Graduation flashback: Saturday the 17th (the big day)

Graduation wasn't nearly as much fun as the rest of the day, but, then again, it was sort of the point of all this college nonsense.
Rather than boring you with a story about me sitting with some from friends in a stupid looking cap and gown for an hour, while making obnoxious comments about university officials, before walking across a stage and getting a piece of paper that said they'll be mailing me my degree, I'll just post a slideshow and some videos.

If you'd prefer to browse the photos at your own leisure, go here.
Oh, and here's the part where I'm officially done with college.




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Graduation flashback: Friday the 16th (A day of work)

Friday wasn’t nearly as much fun as Thursday.
While most of my fellow seniors were enjoying a down day in preparation for walking the plank on Saturday, I still had work to do to graduate.
What could I possibly have left?
The Big Freaking Paper wasn’t done, of course.
I mean, it was done. Mostly. I had 60 pages of nonsense about the differences between the media treated the Virginia Tech Massacre and the Iraq War and my defense went glowingly, but I still needed my advisor to sign off on it so I could have three copies bound on 25 percent cotton rag paper and signed by my advisor and the director of the honors program.

Every thesis has a few minor updates, but most of my fellow honors nerds made theirs shortly after their defenses, submitted the damn thing, and were done with it.
I’ve never been much for clerical work, though, so I decided to put it off and drink beer and play video games instead.
This created a bit of an issue. I had about six hours on Friday morning to make any final changes, print three copies, and get them bound and signed by two different people in order to avoid an awkward conversation with my mother in which I would tell her the cap and gown bit was just for show and she would simultaneously have a heart attack and strangle me with a kitchen spatula.
To complicate matters, the J School’s graduation photo/meet and greet was at 2 p.m., so I was working with a tight deadline.
Luckily, deadline work is my specialty. If I can type two 10-page papers in 10 hours, I can sure as hell get in and out of Kinkos in a timely manner.
Problem was my advisor didn’t finish reading it until noon, so I only had about an hour and half to get all this done.
Kinkos normally takes at least two hours for binding jobs.
Luckily I was able to sweet talk the woman at the front desk into doing it right away, which allowed plenty of time to get back to school to stand in 90-degree heat in a black gown with the J-School grads, submit my thesis, and enjoy a BBQ with my family before hitting the town for a few pre-game drinks.
In case you were wondering, I’m a ruggedly handsome young man.
See, growing out my hair and not shaving is the only reason I graduated.

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Graduation flashback: Thursday the 15th (A night of tragedy)

I never thought I’d go out a loser – a broken, confused shell of a once-proud champion.
But, alas, that’s how my college beer pong career ended. I lost. Badly.
The tragedy started when my parents wanted to cap a day of packing and graduation preparation with a drink or two.
Now, it’s important to note that I have a strange relationship with my parents.
Aside from cultivating the delicate genius that is Garrett Ward Hylton, mom and dad have also been active participants in my debauchery.
I watched American Pie with my parents, they don’t flip a lid when I drop the f-bomb, and they played witness, and cleanup crew, to the infamous 21st Birthday Incident (a story for another time).
So they didn’t want to wind down at one of the geriatric lounges. No, they were down with spending a few hours at Rumbullions.
The place was pretty slow with it being a Thursday night and all, but one of the girls I went through broadcast classes with was hosting a beer pong tournament for her company.

