Public Bar, Personal Space

Shelf Space Cartoons Bar

Public Bar in Dupont quickly became one of my favorite spots a few weeks ago. Rooftop bar, great music, and decent drink prices solidified it as a go-to haunt for my girlfriends and me.  So it was no surprise when after dinner at Raku on Saturday, we settled on heading there – just Boots and me.

On our last evening there, Boots, J-mint and I received a lesson from a couple guys who came up to talk to us. They informed us that a group of 3 women is extremely intimidating for a guy and his wingman to approach. 2 is perfect, 4 is okay, but 3 is impossible. Truthfully, this didn’t make much sense to me, but I guess it’s that one “extra” person that overwhelms the pursuer. Perhaps one guy feels weird having to hold a potential conversation with 2 girls. I would think this would be less of a pressure situation because the awkward pause factor diminishes when there are more people to talk to – but on the flip side, when there IS an awkward pause…it’s probably super uncomfortable with 3 people looking around and into their drinks searching for the next thing to say when compared to 2. With 2, you can just start making out and that takes away the tension (hopefully) – am I right? Yes? No? Maybe?

It was an interesting lesson to think about and one both Boots and I remembered as the pair of us headed toward Public bar. We knew it was going to be a top night.

So we grabbed a beer, scoped out the scene, gossiped, listened to music – a great start to a summer evening in DC – we didn’t see anyone in our first perusal who piqued our interest so we just continued to hang out and people-watch. Then Boots spotted a relatively cute guy (Scruffy) laughing with some friends. I told her I’d play wing-gal if she wanted to chat him up…but she played the “shy” card and we watched as he sat down next to some girl and began talking with her.

“Ugh – I guess I missed my chance – I should have said something!” Boots lamented.

“Yo – maybe she’ll puke and then you can swoop in for clean-up…” I said.

We continued to watch Scruffy and Girl banter…when suddenly Girl bolted up. I leaned into Boots, “what just happened?”

“I don’t know…” As Boots and I stared (openly gawking now), Girl turned around, and splayed across her back were chunks of purple vomit (we’ll go with red wine as the culprit). The Puker hung over the back of the bench Girl had just vacated. Scruffy looked a little green.  A crowd stared on as she puked again down the bench. Girl, rightfully pissed, escaped that spray of projectile mastery and headed toward the bathroom/home/a large hole…

Boots and I couldn’t believe it.

“Well – that’s gonna be quite a conversation starter for the rest of the night – hey…did you see the chick that got puked on?” We shook our heads with Scruffy, in disbelief that what had just happened had just happened.

“Did you get any on you?” I asked him.

“Thank God – no – I have a really weak stomach. If it had touched me, I would have puked on you, you would have puked on her (he pointed at Boots)…”

“Yeah it would be like a domino chain of projectile vomit,” I laughed.

We talked a bit longer then Scruffy moseyed back to his friends as Boots and I tapped off our latest beer and continued our night.

The next day, I shared this story as the highlight of our evening with Sis and Co. I still couldn’t believe it, and was more than grateful it wasn’t my back that became a Rorschach painting. We wondered how Girl coped – I’d have gone straight home in an effort to get clean. And apparently we weren’t the only ones that thought about Girl…

Boots emailed me last night: Subject Line: OMG!!!! with a link in the body of the email:


I clicked on it as you should do, but for those of you who are lazy…here’s where it takes you/what it said:

Washington DC Craig’s List/District of Columbia/Missed Connections

Girl that got puked on at Public – m4w – 26 (DC)

Reply to: pers-usqwn-1243969202@craigslist.org
Date: 2009-06-28, 3:13PM EDT

We were talking for a bit and having a good time, then out of nowhere, some drunk bitch projectile vomited on us (98% on you). You took off to the bathroom while I tried to coax my weak stomach into not throwing up myself. I didn’t see you again after that, probably for good reason.

The throw-up brought them even closer together. And just think…if they hadn’t been sitting there, and she hadn’t been puked all over, it may have ended like most Saturday bar nights – with a bar-make-out session, perhaps worthy of on-lookers before going their separate ways. As it is, apparently it was love and how they met will definitely make a great story for their grand-kids.

**Picture courtesy of ShelfSpaceCartoons.com

Wednesday sucked. It consisted of a torrential downpour, my contact disintegrating in my eye forcing me to wear my glasses, and hitting a parked car.

