two to three years.

“It was a really fun story,” he said. “It was more like writing a novel.”

Taibbi looks towards the future with an intent on changing the decrease of readership in America.

“One of the things that is sad about modern America is that not many people read, and I think I’m eventually going to try to get into television or film to reach a wider audience,” he said.

Taibbi didn’t seem completely thrilled about the venture into the domain where entertainment reigns dominant.

“From an impact and financial standpoint, all reporters will have to make that move eventually,” he explained. Taibbi plans on resurfacing some old high school dreams as well.

“In the future I will try [my] hand at writing fiction again,” he said, “but I don’t think I can afford to do that yet.”

Mono at the Middle East

It was a chilly, drizzly night as the newspaper's photographer and I drove through the stop and go traffic induced by the Mass Pike tollbooths. We were venturing two hours away on a Thursday night to see Mono, a band from Tokyo, Japan. While I was almost bursting at the seams with excitement, my friend was travel-worn and fatigued. He had never heard of Mono before, and I began to worry that the trip along with the terrible weather conditions simply wasn't worth the effort.

In the back of my mind, I knew the show would be promising. Two years prior, I had experienced the instrumental delight of Mono in a small American Legion in Connecticut. What was produced was an earth shattering orchestra of guitars, and what is astounding about their performances are the dynamics used; it can go from quiet and melodic to ear pounding and powerful at random surprising points in a song.

As the both us trotted down Mass Avenue with our hoods over our heads, there was a moment of confusion as to where the entrance for the Middle East Underground was. After mistakingly walking through the band entrance, I was reprimanded and sent back into the streets. We finally made our way in past an impatient employee, who seemed to be having a tough night.

To calm our jitters from the pre-concert discombobulation, three rounds of Blue Moons and Octoberfests were ordered and sipped on as we scanned the dimly lit area, full of interestingly clad men and women conversing with one another, waiting for the opening act to begin their night of hearing loss.

Vaguely do I remember the opener, honestly because it was not my cup of tea. All I recall is the singer mentioning, “Hey, we're from Kentucky,” and then exploding into another song full of deep growls and screams that set my ears on fire. It dawned on my friend and I that we were in dire need of some earplugs, but we shrugged it off, figuring we'd be fine.

Hailing from Brooklyn, New York, the band Panthers clawed their way onto the stage after the opening act, changing the ferocity from the previous band into upbeat fast-paced straight up rock. The energy inflicted upon the crowd during their half hour set was through the roof, and being a little inebriated, I decided to move my limbs and dance a bit.

The pivotal moment came right as Mono prepared to set up their instruments. I looked over at my friend, and silently hoped he would enjoy the show that he wasted precious diesel fuel to come see (or forced to see, I should say.)

Having read a previous interview with the guitarist Takaakira Goto, I knew the band has been somewhat uneasy about American shows where the audience was loud, talkative, and drunk. I worried this would be the case, since most of the concert-goers had a beer in hand.

Once Mono had taken the stage and began playing my worries melted away; everyone else was just as entranced in the music as I was. Guitarists Goto and Yoda and bassist Tamaki were completely focused on each note played, calmly sitting opposite one another. An example of the dynamic change could be found in the song “Halcyon (Beautiful Days)” The beginning is a delicate trickling of notes with a slow drumbeat, transforming into a blissful rough and tumble blast of wavering gritty chords. During these powerful moments, the three calm musicians play as if they are physically being swept off of their feet.Watching them was mesmerizing, but closing my eyes also allowed me to truly capture the spirit embodied in each 8-10 minute composition.

The overall performance was perfect. Mono's quiet, focused disposition allowed them to play with complete accuracy and precision, something you rarely see in live entertainment. The only setback was the ringing in our ears from the high volume that carried on into the next day.

To my surprise, my friend absolutely loved it, and proceeded over to the merchandise booth afterwards to purchase three of Mono's albums from bassist Tamaki. On the way back to Connecticut, we made the rainy drive more enjoyable by popping in You Are There, and proceeded to mellow out after a vivacious night in the big city of Boston.

The Beautiful and Talented Regina Spektor

You’re going to see your favorite artist, and to your dismay, it’s canceled due to Mr./Mrs. Popstar coming down with the sickness (disturbed reference aside). While it could be a real or fake reason, (Is too much partying in the tour bus legitimate?) you’re pissed, your money went down the hole and even worse, the chick/dude you were going to take just isn’t interested anymore. If only you went to a real concert with an amazing musician, this wouldn’t have been a problem.