My dad said he wanted to play and the people lining up at the tables looked like a bunch of pushovers, so I signed us up.
I don’t think many people have played in beer pong tournaments with their dads, but, like I said, we have an interesting relationship.
As we set up our cups on the piece of plywood in the back, I was excited to start a night of rolling overpowered teams.
I could see it in my head – I’d drop shots at a rate that would make xx jealous, and my parents would get teary-eyed as they realized all the money they invested in my college education was well spent.
The evening didn’t quite go as planned.
My fundamentals were perfect, as always, with the ball softly arcing through the air after leaving my forefinger and thumb with a feathery flick of the wrist.
My touch was deft. My focus was keen.
But, after spending five years destroying lesser men, and women, on the beer pong table, I watched in utter shock as ball after ball hit plastic and bounced away.
To make matters worse my dad was on fire. Apparently beer pong is a genetic trait, because he had his best Kobe Bryant impersonation going on.
Unfortunately I was making like Dirk Nowitzki in the 07 playoffs and we lost.
And nothing pisses me off more than losing at beer pong.
I don’t mind getting slapped by a girl, I usually have it coming. I don’t mind throwing up when I get drunk, I usually earn it. I don’t even mind getting Bs on papers, because that only happens when I don’t put forth a lot of effort.
But I’ve spent my whole career perfecting my beer pong game.
In many ways, it’s the defining activity of my college career. Beer pong is damn sure the climax of my athletic participation in college (beer pong being sanctioned as an international sport is the only way I’ll ever be an Olympic athlete. Unless I take up curling.)
Everybody is good at something.
Some guys run really fast and have incredible fast-twitch movement, some guys hit balls of varying size really far, and some guys can throw a baseball 98 mph with late movement.
I’m really good at tossing ping pong balls into cups partially filled with beer.
When I was born, Zeus sent a lightning bolt to my crib, making my left arm America’s greatest weapon in the fight against sobriety.
This skill went mostly unused for the first 18 years of my life, but I put my gift to use two days after arriving on campus and I never stopped.
But, after so many nights of greatness (if you can define greatness as camping out on a soiled, beer-soaked sheet of plywood instead of socializing with members of the opposite sex), after 6-cup redemption comebacks, 12-cup games, and winning while partnered with my cousin Amanda, I finished by losing to a couple ass clowns.
I actually lost to them twice – we played again when my buddy Dave arrived at the bar to talk to another friend.
How would I ever rebound? Would these losses be the final chapter to my beer pong career? Or could I redeem myself?
Stay tuned…

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The cathouse

I went to a whore house tonight.
I’m visiting my hometown of Wells for a couple weeks before heading back to Reno, and, after a stressful semester, I just needed somewhere to blow off some steam for an hour or so.
Oh, and my cousin Amanda went with me.
Back off, people, I’m not a desperate perv – well, at least not like that – we were just going on a tour.
Amanda’s old roommate Liz is in town for a couple days, and, being from out of state, she obviously wanted to visit one of Nevada’s houses off ill repute before heading home.
It just so happens that Wells has two such establishments.

Yeah, that’s right, this town of 1,500 people needs more service than one brothel can provide. I’m actually pretty sure that Wells has the highest brothel-per-capita ratio in America, at least that’s what I say when I’m trying to impress the ladies.
I have no facts or statistics to back up that statement, but one brothel for every 750 citizens seems pretty absurd. After all, that means more than 1 percent of all people in Wells are prostitutes.
Anyway, I joined Amanda, Liz, and another female friend who shall remain nameless so her mother doesn’t flip a lid on a tour of the joint.
Wells’ brothels are actually pretty famous. Former boxing champion Jack Dempsey used to frequent one of them and the two houses share a parking lot and have been featured on HBO before.
We had a drink at the bar and talked about the assortment of merchandise available for purchase – the “I got my big serviced at Donna’s Ranch” was my personal favorite (apparently there's also a popular cook book with x-rated recipes from Nevada most domestically inclined prostitutes, but it was out of stock) – before we were shown around by one of the girls.
I don’t recall her name, but the 45-year-old claimed to have a BA in marketing and a 36C cup size. I believe at least one of those claims.
In all fairness, she was actually a lot of fun and pretty hot.
If I were at a bar and didn’t know she’d been run through by about a 26,000 truckers, I’d probably hit on her. But, then again, I’ve always wanted to be a cougar hunter.
She showed us the sauna, the lounge, and, of course, the "fantasy" room - you know, the obligatory red track-lit room with the big round bed in it.
I was a bit surprised that the house had a tanning bed – which actually makes sense because the girls don’t get out much during the day – and a significant amount of gym equipment – which didn’t seem to make sense because, well, I thought the girls worked out during the job. I guess the fact that sex workers need to take a few laps on the treadmill to stay in shape says something about us men in the sack.
Anyway, she spent a few minutes answering, very bluntly, our questions. She explained the licensing and testing process and told us how she got into the business.
The tour took over an hour, most of which was spent chatting about the industry. I don’t know how much non-sexual interaction the women get during the day, but she seemed stoked to be able to talk to people who didn’t want to A.) explore her orifices or B.) have their orifices explored more often and at a higher price than hers.
Being the only guy in a room with a girl cousin, two female friends, and a hot older woman wearing nothing but a push-up braw and a g-string, my only goal was to get in and out (you know it) without doing or saying anything embarrassing.
I thought I was going to accomplish that goal until the tour ran longer than most, which elicited a bit of teasing.
After the bartender asked what we were all doing in the back for so long, our working girl/tour guide said “There’s not much we could do with five people.”
Liz replied “I bet Garrett could think of a few things.”
Yeah, a few things did come to mind, starting with a blindfold and earmuffs for Amanda.

