Volume 1, Issue 4 | 10/27/11 - 11/16/11 | www.theblacksheeponline.com
Black we go on a Sheep frenchtown
The
“A College Newspaper That’s Actually About College”
F danree.. cin .like gc e om nt pet eri iti ng o on ur at pol Bul e ls!
safari
Evans Prater wrote this
Want to know why my job is better than yours? Because last Sunday my colleague and I, James Tufenkdjian (yeah, he’s a terrorist), had an idea. And when a Tufenkdjian threatens you with an idea, you better obey. So, we decided to get some chairs, some whiskey, and sit outside in one of the sketchiest parts of town, just to see what happened. What part of town, you ask? Well, none other than that 4.3 square miles little gem of liquor stores, crackheads, and hobos: Frenchtown. For those of you who don’t know, “Frenchtown” is a neighborhood just behind the Tennessee strip. It boasts a large, murky-green, floating Schlitz pile in its “lake,” the Governor’s Mansion (what?), and some of the coziest little dilapidated brothels in the Tallahassee area. Now my colleague and I, being quite experienced in the art of human observation and gratuitous whiskey drinking, were more than qualified to undertake such an expedition. What we weren’t prepared for was how difficult it would be to walk back inside under the drunken haze of Canadian Hunter. But I digress. Here’s what we saw: 4:03p.m.: “Tuf” (that’s his nickname, douchey I know) and I each pour a tall glass of whiskeyginger, grab a chair, and proceed to sit in his driveway on West Virginia street. 4:05p.m.: Scared sorority girl drives by, obviously afraid and speeding in her BMW. Letters THXDAD on the back. 4:10p.m.: Hobos start to pour in to the parking lot of the homeless shelter across the street. The smell of dried urine and poopy pants fills the air. We notice we can see the capitol building, the shelter, and a Baptist church across the street at the same time. 4:14p.m.: Another scared sorority girl drives by. A cop is behind her. She looks only slightly less frightened than the previous one. James comments that he doesn’t feel safer, despite frequent appearances from TPD on his street. 4:19p.m.: An old, beat up Buick LeSabre pulls in to the adjacent driveway. It immediately shuts off. The driver attempts several times to restart to no avail. Several muffled curses can be heard from inside the vehicle. The driver exits, pops the hood, and proceeds to pull wires and pipes he obviously has no knowledge of. He is a large man who looks to be in his early thirties (but who knows? Crack makes you look much younger than you really are, right?). Tuf and I attempt to hold back serious bouts of laughter in spite of the man’s proximity. What seems to be the man’s girlfriend also exits the car, pulls out an iPhone (what the hell?) and proceeds to sit on the trunk. Her large buttocks create a small dent while her freeze-dried hair and 4 inch nails make it hard to refrain from smirking. I am out of whiskey. 4:20p.m.: I look at my phone, it’s 4:20. A little dance party starts in my head. I refill my whiskey and return to my post. A thin man in an Oakland Raiders shirt and Levi’s that look like they’ve been through a stump grinder walks by, nods, and says, “Ay, owya’l doin’?” We acknowledge him with a nod. “Just fine, good sir.”
Other stuff
Inside
04: The Ever-SoTypical ‘Nole Cycle
Life as a FSU football fan has been pretty predictable this past decade.
4:33p.m.: More groups of people begin to roam the streets. I feel slightly unwelcome and threatened; however, I maintain the obligatory (aka, false) air of manliness. James grabs his ‘Frenchtown Stick’, a stainless steel tube about two feet long. A cop drives by. I feel slightly better. 4:39p.m.: A group of two males and two females, all wearing flat-billed hats walk across the street. Loud, obnoxious noises can be heard, although syntax is unrecognizable. The man fixing his car has now been pulling at random tubes and wires for twenty minutes. His car still will not start. 4:44p.m.: The man in the Raiders shirt from earlier is now walking the other way down the street. We make eye contact; this time he approaches us. “Ay fella ow yal dern?” He has no front teeth. “Good. You?” “Ay, I jus wan yal ta kno, I a dam goocleaninman. See dos house? I don cleant alladem. Me an Ms. Lawson, mmhmm.” “Cool.” “Yeuh man yu kno i ant ask fa no mohney but yu kno.” James gets up, walks inside without a word. The man mumbles some indiscernible gibberish to me, I notice his eyes are extremely red and his posture is much more relaxed than before. I have just witnessed a 4 o’clock crack run. James returns. He slaps the man’s hand and I can see some dollar bills exchanged between them. He says “Tankya” and leaves. “See, you just gotta give ‘em some money, then they leave.” Living here must get pretty expensive. I notice my second whiskey-ginger has run out and I’ve grown fairly buzzed. I give up observing and convince myself I have enough material for an article. Tuf and I venture to get barbeque but they’re closed. We head to Mike’s Liquor to get beer and pong paraphernalia and return to his house. On the way in, we see the guy next door now has a friend beating on the bottom of his car with a large monkey wrench. I think he’s performing some voodoo ritual. And that is why my job is better than yours.
14: Pointless Clubs at FSU
What? Most clubs are blunt objects, right?
14: top 10: last minute (cheap) costume ideas Guys, grab a mask. Ladies, grab some horns.