The beautiful, graceful figure that is Regina Spektor stood before an inspired, awed audience last Wednesday night in the Jorgensen Center at the University of Connecticut. It was not until a half hour into the show that she publicized her sickness, she had come down with a cold. Most probably had not noticed; I hadn’t, I was too busy revelling in her powerful and completely onkey vocals, trademark boom boxing and compelling over-articulation of words that Spektor has become well-known for. To top it off, Spektor was stunning in a cute little ensemble; her curly locks draped over her shoulders. If you were writing an ad-lib for Regina Spektor and needed a noun, vixen and fox are just a few that would have fit perfectly. Every girl in the audience would have killed to be her, let alone meet her, and the bro-dude sitting to the right of me showed more attentiveness to Spektor rather than to his own girlfriend.

Rewinding to the beginning, Spektor began the evening with an a cappella ditty titled “Ain’t No Cover,” about a woman who loves her husband, who is “eight miles high” on drugs, but she loves him regardless. Spektor made a beat by patting her hand on the microphone during this performance, and it was simply unique.

Another non-piano song was “Bobbing For Apples,” to which Spektor adorned a shiny metallic blue guitar. Although it was set to only one chord, the simplicity is what makes her shine in everyone’s eyes. When she sang the line “someone next door is fucking to one of my songs,” the audience laughed heartily.

Regina Spektor’s lyrics can be comedic, adorable and can leave you exclaiming, “I never would have thought to put that in a song.” During “Music Box,” I giggled when she sang about floating bottle caps in dishwater and how it was the “greatest voyage in the history of plastic.” One song I was unfamiliar with was “Baby Jesus,” and while playing the grand piano with a fast vigour and a crazy look in her eye, Spektor rapidly fired off verses about a statue of baby Jesus that was in a window of a 99 cent store.

Spektor played most of her latest album, Fidelity, while mixing it up with a couple oldies from Soviet Kitsch. The best performance of the night was “20 Years Of Snow.” It is by far the most captivating, melodic ballad Spektor has written; she breathes life into this piece when performed.

In a brief intermission between songs, Spektor jokingly requested the school’s podium so that she could feel like a speaker at an important school function. After a remarkable encore of 3-4 songs, to Spektor’s delight, a few good men brought out the UConn podium. Puzzled as of what to do next, she asked the audience, “What happens during one of these things?” The audience replied with the famous “UCONN! HUSKIES!” chant. This moment? Priceless. The opening act, one boy that went by the name Only Son, came out and joined Spektor at the podium. As he beat boxed into the microphone, Spektor sang the final song. The best experience of my life came to a marvellous bittersweet ending.

I tried my hardest to leave nothing out about this concert, of course, that would leave nothing to be experienced. “Caution: Spoiler Alert!” should have been in the first sentence, but like a book with a surprising ending, you can’t take someone else’s word for it; dive in and find out yourself by seeing Regina Spektor the first chance you get.

Forget Elmers, I'm Going To Elis

September 26, 2007


Photo Cred: Conrad Akier


"Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza." -Dave Barry

Ice cream parlors love to gloat about carrying 32 flavors of the sweetest, creamiest, best-loved concoction of the junk food world. For beer lovers, what about a bar with a selection of 32 of the most satisfying ales and lagers on tap, rotating constantly? Is it revolutionary? Unrealistic? Of course not; this beer euphoria exists within the walls of Eli Cannons Tap Room in Middletown, Connecticut.

Snugly nestled on 695 Main Street, many would be flabbergasted to know that the Elis building was once Middletown's city morgue in the 1800s. The morgue was renovated into a bar later that century, but it wasn't until 14 years ago that the building got the treatment it so desperately needed to become a success. Proudly stating "Saving the Ales," Eli Cannons is dedicated to customer satisfaction, hot food, nostalgic atmosphere and above all, cold frosty beer.

Before entering Eli Cannons, one stops to marvel at its interesting outward appearance. The "it's not just any bar" feeling is evident in the multi-colored lights that shine brilliantly on the tap room's banner. An over abundance of neon fluorescent beer signs are displayed in every nook and cranny of the windows, and big boisterous flags fly above the entrance.