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More to come

I’m sorry I didn’t fill everybody in on the graduation action.
The last two weeks were pure madness. I meant to keep a running diary, but I was busy moving out, I had a ton of grad stuff to do, I was without internet for several days, and, in traditional fashion, I didn’t have my thesis ready to submit until about 15 minutes before it would have prevented me from graduating.
Oh, and I was hammered drunk for the better part of the whole thing.
So, starting tomorrow, I’m going to tell all the great stories of my last college weekend. I laughed, I cried, I drank, I moved, and one night I took down too many jjagerbombs and ended up lost and halfway to Carson City when I was supposed to be downtown at the Silver Legacy.
Shit happens.

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Donezo

My thesis is done.
I'm mean it's been done. But now it's done done - as in official.
I am no longer a student.
I've got a couple good stories, I'm sure more are to come over the next 48 hours, but right now I'm too tired to write any more.
So, without further adu, the theme song of my life...


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Getting it on till the break of dawn (with homework)

I couldn’t make myself get out of the chair.
My final was finished, I had already turned in my final paper, and I’d managed to nail an essay question about a book that I didn’t read or attend the lecture on.
But I still couldn’t leave the room. It was the last deadline, test, and class of my college career and I wasn’t ready for it to be over.
So I sat in my desk thinking back over the roughly 17 years I’ve been waking up everyday and going to school.

I thought back to my elementary school spelling tests when I wrote down each word as fast as I could for fear that I’d somehow forget the spelling if I took a second to think. I remembered the pressure I felt sitting down to take the ACT, scared that I wouldn’t score high enough to stick out amongst thousands of graduating seniors. I even smiled when I remembered my first honors calculus test my freshman year of college and how I looked at the first page and literally wondered if it was written in a foreign language before realizing that –cos(tanx)/siny+1 really just meant “Yeah, you’re fucked” in academia.
As I looked at all my other classmates scribbling away and occasionally flexing their sore hands in utter silence, I couldn’t help but remember all the finals I’d taken over the last five years and the connection I felt in all of them with my classmates who were just trying to get by like me.
Yeah, I’m a nostalgic guy, so deal with it.
Finally, after about 15 minutes, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer with out getting misty-eyed, so I rose, put my paper on the desk, and walked out of the classroom one last night.
I’m not somebody who really buys into the destiny crap, but I did appreciate that I took my final college test in the same room and building where I took my first college test. As I left the building, and glanced at the ivy-covered walls of the English building, I decided to take the long route to my car.
One of my favorite parts of going to the U of N is walking through the beautiful campus to and from class. I decided to make a loop around the old quad before strolling under the trees that cover the library walkway and finally past the pines that stand on the hill between the Fine Arts Building and the J School.
I never move around campus at anything that could be considered much more than a mosey anyway, but I went especially slow this time, enjoying my personal favorite parts of campus on one final relaxed walk after class.
After all this reflection, I went to the batting cages with Dave before going home to grab a quick nap.
To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what to do. I felt like I should try to make some grand plan in hopes of having some big adventure to cap such a huge event.
But I just didn’t have it in me. I’m still not sure how I feel about leaving school. And, at the moment, I’m more sad than anything about leaving my friends and this weird life where we learn to survive together in an amazing state of quasi-adulthood.
All I know is that while my last semester sucked nuts of the donkey variety, my last couple days went the right way.
I had to pull an all-nighter to get ready for the class, so I spent the night at the Joe with Scott and Dave before heading to the Gold and Silver for a sunrise breakfast. I couldn’t have ended my academic career in a more fitting way (I won’t say that I’m done being a student because I keep hearing all this crap about life being a classroom).
Oh, and I don’t think a student has ever had a more satisfying end to their careers than I did.
The all-nighter, the last one in an extremely long line, was mostly spent writing a 13-page essay.
What about, you ask?
Porn.
That’s right, my final contribution to this fine institution was a 13-page opus about the evils of high definition pornography.
I used clitoris and Jesus in the same sentence, and I also got to use vagina, vein tributary, and sport-humping.
I’m not sure how I feel about leaving, but I’m damn sure I couldn’t have picked a more perfect way to go.

