OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: Oh Sure, Nobody's Ever Been Busted in a College Town for Underage Drinking...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Five boxes of cheap bagged wine.

Five boxes. Twenty-five liters of yuppie rotgut.

I've known winos in my life who'd kill for that kind of suburban hooch.

And a case of bottled water, a jar of peanut butter, sugar-free jelly, three bags of pita chips, two bottles of sunblock, three bags of salad, a bottle of whey protein, a gallon of skim milk, and some baby carrots.

I couldn't help but look into their shopping carts as I squeezed between them heading down the cereal aisle.

CARTS. Plural. One cart for the booze, one cart for the food.

Two girls.

Correction. Two young women. With more than six and a half GALLONS of wine in a shopping cart.

A common enough occurrence in any tiny-ass Midwestern college town, the week before classes start and the day before the residence halls reopen for on-campus students. The Local U, in fact, is well-known for its undergraduate binge drinking problem.

And trust me. There's barely anything for a guy my age to do after work in this burg in August. I was a student myself once, and I've drank away my share of dog-day afternoons as both an undergrad and a graduate student.

But here's the problem.

One of the girls - sorry, young women - is wearing an old t-shirt, with the words _____ High School, Class of 2007 sprawled across the front.

And they're openly discussing the fact that Ms. Tee isn't of legal drinking age, discussing things such as the party they're planning and it's location, cracking jokes and saying things like Oh don't worry. The cashiers are Townies. I'm, like, buying so...

Aside from the pair, I'm the youngest person within earshot. There's an elderly couple checking out granola and rolling their eyes at the girls, a 40ish dad type with two teenage girls listening in, too.

There were 10 people in that aisle alone.

* * * *

Here's the deal, for the record.

The ability to purchase alcohol is limited, in all 50 states, to those over the age of 21. And retailers, well, tend to train sales associates how to properly I.D. those who are purchasing alcohol. In Ohio, it's not just illegal to purchase - it's illegal for anyone under 21 to even drink alcoholic beverages, unless it's purchased by a parent or legal-age spouse.

And in Ohio college towns...

Trust me. If one girl rolls up with a shopping cart full of wine, and the girl behind her is underage, and there's even the slightest hint that they may know one another both parties are getting carded. And odds are nobody's leaving the store, 21 or not, with that much wine when an attempt to skirt the law is that, well, obvious.

If the clerk's in a really bad mood, well, they may even involve law enforcement. And those charges, in Oxford Fucking Ohio, even off-campus, can end up getting a student in a lot of trouble on-campus. Violations aren't just a civil offense; they're also potentially an academic disciplinary offense...

I keep shopping. But something's eating away at me.

I dunno - maybe it's being a good citizen, or maybe I'm just shocked that, well, apparently, there are people naive enough to believe the college myth that says Everybody knows we're drinking, so why hide it?

I keep passing these two chicks in the aisles and, well, they're still announcing to the world that they're planning this huge party, that so-and-so just turned 20 and they were, like, gonna get her so wasted...

Hmmm. Are they ... stupid? Brain-damaged? Too many days in the tanning salon, maybe?

No, I tell myself, they're probably just sheltered and don't know any better. Just fucking kids...

* * * *

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. The school year hasn't even started yet, and some decent citizen is going to narc them out to the store's management, they'll end up getting in a lot of trouble...

I track them back down on the other end of the store.

"Hey ladies? You know, nobody's stupid here."

I'm smiling and talking as softly as I can. They try to play dumb. Ms. Tee crosses her arms over the logo on her chest. She's nervous and knows, well, she's wearing her underage status across her body.

The other young woman is not. She's as brazen as the best of them; a quality I'd find refreshing under normal situations.

"Excuse me. We don't know you. And this is for me. I'm buying it and she has-"

"Do you know there's about 20 of us 'Dumb Townies' walking around here who you've just announced to that there's gonna be a huge-ass party on _____Street where YOUR wine's gonna be used to get a fucking 20-year-old drunk?"

That shut her up.

But, trust me, it's better me being a dick about it than a cop. I don't have arrest powers.

* * * *

Look, I drank under the legal age. I'll admit it. Most people do, at least those who drink.

But I never, ever paraded around with my older friends, the ones buying for me, discussing my intent within earshot of everyone from off-the-clock municipal employees to store clerks and retirees. Some things require a clandestine approach and aren't meant for a fucking audience.