The last in that small litany was my first accident ever, and while I was only traveling at a mere 3.2 mi./hour, I still managed to inflict enough damage to warrant me sticking around, talking to the owner, exchanging pertinent information, and naturally crying. Because that’s how I handle stressful situations apparently. I blubber like an idiot for 10 minutes, call Sis, Mom or Dad who tell me to stop – that it’s not the end of the world (even though clearly it is) – and finally pull myself together enough to move on – sort of. See, I tend to be slightly melodramatic sometimes.

Example: Whenever I see a cop car, I blanch and have to swallow the golf ball that lodges in my esophagus. It’s an involuntary reaction whose origins trace to the pit of my stomach, kind of like that first second of a roller coaster’s drop – where if you’re going to puke, that would be the time it happens. This reaction bubbles up every time I see a cop on the road – whether I’m passenger or driver – when this occurs in our carpool moments, BinLaw (who obviously is always the driver…obviously) thinks I’m crazy. “It’s not like you have a stash of drugs in your hand KT. You’re not doing anything wrong. Relax,” he says. But it doesn’t matter – without fail, I feel like a criminal and my physical reaction/appearance adjust to reflect this.

But I digress…so Wednesday night, I leave the gym, running a little late to get my hair cut. I’m parked next to a huge yellow handicap van that takes up most of its space and part of mine. Because I’m in my glasses, it’s humid, and I’m sweaty, they fog up, but I clean them off as I prepare to reverse – hoping I don’t side-swipe the van in the process. I take off my emergency brake, drift back, give a little gas – and CRACK…my bumper crunches into the passenger side door of the illegally parked car behind me. Though it doesn’t matter that she was illegally parked because as my insurance agent informed me, “If a child is jay-walking and you hit the child, it doesn’t matter that if they hadn’t been walking illegally you wouldn’t have hit them – you still hit them and thus it’s your fault.” A simple “no,” would have sufficed considering my only question was, “does it matter she was parked illegally?”

So now, my idiocy will cost my bank account a cool $800.

And yes that sinking lodged golf ball feeling has taken up permanent residence in the back of my throat. Even though this “apparently” happens to “everyone” and it’s just a “life lesson” from which I “have to learn.” Blerg.

Fun Fact Friday

…also known as It’s National DONUT Day!


Today, I walked into the office to the oh-so-sweet and tantalizing aroma of donuts. The scrumptious, mouth-watering scent tickled my nose, a long feather carried by a tempting devil. Not so hot for someone who’s perpetually on a diet…but everyone deserves a treat once and awhile…and it IS a National holiday, so who would I be NOT to indulge…unpatriotic, not-a-team-player, a Debbie-Downer? Thus, naturally I had to partake as should you.

Both the King of Donuts – Dunkin’ and Krispy Kreme are giving out one free donut to honor this day, so get out there and embrace this holiday with the same fervor as you celebrate Columbus Day, Thanksgiving, and National Belly Laugh Day (January 24th)!

Be one with the donut. Seize the donut. Mmmmm the donut.


Just Do It.

Nike has a new ad campaign that’s pretty kick a**.  I caught them posted on FB and thought they were pretty cool. Actually I think anything that tells me it’s okay to have “thunder thighs” is awesome…a “muffin top” is a different story though. Since it’s kind of hard to read the phrases, I typed them out…my favorite, “those who might scorn it are invited to kiss it.” 

Thunder Thighs

nike thighs

I have Thunder Thighs and that’s a compliment because they are strong and toned and muscular and though they are unwelcome in the petite section, they are cheered on in marathons. Fifty years from now I’ll bounce a grandchild on my thunder thighs and then I’ll go out for a run.

Chicken Legs

nike legs

My legs were once two hairy sticks that weren’t very good at jump rope but by the time I reached the age of algebra, they had come into their own and now in spin class, they are revered, envied for their strength, honored for their beauty, hairless for the most part, except that place the razor misses just behind the ankles.

Scabby Knees

nike knees

My knees are tomboys. They get bruised and cut every time I play soccer. I’m proud of them and wear my dresses short. My mother worries I will never marry with knees like that. But I know there’s someone out there who will say to me “I love you and I love your knees.” I want the four of us to grow old together.