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For my mama

It's Mother's Day, so I'm devoting a little blog space to the wonderful Mrs. Hylton.
I can't fathom how such a sweet and wonderful woman managed to spawn a little bastard like me, but she loves me nonetheless.
I understand that just about everyone thinks they have the best mom's in the world, but mine really is pretty great.

She works nonstop despite having a brittle body, she adopts all my friends and does things for other people before she takes care of herself, and she's a gourmet-quality cook.
Oh, and she does pretty much everything for me.
When it comes to domestic and general life skills, I'm absolutely worthless as a human being.
If not for my mom, I imagine that I'd be an ill-kept vagabond living in an alley somewhere, scrapping together money for booze by panhandling and offering roadside massages (no happy endings, mind you, my mother raised me right).
I still look pretty ill-kept, but at least my mom keeps my shit together enough so that my clothes match and I wear the same socks.
I actually sent my laundry home from Reno to Wells for the first two years of college and my mom would wash it and iron my shirts, and she'd still do it if I hadn't figured out how to do it myself after being embarrassed that I was 21 and unable to operate a washing machine.
I also have zero cooking skills. I'm literally constrained to foods that can be either grilled or put on two pieces of bread.
So my mom still sends homemade bread to me about once a month and she usually cooks turkey and steaks.
She also makes cookies and snacks for the people at the Sagebrush even though I don't eat them anymore. I still hold that most of my friends actually like her more than me, and I can't blame them.
Finally, my mom endures my bullshit. She lived through having her son write a published column called Boozehounds for two years and she cleaned the puke out of my car when my epic 21st birthday went terribly awry.
She does a bunch of other things, too, like pay my bills, remind me about my appointments, and take care of all the clerical work I don't like doing.
On top of that, she and my dad have always been super supportive. They always get excited about the things I do, they encourage me to go after whatever they want, and they always listen when I decide it's more productive to bitch than get something done.
My mom sends "I love you" notes with my bags whenever I visit home. Sometimes these notes end up in the hands of my friends and subsequently on overhead projectors in front of large groups of people, but I don't care.
They say there's a great woman behind every great man.
I'm still just at the mediocre level, but I do have a great mom making sure I do my best.
So, I love you Mom. I couldn't ask for a better one.


From the iPod:

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The Last Time

I guess life is going to be full of strangeness for the next couple week.
With graduation coming up in two weeks, it seems like I’m doing something for the last time everyday.
Monday was my last day at the Sagebrush after four years, but Tuesday was event more momentous.

1. The damn thing is done – pending some really minor changes.
I turned in the big freaking paper last week, but technically all of my work came down to a 40 minute presentation/thesis defense on Tuesday.
Basically my thesis mentor and the director of the honors program, who had already read my thesis, sat down to watch my presentation, then met for about 10 minutes to decide my fate.
I’d heard that the whole deal wasn’t too bad, even though the questions could get harsh.
I was still really worried because, well, I rushed to finish my thesis and was very worried I made a few oversights.
Turns out I did a good job. The presentation went really well, I didn’t have to answer many questions, and my thesis has been accepted depending on a few minor changes.
This was the last big test of my academic career.
I’ll be the only journalism major graduating with Latin distinction.

2. Today was also my last class. Ever.
I have a couple finals this week, but I’m never going to sit through another regular lecture or discussion.
That’s so weird. I’ve been going to class now basically everyday for 19 years (counting preschool) and now it’s just done. I didn’t even have much of a chance to reflect on the situation, though, because my thesis defense was 15 minutes later.
It’s sort of comprehend.
I think I’d take the news easier if somebody told me I couldn’t drink anymore.
I’d be way more pissed off, but it wouldn’t be nearly as shocking.
I’m going to miss going to class. I’m a bit over the homework bullshit, but I like the actual classes.