And yes, for the record, I think the 21-and-over laws of the land are complete horseshit, feel that the congressional blackmailing of individual states (there is no mandated federal drinking age; however, states without a 21-and-up law on the books lose federal highway funding) is, well, not helping anyone, and I don't care how much those Mothers Against Drunk Driving bitch, their statistics just don't add up.

I will not repeat my "Not Ready for Primetime" lecture because, well, everybody who's been on a college campus knows that, regardless of bullshit neo - prohibitionist laws, regardless of the number of lectures from advisers and parents and authority figures, the vast majority of underage drinkers are going to find ways to get their hands on booze.

But it's still illegal. While some elements of our society may give kids breaks, other concerned citizens still have the right to report crimes and cops still have to do their jobs.

And while I tend to give myself tend to give underage drinking a wink and a smile, well, I can't turn my back on someone pinning that sort of legal bullseye to their back.

* * * *

There's no law that gives a college student the right to plead I'm in College and this is what college students do, not a court in the nation that would accept that as a defense in the event of an alcohol-related death, not a jury in the world that would accept that as a defense if somebody left that party fucking blitzed, got behind the wheel, and killed somebody.

Pardon the cliche, but, hell, it's not hard to drink responsibly. And to behave responsibly, even as an undergrad in ratfuck Oxford Fucking Ohio. Just be smart about it.

Us grown-ups tolerate underage drinking because, well, we'd generally like to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume they're smart enough to handle it. Hell, most of us were when we were underage - we're still alive, right?

Some people, however, do everything in their power to prove that they can't handle it, assume that, well, their actions in college are somehow excusable, automatically forgivable to all.

But if you're dumb enough to wander around a store, as a legal drinker, with an underage friend, announcing to the world that you're planning on getting another underage drinker drunk enough to puke, well, nobody wants to read about another alcohol-related tragedy in the paper and somebody may say something about it.

* * * *

Oh, and using chapstick on the backs of your hands? To make it easy to remove those Sharpied black Xs ya get in bars and clubs when you're underage? You know, every door guy and bouncer I've ever met knows that trick.

Welcome back to college, kids. Let's smart out there, as well as responsible.

To borrow a phrase from that classic 1980s G.I. Joe cartoon...

Now you know - and knowing is half the battle.

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OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: Of Mean-Ass, Downright Evil, High School Dictators, Fortresses of Suckitude, and Notes on a Wildshield

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

- 1 Corinthians 13:11,
King James Version

This is a dude who, 700 years ago, totally ravaged China, and who we were told, two hours ago, like totally ravaged Ashman's Sporting Goods.

- Of Genghis Khan,
Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I was fidgeting with my truck keys when I noticed the bright pink paper tucked into the windshield wipers.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that it wasn't a parking ticket. Instead, something slightly more disconcerting had been left by someone other than Oxford's dreaded Meter Nazis.

Someone had left me a note, complete with purple ink, smiley faces, and very girlie-girl handwriting. More appropriately, someone left a note that began with Dear Mr. _______ or Zenfo Pro and ended with Sincerely, Anon. - P.S. Don't get mad but I don't like email.

I'm used to getting emails and IMs from just about every social demographic in Southwestern Ohio. Since 2005, I've gotten notes - 97 percent electronically - from students, alumni and staff at most of the Tri-State's colleges and universities, various area residents, two social services folks, and even a few members of the armed forces serving overseas.

But notes from Local High School students are indeed rare.

Especially notes left on my windshield at nine o'clock in the evening, on a school night.

* * * *

Buried within the simple note, intertwined with the compliments and admonishments over my smoking, the reader had a request.

There is apparently a demonic, authoritative menace stalking the local teenage wasteland, a terror undocumented and neglected by my Hypertext record, one who crushes youthful dreams like soda cans and shatters mischievous hope like a cheap wine glass.

And she (I'm going to go out on a limb here and call the reader a she) wanted me to write something about it, to provide some sort of warning to future Local High School students, to cry out into the World Wide Web about injustice and intolerable cruelty.

A Local High School administrator, from what I'm told, apparently sucks. And given the fact that something about this administrator drove a kid to leave a note on a blogger's windshield, the educator - at least from the student perspective - must suck something fierce.

Sadly, without anything more to go on, besides the cry of suckitude, I cannot condemn a school official for sucking, no matter how much or how great the level of sucky-ness.