Hips Don’t Lie

nike hips 

My hips return to puberty when I’m in dance class. Music affects them like hormones making them crazy and spontaneous and optimistic and prone to drama and I don’t understand them and sometimes they don’t understand themselves. When the music stops they’re still charged. Don’t touch me. Sparks will fly.

 I Like Big Butts

 nike butt

My butt is big and round like the letter C and ten thousand lunges have made it rounder but not smaller and that’s just fine. It’s a space heater for my side of the bed. It’s my ambassador to those who walk behind me. It’s a border collie that herds skinny women away from the best deals at clothing sales. My butt is big and that’s just fine and those who might scorn it are invited to kiss it.

SWOOSH. Well done Nike.

Mamma Said

I can’t quite remember the first time I realized that my mom knew her stuff, but I do remember the phrase she used to show me. It’s one that has guided me through crushes, friendships, and disappointments – one that’s taught me that there’s only so much I can control before it (whatever it is) travels out of my hands.

“People do what they want to do…”

And you can’t control or change it, no matter how much you might pull your hair out trying. This simple sentence has over the years become a mantra for me to get through and deal with the people who frustrate, annoy, hurt and let me down – mainly because it’s true. 

People will say things a thousand different ways – to please you, to avoid confrontation, because it’s what they think you want to hear – but in the end, they’ll do exactly what they want to do regardless of its impact on you. It’s hard for some people to accept it (they’ll rationalize or make excuses for that person) and in the end, they’ll waste so much time and energy on someone who doesn’t really think of them much at all.

My mom told me this was a phrase Nana (not sure of how I’m actually related to her) used to say – an “ism” she’d spout off, one that made a lot of sense to Mom so that when I came to her crying about that boy in chem. class junior year or how my “best friend” started those rumors about that girl, it was the first thing that came to her mind.

“People do what they want to do, KT…and sometimes it sucks, sometimes it’s not at all what you want them to do, but more often than not, it’ll all work out and it’ll be for the better.”

So far she’s been right. So, thanks Mom. You do know your s**t.

Empty Plate

So – yes I realize I’ve been extremely MIA lately – and getting worse! For that, I’m sorry and WILL make a better attempt to find something (or anything!) to say, especially since I realized that TODAY, yes today, is the ONE YEAR mark for me starting this blog – and wow has a lot happened in a year.


That is my happy birthday, and by birthday I clearly mean blogday, cupcake to me.

A lot can change in a year – hell, a lot can change in a day – and my philosophy is to roll with the punches, and throw a few of my own into the mix. That’s not always easy. As someone who since childhood has consistently maintained a vehement loathing for change, over the years, I have found myself time and again thrown something that causes me to react…and ultimately change.

At the dinner table when I was a kid and naturally didn’t want to eat something that looked vile and disgusting, my mom always told me about the “Learn to Like It Club.” As a product of the ’40’s/50’s, she’s a woman who grew up around evening radio broadcasts. One show that came on around dinnertime featured this “Learn to Like It” segment as wells the “Empty Plate Clubber’s” bit. Parents would call in and share if their little angel had successfully kept down the broccoli they swore they would throw up if forced to eat. “Learn To Like It” had a similar purpose – if a kid found that they actually enjoyed grapefruit, Mom or Dad would call in Cleaver-style and report this to all the listeners. How 1950’s.

Mom used a similar tactic with me, even though the show had been on static for 30+ years. That mind-set of “maybe you’ll just learn to like it” spilled over from my plate into my real life. And I actually think this is how I’ve adjusted to those big changes – each time I’ve packed a suitcase – thought about a job switch – toyed another move, I’ve done it solely because I had to learn to like the taste of change. And I think I have (sort- of)…

So here I am, one year later from that first post about moving to the Big City. And who knows where this next year will take me – perhaps in a year, I’ll find myself back up there, but I do promise to keep documenting it – because I know that even as I write this, my tastes are changing and that’s not necessarily a bad thing anymore.

Fail Safe

“So today, KT, we’re going to work to failure…”

Failure. Shit.

I stared down my trainer with definite wariness.

He’s a fifty-something black former Navy Seal who cuts to the quick both verbally and when he’s piling weight on one of the machines he has me using. His name is Vince.