3. Finally, today was the Savitt Awards Banquet for the journalism school.
It’s a scholarship/awards celebration that acts as a culmination for the year.
I won the Robert Laxalt Distinguished Writer award, which was really exciting.
That’s the most prestigious writing award in my school, and it means a lot to me that other people recognize what I’ve worked very hard to be good at.
Coming from a small town like Wells, I wasn’t sure when I started college if I’d be able to separate myself in a much larger and talented community. I’m proud that I was able to do so.
Also, writing isn’t just something I do, it’s a part of who I am. In a lot of ways, writing defines me as a person. For my skill to be acknowledged is something I appreciate very much.
Plus, the big check and ego boost made for a happy evening.

Oh, and my fantasy baseball team also racked up 6 runs, 6 rbis and 22 total bases. Can you say “championship.”

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No more Sagebrush

In the quiet passing of the night, an era came to an end on Monday.
After four years of spending entire weekends in the office, following the Nevada men’s basketball team all over the country and drinking heavily, my tenure as the resident face melter of the Nevada Sagebrush came to an end.
With one last playing of “The Final Countdown” after the sports section demolished the rest of the paper and a few sips (or several gulps) from a challis (32 oz. bottle) of the “champagne of beer” (Miller Lite), I left the office for the last time.
For something that was such a huge part of my college life, the end was quick and dirty.

My older paper friends have been telling for a while that the last production night is an emotional occasion.
I felt something else - complete and utter relief.
The Sagebrush has been a bigger part of my college career than anything else – including drinking – but I honestly felt an emotion that exceeded indifference by so much I can only describe it as couldn’t-give-less-of-a-shit-ness.
I appreciate my time with the Nevada Sagebrush, don’t get me wrong, but my relationship with the place is sort of weird.
I blame working at the Sagebrush for my heightened masochistic practices (of the nonsexual variety, obviously), but I also credit the Sagebrush with presenting me with a few of my best friends and building my career.
I honestly and sincerely loath every all-night sessions I ever spent getting that damned thing out, but I’ve had some great times with my paper friends that I wouldn’t give up for anything.
It makes me sad when I think of how many friendships and how much of my personal life disappeared for the sake of that place, but I met most of my closest friends in some way or another from working at newspapers.
Mostly, though, I’m just burnt out and ready for something new.
I’m really depressed that college is ending, but I’m glad that the Sagebrush is over.
I learned what I needed to, I gave back as much as I could, and then I suffered through another year and a half, probably because of the masochism I mentioned above.
So there will be no wise-assed remarks during editorial meetings (at least not ones that are actually funny). There will be no public berating sessions of young journalists. There will be no more f-bomb laced tirades on everything from Brittney Spears to shitty journalism to Clint’s terrible tattoos.
Ladies and gentleman, I will no longer be binge drinking for the sake of creativity (in a campus publication, that is).
For those of you who care, here’s my final column.
You might also notice that my position in the staff box has changed from senior editor to resident ass.
I agreed to the switch in exchange for changing news to “snews” (get it? It’s boring).
It’s a trade that I gladly accepted for one last barb at the section I’ve dominated for the better part of my college years.
Besides, I’m also sort of an asshole.


From the iPod:

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In the House

I could’ve written something last night, but I was at a house party instead.
For like 15 minutes anyway.
I was out with my buddy Shon and his girlfriend, and one of her friends was having a house-warming party next to the U.
Despite my better judgment suggesting otherwise, I was sort of excited.
I’ve been a little nostalgic the last few weeks as classes wind down and I think about all the things I’m going to miss about college and Reno, and, well, I’ve been looking to enjoy one last night of alcohol-induced neighborhood madness.

