So today was a perfect example of my life in Cincinnati. I graduated in June and am living with my parents again. Apparently I'm part of a new trend -- the Cincinnati Enquirer had a feature on my generation and how we're moving back in with our parents more than most generations. Something to do with entry-level positions being eliminated. And I think it's true that people my age think we're special and don't have to commit to life-long careers like most our parents have. I'm trying to avoid such a commitment, but also trying to be responsible and all that.

Most other "boomerang kids" I've talked to agree that moving back in isn't that bad, but sucks for one reason: our parents want to know what we're doing aaaalll the time. Even if they say, "We don't have rules for you anymore; do whatever you want," there's still that annoying, "What are you up to today?" or the unnecessary interrogations that follow five-minute absences, ("I just went out to get the mail, Mom.")

My parents have loosened up a little since I went away to college. While my dad used to be the only drinker, my mom has joined him and gets pretty tipsy at Euchre gatherings and sporting events. We've had season tickets to Bengals games since they began, and my parents recently went back to the tailgating tradition during the past few years. Whenever I'm in town, I'm guilt-trip driven to participate. I don't get into football much, but I'll admit that these parking lot parties are one of the best excuses to get wasted that I've ever seen. On Sundays I'm dragged out of bed at 8:00 a.m. and by 9:00 I'm in the Longworth parking lot with a beer in my hand. After 3-4 hours of drinking I'm usually too wasted to stay awake during the game and usually sleep with my chin to my chest until everyone freaks out about a touchdown. Early on, I decided I could either bring my apathetic sports-self to the game, or I could fabricate an alter ego. I sort of look at it as being in a play. Costuming is more fun when it's cold, because the orange and black layering options are endless. Cold game days are also fun because my mom drinks liquor. "If I stick to shots, I'll have to pee less, and who wants to go pee when you have all those layers on?" Good advice.

So how does music fit in? Well, just imagine hearing "Welcome to the Jungle" over and over and over again. I can't help but be impressed by how pumped up everyone gets though. Today I just observed everything, the fireworks, the cheerleaders, the painted people, along with the Guns N'Roses, and tried to view it as a form of entertainment that's similar to theater or seeing a concert. Sports speak to some people and art speaks to others, I guess. Not that there aren't many who like both. My dad's come a long way. Ever since I entered theater-nerddom in high school, he's become quite the fan of musicals. And since he's given in to theater, I've given in to sports too. I never know what's going on, but I like the atmosphere. Being at a Bengals game is similar to seeing a show at the Union in that you can be by yourself and be in a big crowd at the same time. And I can see why people like my dad enjoy sports -- he likes math and he has a big family, so liking sports is like plugging different numbers into the same formula over and over, and talking about stats is a good way to stay connected to far-off family members. I'm even overcome by the emotional aspect of sports every once and a while. Today I really surprised myself during the pre-kick-off spectacle. After the Bengals ran through the Bengals' pom-pom aisles and the fireworks had cleared, this flying V of F-14's zoomed overhead and instantly brought tears to my eyes. I looked to my left and my dad was crying too. Five minutes later, I was still trying to keep tears from rolling down my cheeks, my mom's eyes were all red, and my dad was wiping his eyes with the little orange towel that had been a free gift at the gate. I guess it had to do with the war and all that, I don't know. Or maybe the simple sensory overload from skin-shivering sound brought on tears.

But there I was, loving my parents, loving my country and loving this unnecessary spectacle of a sporting event. Three things that college had fueled a rebellion toward. Well, I never stopped loving my parents, but I definitely rejected the competitive attitude that can give patriotism and football a repulsive quality. So let's just hope my college self isn't totally erased during my return to Cinci. But, even if I wear orange stockings and paint black smudges under my eyes, I don't see myself converting to sports mania anytime soon.