I’ve never been an athlete. Never even really played a sport (except youth soccer and softball – where teams were made of various colors like Teal and Gold) or tried to hone my skills in a non-organized pastime (i.e. skiing or golf). I never had the stamina or the coordination to even try-out…except 8th grade volleyball, but that ended badly and I’m still bitter.

What I have learned to do to exercise and stay healthy is workout…I enjoy going to the gym and through that, I’ve come to appreciate the dedication that goes into manipulating your body to work towards a specific goal regardless of endzone or finish line.

I’m pretty religious about exercise and it’s for purely selfish reasons. If I’ve had a crap day where nothing seemed to click in place, I’ll go to the gym and pound my frustration into a treadmill and feel better. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. It’s a sense of intense satisfaction when I’ve finished a good workout.

The gym where I’m currently a member offers free training for your first month and then once a month after that. I signed up for a session with Vince and knew we’d hit it off when after shaking hands he said, “ready to cry?” then swatted my shoulder with a, “let’s get to work.”

We train…to failure. Arms. Legs. Back. Shoulders. He has me lift until I am physically incapable of raising my arm again. I’m standing there staring at it and it’s absolutely, completely refusing to move. Then he says, “do one more.”

And I do. And the day I told him I was a Redskins fan, he doubled the weight, adding five extra reps – he’s not a fan of that football franchise.

“OK, we’re done here.” Vince makes a note on my chart and I hobble behind him to the next machine to repeat.

At the end of an hour, my muscles are shaking with exertion. But I feel good. And I find myself fascinated with the fact that he says this is working to failure because failure to me means not accomplishing something, not seeing it through, a cacophony of negative. Yet he sees these failures as measures of success, as an opportunity to learn and grow and build – to eventually reach a tangible goal of fitness.

I’d love to be able to apply this thinking to life where failure actually becomes a means for creation, but I have a feeling that in most cases if a person (me included) hits failure more often than not, they’ll be unwilling to ever try again. Somehow, I’d like to get out of that mindset – and in ways, I think I am.

Vince pushes my muscles to failure and I come back the next week ready to do it all again. I look forward to working beyond what I think I can do to what I actually am capable of completing. So each week I work to this end. I add more weight, do more repetitions until finally I hit failure again.

Gettysburg College

We had on my college campus, Gettysburg College, a coffee shop called Uncommon Grounds. I always thought this a really clever name whose meaning held more than just that of an on campus mini-mart. Nestled in a corner of our College Union Building, I often met my friends there for lunch or a quick cup of coffee between classes. During finals, I plunked myself in a corner booth and faded into essays about the Bronte sisters’ impact on English Literature.

I loved to spend my time there; it was a safe little haven where I could decompress. I people-watched all the different groups of kids who passed through…listening to rehashes of parties and regrets mingled with stresses about tests and rigid professors.

Everyone stopped at Uncommon Grounds through the day…our stereotypes distinguished by clothing in Madras and flip-flops, Black and fishnets, sweatshirts and jeans all had similar scattered thoughts as they waited in line or rushed by in a dash to make their 1:10.

This space was the first thing to spring into my mind yesterday when a g-chat box popped up on my computer screen: Did you hear what happened at Gettysburg?

I hadn’t.

A girl was stabbed this morning off campus…*

Another email pinged in whose subject line have you heard? was all I needed to read. All Facebook status’ updated to thoughts and prayers with Gettysburg. I read a press release, caught links to MSN as the story spread, a little wildfire through the small town. No names had been released.

I called my mom to see if she’d heard anything as she still lives in Gettysburg, my hometown. She’d only just seen it on the news…and didn’t know anything additional except it was on Carlisle Street, a road I’d run down on afternoon jogs, driven through since I first got my license at 16.

Murders don’t happen in Gettysburg – sure we have drugs and robberies, peeping Toms’ and domestic violence, but murders are pretty rare. And this is the first one I know of that broke through the Gettysburg College bubble, that invisible film over the pristine campus community that separates the students from the townies.

Yes – it can happen anywhere – but its effects are equally as trying and devastating when their 5,000 miles away as when they’re in your backyard.

More came to light through the day – I realized when the names were released that the parents probably had to have been notified, one set called to break away from their mundane daily routine to identify their daughter’s body at morgue. The other set called to a jail where they’ll look upon the child they raised for the first as a murderer. Can you imagine?

