del1lnrm

It was a gorgeous 50 degree morning with no clouds in the sky as I woke up at 5 A.M. I had slept on the porch of my Uncle’s house, located in the southern rainforest of Dominical, Costa Rica. I sat up and opened my eyes only to gaze out at his seemingly endless reservation of land along the coastline. As I listened to howler monkeys give their daily wake up call I grabbed a banana for a snack and tossed on my clothes. My brother, cousin, uncle, and I hopped into their rustic red Chevrolet or ‘Beast’ as they called it because it was obnoxiously loud as well as overwhelmingly large and drove for about fifteen minutes.

We met another car, which inside consisted of my dad, and two cousins. After the tedious two hour ride on less than adequate, unpaved roads to the pier, we all piled onto a fishing boat manned by a captain and one first-mate. We prepared for and dealt with the hour and a half cruise to our fishing location by eating, playing cards, and discussing what adventures we wanted to go on in the next few days. Once we were about sixty miles off the coast, it was 9 A.M. and there was a slight breeze but it was welcomed because the temperature had climbed to nearly 85 degrees Fahrenheit. We watched the first mate bait four hooks with live mackerel (a relatively small silvery fish) and the captain slowed the engine so we were traveling at a few knots. The lines were then dropped into the water and slack was given so the bait trailed the stern of the boat at about one hundred yards out and seventy yards deep.

It wasn’t long after dropping the bait in the water until we saw one of the fishing rods bend into a deep arc and the words, “Fish on, fish on!” were shrieked by half of my family on the boat. Without hesitating, I bounded into the chair as the first mate handed me the rod. The reel (device attached to the fishing rod where the line is wound) seemed to be screaming caused by the furious rate at which the line was running away from me, so I knew I had a big one. I wasn’t sure what type of fish I had hooked but I couldn’t wait to haul it in.

After a few minutes of letting the fish take the line, I started to bend with the arc and simultaneously reel until I couldn’t take in anymore line. I would then pull up on the rod so that it was pointing to the sky directly above me and duplicate the process of bending and reeling. This dull procedure repeated a few times until the fish gained enough energy and ran with the line again for half a minute until coming to a stand still once more. The endeavor repeated multiple times in which my intent was to tire out the fish. It was a yo-yo effect because I would reel in line and then the fish would run with it, almost negating my efforts. However, I knew my efforts were greater than the fish because I noticed the line wrapped around the reel was getting thicker. I told myself, “I’m never gonna quit, not this morning, you're mine and I’ll sit here all day until I get you.”

Following the blisteringly sweaty twenty-five minutes of baking under the sun, I finally saw my catch. Approximately thirty yards off the port side of the boat I caught a glimpse of something I will never forget. The fish on my line jumped clear out of the water, as if to show off, and presented its silver-blue scales glimmering in the light. As it jumped out of the water it wiggled wrathfully trying to break the line or shake itself loose.

Finally, after a few more reels, it was close enough to the boat and the first mate put on “sticky” rubber gloves to grab its long needle-like nose. He pulled it on board and I held up its huge dorsal fin just in time for my dad to take a quick snap shot. The first mate then slid the sailfish back into the water, before it did any damage by thrashing its tail, and in the blink of an eye it was gone. With sweat perspiring from every pore in my body, I sat on the bench in the shade and opened a can of soda to relax and rest up for the next catch of the day.