And, even if I could, I wouldn't use the sucker's real name, because, well, this sort of sucking isn't exactly outside of a skilled secondary educator's job description, has never been a crime or a misdemeanor.

* * * *

These sorts of things can't exactly be documented by a 29-year-old blogger, really - one who last dealt with sucky high school teachers in the Year of Our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Six.

By high school standards, I'm, well, ancient, a relic of that Gen-X Paleolithic Era, a fossil from a time when Dinosaur Jr. walked the earth, flannel was the trendiest of trendy loin cloth, back when Nirvana was achieved by smelling the air for teen spirit.

Yes, I come from a late 1990s Ice Age, one filled with cop-killing, O.G. pimp pterodactyls and Amerikkka's Most Wanted reptiles, a barbaric time when we all sipped on Gin and Juice and did it Doggystyle while smoking a time-wasting herb nicknamed, appropriately enough, The Chronic.

And, for the record, 99.7 percent of my high school's administrators sucked some serious, deep, unwashed ass. The three-tenths of a percentage point? Well, those were the ones who managed to drill something into my juvenile delinquent, often booze- and narcotic- filled, skull.

I can't even remember the exact number of days I logged in detention or solitary in- and out-of-school suspension, but I do know that I spent a few weeks, easily, trapped in various crusty, vomit colored rooms, surrounded by my fellow inmates.

I'm fairly certain - to this day - that my high school's senior disciplinarians became sexually aroused by the amount of senseless, sucky-ass punishment they doled out like vengeful dominatrices. Yes, they were mean and evil and wretched, human bird shit splashed atop the forehead of youth.

Despite their best efforts and in spite of myself, I survived. In some ways, it made me a stronger, better person. And in other ways, I became more stubborn, more devious and snide and sarcastic.

Not that I'd ever thank my own mean, sucking teachers. Some are dead; most I'll never see ever again. But I did, over time, learn to appreciate their place within the American teenage wasteland. Without those who are intolerable, without those totalitarian educators who make lives hell sometimes, the whole individual high school experience would be, well, boring as fucking shit.

And, hell, I think I turned out okay...

Sorta.

* * * *

"I'll be in front of the movie theater, k?

"The... no ... the MOVIE THEATER, okay? God... Yeah... I will ... Yeah... K, bye."

A Local High School kid stared at me as if I were some ancient, alien menace.

I'd been, well, just holding up a city trashcan, smoking a cigarette outside of a coffee shop when she crossed the street, furiously texting and then chattering into her cell phone.

Two days removed from reading - and then shredding - my mystery correspondent's note, I decided to go hang out at the same place, guarding the same lonely trashcan, that the reader claimed she'd witnessed me doing all summer. Maybe she'd spot me again, stop and say hi, or offer some insight into the terror that apparently is the Local High School's administration?

Maybe this was my mystery tipster?

And this one teen stopped, for no obvious reason, less than five feet from me, just stared. So I did what every mature adult does in such situations - I stared back, made a face.

For a split second, I thought she may, indeed, be my victim of Local High School suckitude.

Another Local High School kid ran up and tugged at Miss Cell Phone's jacket.

"Oh my God," her friend whispered. "That guy... is like... so, like, creepy. Seriously."

Wow. Now that's embarrassing.

I stopped trying to figure out what, exactly, was creepy about me, because, well, the only scenarios I could think of, with my adult mind, were creeping me out. I went back to staring off into space, and the two girls went back to their conversation.

" C'mon! ____'s over there and he's not with her anymore! OH MY Gaaawd! Now's... your ... chance!"

The pair scurried back across the street, towards the long line outside of the theater's box office. Dozens of Local High School kids were waiting there, chatting on cell phones and whispering and staring and giggling at unknown fart jokes...

And for some reason, I suddenly remembered what that was like, what it felt like to be just a devious, pubescent pirate, coasting towards the eventual thrill-killing oblivion of adulthood, without so much as a care beyond the next weekend kegger, the next exam or the next smoked joint in the bathroom.

I stared at my cigarette and remembered what it was like to have mean-ass teachers step in front of my own youthfully awkward, too-damned-fun, train wreck.

And suddenly I wanted to write about how much, well, some educators...

How much...

... Some educators, including myself, just...like ...

... Like, totally suck some seriously mean ass, like, sometimes, like, when you're young and stuff...

Like, you know?

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