It was her boyfriend or ex-boyfriend who stabbed her multiple times in yesterday’s morning hours. “Hands were involved,” I read in one statement. While I did not know either student, and will not presume to know motivation, action, choice, I cannot help but wonder how someone can so brutally drain the life from another person. Does he comprehend he’s responsible for this girl never, never graduating, getting married, having kids? Do you think he gets it yet in today’s newly dawned light?

As the afternoon became evening, students were called together in our CUB, walking by familiar solaces like Uncommon Grounds into the Ballroom to hear developments.

Our college president sent this out to students:

April 9, 2009

Dear members of the campus community,

As most of you know, a tragedy occurred earlier today involving two Gettysburg students, and our very tight-knit community is grieving for a loss that has deeply shaken us all.

Until an official statement was released by the Adams County District Attorney at a press conference this afternoon, we had very limited information that we were able to confirm and share. Details from the press conference are now available on our web site.   In short, District Attorney Shawn Wagner announced that Emily Rachel Silverstein, 19, a sophomore anthropology major from Roosevelt, N.J., was found dead early this morning at 524 Carlisle Street, an off-campus College-leased residence. Kevin Schaeffer, 21, a senior history major from Oley, PA, surrendered to police at the scene without incident and was taken into custody. The District Attorney announced that the tragedy was a domestic homicide and that at no time were other individuals in any danger.

As I requested when I gathered the on-campus community together this morning, please keep these students and their families in your thoughts and prayers.  In addition, I would also ask that you reach out to one another, share your thoughts and your tears, listen to and console one another. Our counseling staff is available to the campus community all day today and in the days ahead at our Health Center. If you would like to talk with a counselor, please stop by. If you have friends who are having a particularly difficult time, please suggest that they speak with a counselor as well. In addition, I would encourage you to respond to all media inquiries by directing them to our Office of Communications and Public Relations.

This loss affects us all. We are a strong, caring community, and in the days and weeks ahead, we will find solace and a source of healing in our communal strength. We will plan an appropriate campus gathering in the near future to help us begin the healing process.  For now, I ask that you reach out to one another with great compassion during this difficult time.


Janet Morgan Riggs ¹77

Strangers, acquaintances and friends sat side by side in our CUB and listened to the tragedy of one of their own. It didn’t matter if they knew the victim.  In moments of sorrow and loss, things like that are no longer important, you come together as one to support, grieve, and heal. You stand beside each other and cease the frantic rush through your day. You don’t brush by people without thought, you don’t focus on that test, last night, tomorrow. You’re in one moment and in that moment, no matter who you are, you end up finding that common ground and clinging to it.


Neh-Ne-Neh-Ne Boo BOO

So you may have noticed I’ve been a little MIA lately. I’ve had blog-block. Funny, random and awkward things keep happening, but I have no clue how to sort them into coherent thoughts to share with you all. After receiving a slight onslaught of complaints for my inactivity, I’ve finally sat down to write something…

Like many of you, I spend close to and sometimes more than 8 hours a day at work. Though I don’t particularly like blogging about my job, mainly because I would like to keep it, sometimes it’s impossible not to since so much of my time is spent in the office. I’m lucky that most of my co-workers are laid back enough that if they read any post where I mention them, I think they’d just laugh. At least I hope they would.

A few days ago, I popped into my co-worker’s office. She has two little boys, so we often swap stories about her kids and my nephews. Mainly we laugh at them and their antics. This is how we digress and refocus our eyes from the blurried distortion Excel spreadsheets cause.

I shared with Co-Worker a fact that many of my close friends and family know about me and a trait most of them hate. I DETEST being teased. I do not take it well AT ALL. With that being said, I dish it out quite liberally. People seem to think that because I can hold my own in a battle of sarcastic will, I should be able to accept the same treatment in kind. I just can’t do it. But in all fairness, I am working on it.

Co-Worker commented that her oldest son, at 7, is much the same way:

“Thing#1 hates to be teased too and the other day at daycare some girl came up to him with a Cootie-Catcher (*Editor’s note: I had no idea what this was and thus asked her to explain). A  Cootie-Catcher is like a fortune teller for kids.”

cootie_partyAfter you go through various hula-hoops, you end up with a fortune. In the case of Thing#1, his fortune was his future occupation. He picked a color; LittleGirl spelled the color. Then he picked a number; LittleGirl counted the number. Then, she told him to choose the number 3 to reveal his life’s path.