It was a gorgeous 50 degree morning with no clouds in the sky as I woke up at 5 A.M.I had slept on the porch of my Uncle’s house, located in the southern rainforest in Dominical Costa Rica. I sat up and opened my eyes only to gaze out at his seemingly endless reservation of land. As I listened to howler monkeys give their daily wake up call I grabbed a banana for a snack and tossed on my clothes. My brother, cousin, uncle, and I hopped into their rustic red Chevrolet or ‘beast’ as they called it since it was so large and loud and drove for about fifteen minutes. We met another car which inside consisted of my dad, and two cousins. After the tedious two hour ride on less than adequate unpaved roads to the pier, we all piled onto a fishing boat manned by a captain and one first mate. We prepared for and dealt with the hour and a half cruise to our fishing location by eating, playing cards, and discussing what adventures we wanted to go on in the next few days. Once we were about sixty miles off the coast, it was 9 A.M and there was a slight breeze but it was welcomed because the temperature had climbed to nearly 85 degrees. We watched the first mate bait four hooks with live mackerel and the captain slowed the engine so we were traveling at a few knots. The lines were then dropped into the water and slack was given out so the bait trailed the stern of the boat at about one hundred and went about seventy yards deep. It wasn’t long before we saw one of the fishing rods bend into a deep arc and the words, “Fish on, fish on!” were being yelled by half of the people on the boat. I hopped into the chair as the first mate handed me the rod. The reel was screaming because the line was running away from me at a furious rate so I knew I had a big one. I wasn’t sure of what I had hooked but I couldn’t wait to haul it in. After a few minutes of letting the fish take the line, I started to bend with the arc and simultaneously reel until I couldn’t take in anymore line. I would then pull up on the rod so that it was pointing to the sky directly above me and repeat the process of bending and reeling. This occurred a few times in a row until the fish gained enough energy and ran with the line again for half a minute until coming to a stand still once more. The process repeated multiple times in which my intent was to tire out the fish. It was a yo-yo effect because I would reel it in and then the fish would run with the line, but I knew I was gaining on it since the line wrapped around the reel was getting thicker. I told myself, “I’m never gonna quit, not this morning, this fish is mine and I’ll sit here all day in order to reel it in.” After a blisteringly sweaty twenty five minutes of baking under the sun, I finally saw my catch. Approximately twenty yards off the port side of the boat I caught a glimpse of something I will never forget. The fish on my line jumped clear out of the water and showed me his silver-blue scales glimmering under the sun.



As it jumped out of the water it wiggled wrathfully trying to break the line or shake itself loose. Finally, after a few more reels, it was close enough to the boat and the first mate put on “sticky” rubber gloves to grab its long needle-like nose. He pulled it on board and I held up its huge dorsal fin just in time for my dad to take a quick snap shot. The first mate then slid the sailfish back into the water, before it did any damage by thrashing its tail, and in the blink of an eye it was gone. With sweat transpiring from every pore in my body, I sat on the bench in the shade and opened a can of soda to relax and rest up for the next catch of the day.



All in all, we hooked fourteen sailfish and landed (pulled onboard) eight.

It was a gorgeous 50 degree morning with no clouds in the sky as I woke up at 5 A.M.I had slept on the porch of my Uncle’s house, located in the southern rainforest in Dominical Costa Rica. I sat up and opened my eyes only to gaze out at his seemingly endless reservation of land. As I listened to howler monkeys give their daily wake up call I grabbed a banana for a snack and tossed on my clothes. My brother, cousin, uncle, and I hopped into their rustic red Chevrolet or ‘beast’ as they called it since it was so large and loud and drove for about fifteen minutes. We met another car which inside consisted of my dad, and two cousins. After the tedious two hour ride on less than adequate unpaved roads to the pier, we all piled onto a fishing boat manned by a captain and one first mate. We prepared for and dealt with the hour and a half cruise to our fishing location by eating, playing cards, and discussing what adventures we wanted to go on in the next few days. Once we were about sixty miles off the coast, it was 9 A.M and there was a slight breeze but it was welcomed because the temperature had climbed to nearly 85 degrees. We watched the first mate bait four hooks with live mackerel and the captain slowed the engine so we were traveling at a few knots. The lines were then dropped into the water and slack was given out so the bait trailed the stern of the boat at about one hundred and went about seventy yards deep. It wasn’t long before we saw one of the fishing rods bend into a deep arc and the words, “Fish on, fish on!” were being yelled by half of the people on the boat. I hopped into the chair as the first mate handed me the rod. The reel was screaming because the line was running away from me at a furious rate so I knew I had a big one. I wasn’t sure of what I had hooked but I couldn’t wait to haul it in. After a few minutes of letting the fish take the line, I started to bend with the arc and simultaneously reel until I couldn’t take in anymore line. I would then pull up on the rod so that it was pointing to the sky directly above me and repeat the process of bending and reeling. This occurred a few times in a row until the fish gained enough energy and ran with the line again for half a minute until coming to a stand still once more. The process repeated multiple times in which my intent was to tire out the fish. It was a yo-yo effect because I would reel it in and then the fish would run with the line, but I knew I was gaining on it since the line wrapped around the reel was getting thicker. I told myself, “I’m never gonna quit, not this morning, this fish is mine and I’ll sit here all day in order to reel it in.” After a blisteringly sweaty twenty five minutes of baking under the sun, I finally saw my catch. Approximately twenty yards off the port side of the boat I caught a glimpse of something I will never forget. The fish on my line jumped clear out of the water and showed me his silver-blue scales glimmering under the sun.