I’ve been enjoying the craziness that is college for five years now, and I’ve spent about the same amount of nights sipping down Jack and diets at 3 a.m. wondering how I ended up at Tonic as I have passed out underneath somebody’s lawn furniture after throwing up over their fence.
I love going out. I love bar hopping.
I like the idea of starting out somewhere with absolutely no idea of where I’ll end up. I like running into random acquaintances and sharing good times.
But, for me, nothing quite compares to a good house party. I know what you’re thinking and yes, most of them end up sucking. But no bar stories can compare to the crazy-ass memories I’ve racked up at house parties.
I’ve spent three hours in a closet hiding from the cops, I’ve run around the block with no pants on, and I’ve seen so many boobs playing beer pong that I can guess a girl’s IQ from the size of her aereolas.
Thing is, I didn’t realize the 16-year-olds acting like adults they admit into college these days are all stupid.
Honestly, I hope I wasn’t as stupid as the underclassmen when I was one of them.
First off, they were charging a cover and the keg was empty. Who the hell pays for foam?
Second, when was the last time anyone got laid wearing a marijuana leaf belt buckle? I saw like four of them.
Finally, there were about 100 kids jammed into a house and year made for about 60.
That kind of math obviously suggested that law enforcement would be making an appearance at some point.
I can already picture how that conversation would have went:

Police Officer: How old are you son?
Me: I’m 23, officer.
P.O.: (looks suspiciously) Can I see some ID?
(looks over ID)
P.O.: You realize that you’re allowed to go to bars, right?
Me: Yeah, I’m aware. Thing is I’m really into young girls and I thought I might find a few here.
P.O.: Son, are you just a pervert or are you giving me sass?
Me: Officer, sarcasm is the language of the devil, for which reason I have long since as good as renounced it.
P.O.: Thomas Carlyle, eh? How about this one. “Wit is the lowest form of humor.” Come with me.
Me: Son of a bitch, done in by Alexander Pope again.

Not wanting to have to tell the drunks and meth addicts in the clink that I was in overnight for getting outsmarted by a cop, I decided to bounce.
We went to the Wal, then to the Red Martini, then to China Diner, Reno’s finest 24-hour take Chinese establishment.
I ended up pseudo-drunk and definitely more tired than thrilled with the night’s events.
The end.

Latest Movie: Iron Man (it's okay, but it's no Transformers)

From the iPod:

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I’m back.
After a month of no sleep or fun and fighting against insurmountable odds, I somehow, someway conquered my greatest foe and mortal enemy.
That’s right, the Big Freaking Paper has been slain.

Well mostly, anyway. The damn thing has been written and submitted (at a length of 51 pages), now I just have to give a 40 minute to 9 hour defense (depending on questions) and make corrections before I’m officially done and able to drink myself into a state of inebriation that lies somewhere between I-think-I’m-the-pantsless-13th-knight-of-King-Arthur’s-roundtable and Gary Busey.
But you get the point.
I’ve bought her drinks, made her laugh, and subtly dropped the hint that I might be hung like a rhino, and now only a cab ride and the availability of a prophylactic stands between me and Pleasureville.
So it appears as if I’ll actually be graduating for real on the 17th, and there will be a cum laude following my name.
Wow, Garrett, you must be feeling such a wonderful sense of accomplishment for finishing such a difficult task and reaching such a momentous place in your life.
Well, nonsensical narrative voice, it’s funny you should mention that, because I’m pretty much indifferent to the propostion.
Am I happy that I’m done with the dame thing?
Yes, the paper destroyed my last semester in college and was quite literally destroying my not-so-sunny-to-begin-with view of the world.
Do I particularly care about finishing the honors program and graduating with Latin distinction?
No. I guess it feels sort of good to know that I’m the only one in my college graduating with Latin distinction. But mostly I don’t give a shit.
It does mean, however, that I’ll no longer have to neglect my beloved blog.
A lot of stuff’s been happening.
The Flaming Peles made the semifinals of the University of Nevada, Reno intramural coed softball playoffs, I sported a fu-manchu for a few days, and I found out the reason I’ve felt miserable for pretty much every minute of the last year is because my brain wakes up 16 times an hour when I’m supposed to be getting R.E.M. sleep.
I’ve also noticed some other crap, but we’ll get to that in the days to come.
The point is that my prison term is over, and now I’m ready to get back to being self-destructive for the sake of making you all smile, think, and (someday) maybe even question why my parents let me make it this far in life without locking me in the basement to keep me from shaming the family name.

Currently reading: Not a damn thing, I've been to busy.

Latest Movie: Forgetting Sarah Marshall (bloody brilliant)

Line of the day: "You have to deeply penetrate and work the clitoris at the same time, and if you can work her anus in at the same time, that's perfection!"

From the iPod: the outfield your love

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