Stepping inside, people are introduced to not only its friendly bartenders and servers, but also to the Irish/English pub/American trailer park fusion of decor. The term "too much of a good thing" does not apply here, as that is the theme of Eli Cannons. People can sit in antique barber chairs, theater seats and leather couches, or just take a traditional seat at the bar. Hundreds of mugs hang from the ceiling as you catch glimpses of the randomly placed TV screens with everything on from old Japanese films to concerts and sports.

Classic and alternative rock fills the building and keeps everyone's toes tapping. If the weather is permitting, one can visit the Beer Garden of Eden, aka their beautiful, large and spacious back deck/patio, surrounded by tall shrubs, trees and flowers. Got the beer munchies? Help yourself to some popcorn from the old-fashioned popper as you drink your beer and enjoy the fresh air.

But what about the beer, right? How does Eli Cannons carry 32+ beers on tap?

"It's definitely expensive," said Carrie Roberts, Eli Cannons general manager. "They aren't too hard to acquire; microbreweries have grown in popularity and we are widely known for featuring them."

What about the macro brews, like Coors, Budweiser or Miller?

"We do not carry macros," Roberts proudly replied. It's understandable, too. For a place that cherishes individuality, normality would be a sin.

Eli Cannons is so well-known and treasured by microbreweries that they seek out Eli's continually for their support. On Tuesdays and select Thursdays, Eli's holds beer tastings featuring a different brewery every week. People get to enjoy two of the brewery's featured beers on tap as they collect free beer gear, such as t-shirts and key chains.

Special events are a major part of Elis constant effort to keep the public involved and informed of their favorite brews. Every year, Elis holds a Mardi Gras party on Fat Tuesday.

"It's huge, and totally wild," Roberts said with a big grin.

Other events include St. Patrick's Day, the night before Thanksgiving and pig roasts, and people can even book the bar for special parties. What could possibly be better than having a bar to yourself and your friends?

Beer aside, for a bar to have a good rep, it must serve excellent food; Eli's dinners and finger foods are downright exceptional.

"Everything is made fresh here," said Roberts. Eli's boasts the tastiest nachos and has an eclectic menu that is constantly growing. Dishes have unique names like the Zukonions - a plate of the most deliciously fried onions and zucchini that one will ever have the pleasure of experiencing.

Eli's features their own products as well. Displayed near the dining room section is a wall of over 50 different kinds of hot sauces, bottled on the premises or made my other brands. Microbreweries also collaborate with Eli's to make their own trademarked beers. Brooklyn Brewery helped create Eli's Bug Spray Ale, and Harpoon helped with Apache Attack Ale.

This isn't an overexaggeration. Eli Cannons is one of the best bars to experience in Connecticut - perhaps it's number one. It's obvious in Connecticut magazines; Eli Cannons Tap Room has won 10 Hartford Advocate Reader's Choice Awards, three Connecticut Magazine's "Best Of" Awards and The Malt Advocate Magazine's "Best Beer Menu (National)" Award. The public does not lie; once you arrive, you simply do not want to leave.

Eli Cannons is only about a 20-minute drive from CCSU's campus, and the prices won't empty your pockets. So, instead of drinking a disgusting red cup of cheap beer on Thursday nights, go somewhere actually worth enjoying.


Eli's website: http://www.elicannons.com/

My Day As a Parrothead

As steel drums fill the charter bus headed to Gillette Stadium, a woman in her mid-forties with flowered leis and parrot earrings offer me a vivid array of jell-o shots. I grab one, pop it in my mouth and stop to think, what have I gotten myself into?

What I was embarking on was the typical schedule for a Jimmy Buffett concert. Jimmy Buffett fanatics are called 'Parrotheads.' The term Parrothead relates to Jimmy Buffett as Deadhead does to The Grateful Dead. For Parrotheads, Buffett's music and a "laid back" attitude is a lifestyle. His "no shirt, no shoes, no problem" manta is displayed in his songs about boats, beaches and bar drinks. Buffett has made his mark so prominent within the past few decades that when you think of Key West or a margarita, you automatically associate it with good ol' Jimmy and the Coral Reefer Band.

Buffett has created his own genre, combining country, folk and pop music with coastal and tropical lyrical themes, creating a sound some call "gulf and western." Among singing and songwriting, he has written three number one best-selling books, opened his own chain of restaurants aptly named Margaritaville, is involved in charity efforts (most notably for creating the Save The Manatee foundation) and is branching out into film production.