<img src="http://static.flickr.com/53/130637083_f6abe15640_m.jpg" As it jumped out of the water it wiggled wrathfully trying to break the line or shake itself loose. Finally, after a few more reels, it was close enough to the boat and the first mate put on “sticky” rubber gloves to grab its long needle-like nose. He pulled it on board and I held up its huge dorsal fin just in time for my dad to take a quick snap shot. The first mate then slid the sailfish back into the water, before it did any damage by thrashing its tail, and in the blink of an eye it was gone. With sweat transpiring from every pore in my body, I sat on the bench in the shade and opened a can of soda to relax and rest up for the next catch of the day. <img src="http://static.flickr.com/55/130637084_731872b482_m.jpg" All in all, we hooked fourteen sailfish and landed (pulled onboard) eight.

For over a decade, the song “Black Betty,” covered by Ram Jam (originally Leadbelly) was a 1977 hit, was played at every men’s hockey event before the start of the second and third period. Referred to as a major “pump-up” song by UNH sophomore Brittany Clement, Black Betty always brought the fans to stand up from their seats and clap in unison, ready for the Wildcats to take the ice. The effect of over 7500 crazed fans erupting at the beginning of Black Betty is overwhelming to say the least. Having worked at the Whittemore Center Arena for six months and experiencing first-hand the excitement and rush of noise and cheering, I can only imagine what it is like to be a hockey player for UNH. After stepping onto the ice in a confined area with thousands of eyes on you and seeing how many supporters there are, it must be one incredible adrenaline boost. On the other side, I can’t even begin to comprehend what is going on in the minds of the opponents, who must deal with having everyone in the arena against them.

Unfortunately, in early January about midway through the season, the UNH Athletic Director, Marty Scarano, banned Black Betty from being played because of numerous complaints, dating back to two years ago. Scarano says he banned the fan favorite because it is “theoretically racist,” taking the same side as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). The NAACP declared the version of “Black Betty” by Ram Jam offensive to African-Americans. After meeting with UNH officials, members of Hockey East (the league in which UNH competes) decided the song is “probably inappropriate,” allowing Scarano to make and enforce his decision. When attempting to contact Scarano by multiple reporters, he denied interviews and refused to return phone calls.

Once back at school after the month long winter break, many students as well as other fans were shocked and disgruntled at the fact that there was no warning or tell-tale signs that “Black Betty” would no longer be played. Only until The New Hampshire, the school newspaper, printed an article pertaining to the controversy did the majority of students become aware that it would no longer be played. However, many fans are still uncertain as to why the song was banned in the first place. Sophomore Keri DeLuca regularly attended games and believed that the only lyrics in question were, “Whoa black Betty (bam ba lam), whoa black Betty (bam ba lam).” DeLuca continued, “I don’t think saying black to describe an African-American woman is racist. It’s just a song with no harmful intentions, just like rappers who meaninglessly talk about drugs, guns, violence, and sex.” In fact, Leadbelly (deceased), the original writer and recorded of “Black Betty,” was African-American. After speaking with a co-worker from the Whittemore Center Arena, senior Brendan O’Sullivan thought, “…it was an up-beat song intended to rally the fans but it doesn’t matter to me whether or not they play it.” When asked why it doesn’t matter to him as a student, fan, and supporter of UNH hockey, O’Sullivan replied, “I don’t know, I guess because I’m there to watch hockey, I don’t care about the music.”

After thinking a good deal about what O’Sullivan said, he made a lot of sense; fans go to the games to watch the Wildcats play some puck and win some games. However, I also contemplated what DeLuca had said as well and I must say, I agreed with her statement that the ‘in-question’ phrase was “black betty.” However, I wasn’t satisfied with that being the end-all so I began to interpret the words and meaning of “Black Betty.” Once I read through the song, I immediately knew where the argument Scarano and the NAACP formulated originated from. In the third phrase, it reads, “She’s from Birmingham (bam ba lam), way down in Alabam’ (bam ba lam). Coincidentally, I am currently taking a class devoted to the Civil Rights Movement and so I am aware, I assume many students at UNH are not, that Birmingham, Alabama was one of, if not the most racist section of the deep south. A place that was all too familiar with lynching, beatings, deaths and extreme racial segregation during the 1950’s and 60’s. In fact, in 1963, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and two other colleagues were arrested for leading a protest march and held in solitary confinement for three days. Later that year, the Ku Klux Klan bombed a church and killed four girls attending Sunday school. Such violence and segregation was a practice that took huge efforts to break.