It said: HOBO.

He was devastated.

She probably liked him, right?

I felt for the little guy. Heart hanging there on his sleeve as he blindly chooses a fate doomed to living beneath an underpass with nothing to keep him warm but malt-liquor in a grody brown bag. Teasing sucks. Love hurts. And so it goes…

Cootie-Catcher (I personally think this sounds like a disease — and not a pleasant one) reminded me of another fortune game I used to play with my elementary, middle, and yes probably high school friends: MASH.

Ring a bell?

M- Mansion

A- Apartment

S- Shack

H- House

My friends and I’d sit in the back of the bus and script these letters at the top of our 3-ring notebook paper. From there, we’d pick categories: Husband, Car, Money, Occupation, Pet, Bridesmaids, Color, Relationship Status, Location.

I’d get to pick one of the boys for husband, but for the most part the FortuneTeller (FT) fills in the selections under the categories. FT’d then draw slashes until I said stop, count them up and begin to run down the list for my future life. Then, when the magic number was hit, FT’d cross through everything until 1 item was left in each category. At that, my future was set:

KT will be a waitress living in a House, married to PerfectBoy in Hawaii. He’ll be a lawyer. They’ll have 2 kids, a boy and a girl (sometimes we’d give specific names to imaginary children). V will be her bridesmaid and wear blue in her wedding. PerfectBoy and KT will have a Golden Retriever and drive a Range Rover.

And I’d believe it to be so…it’s funny how when we’re young, we put so much stock into these silly games. I would have rather died than to end up with TL (the whiny kid who picked his nose in Music class) and who would actually desire to become a hobo? We’d spend hours on the playground trying to act grown up, and when someone would show us a future we didn’t want to see, we’d throw a fit.

As I’ve grown-up, the tantrums have faded, but I still remember the effects of those pastimes – how I’d cringe in anticipation of my future and how absolutely shattered I’d be when it didn’t come out “cool.” The other kids would laugh that I was marrying TL and we were going to spend our days in a Shack. And I’d remember their laughs long after the bus ride ended.

So I guess this is how I developed my hatred of being teased and later the defense mechanism to dish it back in force.

Co-Worker ended our little chat with, “As Thing#1 and I drove home that evening, I told him he needed to get thicker skin….that the little girl was trying to play a game with him, that she was joking. But he just pinched his arm and said his skin was thick enough as it is.”

I will be writing a longer post later…but I couldn’t resist telling what just happened in my office corridor a few minutes ago. For my co-workers who read this, don’t report me…just smile and nod. Thanks.

After spending a few seconds arguing the proper way to say “bow chica bow wow” (one co-worker thought the actual pronunciation was “bow chica bow bow”), our conversation naturally progressed or descended depending on your point of view.

Me: “Do you guys remember when you were younger to figure out your porn name you’d put your first pet with the street you grew up on?”

Yes folks, I said this to my boss and some other colleagues. Sometimes words just fly out and alcohol isn’t even a factor.

Here were my co-workers responses:

“Mine would be Macho Sunflower” (this falls under more of an alternative lifestyle porn name)

“Let’s see…mine would have been Fritzie Waxwing.”

“Fluffy Lumkin” (blond Marilyn impersonator with bad wig)

Slim announced, “Sassy Grey Colt.”

All excellent names.

And mine…

Drumroll please…

Wait for it…

Chaucer Belmont.

Cymbal Crash.



My mom was an English teacher who loved Chaucer (could have been Shakespeare)…so thus my hot and tempting pornstar name would have been Chaucer Belmont. What’s worse is if I go with my “real” first pet…it would have been Fish Belmont. Fish Belmont. Ew.

What would your’s have been? Do share!





In other thoughts, today starts March Madness. I am in two pools…we’ll see how it all plays out. But BInLaw pointed out something I wanted to share with everyone who sits at a cubicle all day and doesn’t want to be caught watching the games.

It’s called the BOSS Button.


It’s a button that you push when your boss is looming over your shoulder.

So when he/she appears, click that little man in a suit over-top of the screen and this spreadsheet appears:


Thus, it actually looks like you are still working…and when he/she finally walks away after discussing nonsensical gibberish, you click your mouse anywhere on that spreadsheet, and you are immediately streamed back into your game of choice.

Round One: GO Terps!