Younger generations, however, do not understand the legacy of James William Buffett. Most mock and criticize him, and the majority know the song "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and nothing more. I, on the other hand, have grown up knowing this man my entire life.

Back when I was just a little girl in Ohio, my family would go on camping trips whenever there was free time. Lake Superior, Lake Erie - you name a Great Lake; we'd been there. My dad would always bring his boom box lakeside while my brother and I played in the water, and I vividly remember my dad playing the album, Off to See the Lizard. In fact, what am I saying? I've heard every single album and know every song there is to know by Buffett. Perhaps I am a Parrothead by default, but I don't know of a bigger fanatic than my mother.

My mother is a member of the Connecticut chapter of the Parrothead Club. There are chapters in cities spanning all over the country. Abiding by their motto, "Party with a Purpose," they hold fundraiser events for different causes. The most popular event held is the Meeting of The Minds in Key West, Florida, which attracts 3,500 Parrotheads annually and includes live music, a "Toys for Tots" drive, blood drives, raffles and other events raising money for charities.

The chapters also organize group trips to - you guessed it - Jimmy's concerts. In the past three decades, Buffett has made more money from his tours rather than his albums. A typical Jimmy Buffett concert will sell out in minutes, and this is all thanks to these devoted fans.

My bus trip was stuck in traffic as the Gillette Stadium came in sight. The bus turned right into a used car dealership, where Parrotheads from all over New England had been allowed to divide and conquer. My mother's friends in the Connecticut chapter started to set up tents, and eventually busted out the food and drinks and started gulping them down like camels in the heat.

My mother and I walked around to other chapters, where there were colorful blow up toys, men and women adorning coconut bras and grass skirts, trivia and drinking contests, an ice luge and much, much more. I ate a cherry that had been soaking in grain alcohol for quite some time and winced. I participated in a sort of Wheel of Fortune, except I got "Take a Jell-O Shot from Someone's Boobs." Luckily they let me just take the jell-o shot.

After five or six hours of tailgating, it was time for the "Bama Breeze '07" tour to commence. We walked across the street to the stadium; slowly shuffled our way in; and spent $7.50 on a Coors Light. Never before this year had Buffett played in the home of the Patriots, and he had no problem filling a football stadium. There was one opening act, but for most fans that just meant bathroom breaks and more pre-gaming. Luckily, our seats were not in the nosebleed section, but we were unfortunately settled in between some heavy marijuana smokers who were probably around the same age as my brother and I. I sipped on the lukewarm Coors Light I had been nursing for over an hour, and finally, for the first time in my life, I watched Jimmy Buffett take the stage.

From our section, Buffett was comparable to an ant, but luckily to each side of the stage there were two giant screens. My mother explained to me that nowadays, Buffett's set list is quite predictable. Upon further research, I've discovered the "The Big 8." The Big 8 are the eight songs that Buffett plays at every show. After their success, "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" and "Why Don't We Get Drunk (And Screw)" were added on, changing it to "The Big 10."

I participated in most of the "Big 10" songs, whether it was screaming "salt!" during "Margaritaville," singing "You better lava me now or lava me not" in "Volcano," yelling the ingredients to a perfect lunch in "Cheeseburger in Paradise," or just feeling generally happy during "Changes In Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes," when Buffett played videos on the giant screens of local Parrotheads tailgating. The best song, however, was "Fins." Preluded by the Jaws theme song to tease and get the crowd pumped up, fans raised their hands in the air in the manner of a dorsal fin, waving them left to right during the lyrics "Fins to the left, Fins to the right, and you're the only bait in town."

Almost 20 songs and two encores later, it was time to shuffle out of the arena. By shuffle, I mean inch our way out; we were like salmon swimming upstream. (Word of advice to smokers: Do not smoke when you're packed together like sardines - I almost got a cigarette in my eye.) When we finally made it back to the bus, we had a few more beers; sleepily boarded the bus; I chugged some Coconut Rum; and everyone went to sleep. (Sidenote: My crowned achievement was that I had started drinking at 9 a.m. and finished with that rum at midnight.) After finally arriving home at 4:30 a.m., I realized that no matter how much I cherished his music growing up, I am simply not cut out to be a true Parrothead.