Once informing sophomore Neal Warren about the history of Birmingham he said, “I feel there is a fine line between some subjects of racial discrimination or prejudices and others are a stretch of an interpretation, and this is one of those situations where there has been a stretched assumption to have a negative effect on individuals.” Warren makes a good point. For some people, misinterpretations, misconstruing the facts and assuming the worst in a particular situation is all too common. In this case, it is perfectly reasonable to think that Scarano, the NAACP, and those who complained about the song, did just that. Maybe they wrongly considered “Black Betty” to be inappropriate, but in order to say that, we are making an assumption on their beliefs.

When I brought this up to my advisor at the Whittemore Center Arena, who wanted to remain anonymous, he told me that he believes it’s all political. “You heard about the new football stadium Scarano wants to build, right? Well, in order to do that, he needs to make himself look good to the members of the board who will approve of the thirty-five million dollar stadium construction. He’s getting rid of “Black Betty” and cutting a bunch of University teams to become more politically appealing.” Had I heard this from a student I would have thought it was a valid point, worthy of consideration, but after absorbing this statement from a superior advisor, I was shocked!

After reading the lyrics of “Black Betty,” a song closely related to the most brutal component of racial discrimination, I can understand why the Athletic Department chose to remove the song from the Whittemore Center Arena. However, it is totally unacceptable if the main reason for discarding a well-known and well-liked song by the thousands of students and fans is for political reasons. It will be a further shame if the football stadium is unapproved because the loss of “Black Betty” for no reason will seem like a double-whammy. I’m sure in the following years the team will find a new song that will bring the fans to their feet in a roaring ovation that is both appropriate for the arena and lacks controversy. But for now, I’ll just stand up and cheer because I’m there to support my fellow Wildcats and watch some Division 1 hockey.

As a child growing up in the suburbs of Massachusetts about an hour away from Boston, I grew up to become the typical New England die hard sports fan. For as long as I can remember, my parents took me to Red Sox games and I loved every minute of them. One of the first nation-wide groups I became familiar with was “The Fenway Faithful.” The reason why Red Sox fans are regarded as "faithful" is because before the 2004 season, the Red Sox had not won the World Series since 1918. However, they still carried the same desire and fire in their eyes for their home team to get a shot at being considered number 1. Not only did they remain loyal throughout team hardships, they are some of the greatest fans in the world and I proudly consider myself to be one of the elite. I believe I can call myself a member of the exclusive Fenway Faithful because not only do I love the Red Sox and baseball in general, I can get around Fenway Park in a heart beat with my eyes closed. Not only do I know that its 137 paces from the gates to my personal seats, I also know which line is the shortest to go to for food in between innings. Depending on the batter and the pitcher, I also know the best time to go to the restroom so that you can be in and out by the time it takes for the batter’s name to be called over the loud speaker until he strikes out. Only years of attending games will give you this type of knowledge and I am extremely lucky to be one of the few that had and still have that opportunity.

The first memory I have of going to a game is when I went with my Mother, Father, Brother, and Grandfather. After picking up my Grandfather at his house in Bedford, Massachusetts, we drove into Boston and parked our car as close to the stadium as we could. Bounding out of the car, I looked up at the infinitely large walls of Fenway Park and eagerly awaited my entry. However, being new to this type of event, I was unaware that it was only time to go into Fenway after my Father bought a large, juicy, Italian sausage with hots, peppers, onions, mustard, and large coke to wash it down. Apparently this was his gamely routine and he would never break it. After watching him devour his meal, my stomach told me to get in line to buy a hot dog and something to quench my thirst. Since my Father had been attending games since 1978, he knew exactly where to go to get the finest Fenway Frank in the park.

With my ticket ready in one hand and my hot dog loaded with ketchup and mustard in the other, I hastily walk through the gates of Fenway, only to be bombarded by hundreds of crazed fans. Like an energetic dog psyched for his walk around the block, I was strides ahead of my family but I had no idea where I was going. I soon realized to stay with my family because after turning around I saw the backs of my brother and Father walking up the ramp of the stadium to get to our seats. I immediately ran after them only to be jostled from side to side between the dense crowd of people all of whom were anxious to get to their seats and await the first pitch.

Finally reaching our seats, I was amazed at not only the perfect view of the field, but also that fact that I unknowingly inhaled my hot dog on the way. With my stomach rested and a seat under me, I was ready to enjoy my first Red Sox experience in beautiful Fenway Park. As the Red Sox took the field, every fan jumped to their feet and gave them a standing ovation, which I joined and only calmed down once "The Rocket" Roger Clemens started his warm-up pitches. The temperature was a cool fifty degrees Fahrenheit but that was unnoticeable because of the body heat radiating from neighboring fans due to the sardine-like seating style of Fenway. I took in everything, from the 37 foot wall referred to as the Green Monster in left field to the famous Pesky pole in right field. As well as the enormous Citgo sign in the distance beyond the Green Monster and the magnificent Prudential Center tower over the right field bleachers.

The game was a great one to attend because it was against our hated arch rivals, the New York Yankees, and we won by a two run margin. The Rocket had pitched yet another tremendous game and we left Fenway Park with our heads held high and thus began my experience as a new addition to the Fenway Faithful.

After winning the World Series in 1918, the Red Sox traded the legend and future Hall of Famer, George Herman Ruth, known world wide as Babe Ruth. Not only was he an extremely gifted player, the Red Sox traded him to their adversary, the New York Yankees. Since then, the Red Sox have never won the World Series and baseball fans everywhere talked about the Curse of the Bambino. After learning about this alleged curse and attending a handful of games each year, I became aggravated that the Red Sox seemed to repeatedly quit after the All-Star break in July. The team seemed to be so strong in the beginning of the season, winning the majority of their games, only to blow it in the last month of the regular season ending the hopes and dreams of millions to watch them win the World Series and break the dreaded Curse of the Bambino.

The 2003 season added to the torture when we battled again with the rival Yankees and took it to game 7 in the American League Championship Series (ALCS). This would be the deciding game to determine who would go to the World Series. Unfortunately, game 7 was scheduled to be played at Yankee Stadium, one of the largest and loudest baseball stadiums, where it is extremely difficult to win. I remember watching game 6 on television with my Father and after winning, he asked me if I wanted to drive to New York City and watch game 7 in person. I jumped at the idea, but was quickly shot down when my mother told me I had to go to school and my Father had to go to work. Like game 6, we watched game 7 on the tube and it was unbelievably tense. The Red Sox were winning early in the game up until the eighth inning where things started to fall apart. The Yankees ended up tying the game and sent it into extra innings only to win it with a heart-shattering walk-off homerun in the eleventh inning. Again, the dreams of watching the Red Sox in the World Series went down the drain and the Fenway Faithful had to wait another season for their chance to shine.

In January, 2004 my Father was admitted to Massachusetts General Hospital after suffering from a stroke. Five days after being admitted to MGH, he died from a hemorrhage in his head, forfeiting any scarce opportunity of watching the Red Sox win the pennant. It was a devastating shock to everyone in my family and I never thought anything would ever be able to ease this immense pain. I felt as though he had given up, and therefore in the back of my mind, I gave up. I gave up on the last five months of my senior year in high school. I gave up on my minimum wage paying job. I even gave up on staying healthy, giving in to drugs and alcohol. But nothing ever helped.

Eight months after my Father passed away, I looked to the Red Sox to help alleviate my anguish of losing my most important role model. After winning the American League Division Series to the Anaheim Angels in three straight games, we once again faced off against the resented Yankees in the ALCS. We lost games one and two in New York but our spirits weren't down yet because the next three games were to be played in Fenway. Keeping the tradition alive, I attended game three of the ALCS with my mother and brother. To our dismay, the Red Sox lost pitifully with a score of 19-8, one of the worst defeats in playoff history. Leaving the stadium crushed and bewildered at their terrible performance, my brother said it’s all over. Although I knew it was a long shot and I realized they were in a hole, I was not yet convinced the Red Sox were out. I remember going home and lying down on my bed, closing my eyes, and breathing heavily. As I lay there, I thought to myself. I reflected on the past year and what happened. I thought about everything I did and everything I should not have done. I sat there and I pleaded for some sign that my Dad didn't die in vain. I thought, "Give me something to turn this negative into a positive, give me something, anything."

Game 4 of the ALCS was everything a sports fan wanted to watch and ended with a walk-off homerun in the bottom of the 12th inning from the Yankee killer, David Ortiz. The Red Sox won 6-4 and went on to win game 5 in yet another dramatic finish as Ortiz knocked in the winning run in the 14th inning making it 5-4 Sox over Yanks. Game 6 was back in New York and the Sox won their third straight with a score of 4-2 sending the ALCS into another game 7. Never before in baseball playoff history had a team come back from a 3 game to none deficit and advance to the World Series, but all of that would change.

Kyle's Blog Living where Kyle lived must be pretty amazing to most people. If you live the Olympics or hockey, you'll want to read this blog.

Kali's Blog I think Kali's description of this advertisement hit it on the head of the nail. Check it out.

Jackie's Blog If you enjoy drunken fights but happy endings, you'll enjoy reading this blog. Good thing Jackie's alright though.

#49

One of my family traditions is to go to a few Red Sox games each year with my family. I have been a Boston fan for my entire life and I wouldn’t want to be anything else. My family has owned season tickets to the Red Sox games in Fenway Park since 1978 and we always thought it was an opportunity not many people, never mind children my age, were able to partake in. The atmosphere of the 94 year old park, as well as the fans, and the food combine to make one hell of an experience.

About one and a half years ago, I recall one of the greatest nights of my life. It was cool, clear night in Boston and I went in with my brother Ryan, half sister Erika, and nephew Max. We only had three tickets but Max was only one and a half years old at that point so he was able to come into the game for free. It was the first World Series I had ever been to and it was the first World Series the Red Sox had been to since 1986. Fenway was hosting games 1 and 2, as well as 6 and 7 if the Series went that far. We were lucky enough to get to go to game one, and what a game it was! I have never heard Fenway Park erupt louder than in the bottom of the eighth inning of game one. The score had been going back and forth all night until it was tied in the bottom of the eighth inning 9-9, with a man on first and Mark Bellhorn stepping up to the plate. He hit a deep fly ball that looked as if it could have gone foul or kept fair by the effects of the wind. However, when it “dinged” off of Pesky’s pole, I was unable to hear my brother who was standing to my left because the fans were going nuts! It was clearly the best baseball game I have ever witnessed in person. It gave me such a satisfaction after we won the entire Series because I could know say I was part of that amazing year in Red Sox history. I saw the Red Sox win the first game of the World Series, which took them 86 years to achieve.

I often think back to that night incredible night and I remember the sounds, the sights, and the feelings reverberating throughout the packed stadium. I wonder how many people if any were able to see the win in 1918 and the win in 2004. Then I start to think about the millions of people who prayed and wished for decades for the Red Sox to get back the World Series but didn’t get to see them make it. I am one extremely fortunate person.

FINALLY!!!


ESRUC

# 47

Decisions, decisions…


McIdiots!


Coming to the end of a road and the other decisions to make is a left or right, it seems this fellow is having some difficulty. First of all, there is no description as to what college it is, which makes me believe it can’t be that reputable. If it was a well-known college, I think they would have included the name so people who read the sign would realize where they were. Second, it gives no distance in either direction as to how far one must travel in order to reach the desired destination. I can step into this man’s shoes and see where he is coming from.

There is no explanation for the second picture. These people are just plain stupid! I don’t mean to get into a huge debate on this but I don’t even think they know what they are putting in their food, never mind what they are trying to say on a parking sign. It boggles the mind trying to understand how such incompetent people can get a job designing and printing signs.

# 44

Before my freshman year in college, I didn’t hear much about Talib Kweli, but one day my friends told me he was coming to the UNH Fieldhouse and we should all go see him. I asked them if he was any good and they said, “Are you serious?!” I took that as a ‘yes’ and decided to buy a ticket before I had even heard his music. Once I got back to my room, I connected to the internet and started downloading songs from his album “The Beautiful Struggle.” After listening to a few songs I was really excited to go see him because I thought he had some good tunes and original beats. The day of Kweli’s show arrived and it was about two hours before he was expected to perform when the bad news hit. Apparently, his plane was delayed because of weather conditions in Minnesota so he was unable to make it to UNH. It was such a bummer because we were all pumped and ready to go to see him, but it just ended up being another day at UNH.

Talib Kweli – Beautiful Struggle
(30 sec. Audio Clips)

This is a tear jerker

The revolution is here, the revolution is here people
I said it once, I'll say it twice
You gots to be ready
The revolution is inside of you
People, the revolution is here, yeah

The revolution's here
No one can lead you off your path
You'll try to change the world
So please excuse me while I laugh (yeah)
No one can change your ways (rock with me for a second)
No one can lead you off your path (come on)
You'll try to change the world
So please excuse me while I laugh

Yo, I heard it's said the revolution won't be televised
But in the land of milk and honey there's a date you gotta sell it by
Otherwise it just expires and spoils
And these folks jump out the pot when the water too hot
Cuz the fire boils inside
You go to church to find you some religion
And all you hear is connivin' and gossip and contradiction and
You try to vote and participate in the government
And the muh'fuckin' Democrats is actin' like Republicans
You join an organization that know black history
But ask them how they plan to make money and it's a mystery
Lookin' for the remedy but you can't see what's hurtin' you
The revolution's here, the revolution is personal
They call me the political rapper
Even after I tell 'em I don't fuck with politics
I don't even follow it
I'm on some KRS, Ice Cube, Chris Wallace shit
Main Source, De La Soul, bumpin' "2Pacalypse Now"

The revolution's here (yeah)
No one can lead you off your path (uh uh)
You'll try to change the world
So please excuse me while I laugh (ha ha, ha ha)
No one can change your ways
No one can lead you off your path (uh uh)
You'll try to change the world ('scuse me)
So please excuse me while I laugh

Yo, I speak at schools a lot cause they say I'm intelligent
No its cause I'm dope, if I was wack I'd be irrelevant
I'm like the dope in your tracks until your high is settled in
You leanin' to the left, the laughter's the best medicine
But the troubles you have today you just can't laugh away
Stay optimistic, thinkin' change is gonna come like Donny Hathaway
You have to pray, on top of that, act today
Cuz opportunity shrivel away like Tom Hanks in "Cast Away"
Everybody pass away, the pastor pray, the family mournin'
Everybody act accordin' to the season that they born in
You fight in the streets, start bleedin' 'til the blood is pourin'
In the gutter, mothers cry 'til the Lord be livin' by the sword and
All that folks want is safety, they goin' gun crazy
The same reason Reagan was playin' war games in the '80s
The same reason I've always rocked dog chains on my babies
The struggle is beautiful, I'm too strong for your slavery

The revolution's here (yeah)
No one can lead you off your path (uh uh)
You'll try to change the world
So please excuse me while I laugh (ha ha, ha ha)
No one can change your ways (yeah)
No one can lead you off your path (uh uh)
You'll try to change the world ('scuse me)
So please excuse me while I laugh (yeah)
The revolution's here
No one can lead you off your path
You'll try to change the world
So please excuse me while I laugh
No one can change your ways
No one can lead you off your path
You'll try to change the world
So please excuse me while I laugh

So please excuse me while I laugh

#41

At five thirty in the morning in the isolated town of Raymond, Maine, we prepare for the best conditions possible. Looking out from the boat, it seems as if we are riding on a mirror and I can't wait a second longer. I strap on the "Hyperlite" wakeboard while balancing on the back of the brand new 2005 Malibu motor boat. Once I'm tightly secure, I leap into the luke-warm lake water and wait for the start of the motor to churn the clear liquid. As I feel the rope become tense and the torque of the boat brings me upright on top of the water, I turn the wakeboard so that I start to ride the wake in between the two crests. Once I feel comfortable, I put the slightest amount of pressure on my toes, as if to lean a bit forward and the Hyperlite darts to the starboard side of the Malibu. As I rise and fall with the crest of the wake, it feels as if I’m not even on a lake. The water below me is as smooth as glass and I look out into the distance. The water is warm, warmer than the air giving the appearance that the lake is evaporating into the sky. It gives the lake an eerie look but I don’t care because I cut harder into the untouched waters.



Almost parallel to the boat, I let off of my toes and quickly dig into my heal edge. Leaning back and pulling on the rope as hard as I can so that my ass is almost touching the water, I spot my take-off and hit the wake of the boat at about thirty miles per hour. As I soar through the air towards the other side of the wake, I spot my landing. Just as I thought it would be, smoother than a baby’s butt.