I have a little poetry for you today, but first I want to issue an apology. A lot of people were offended by the way I compared brothels to sorority houses. I think I threatened their feelings of entitlement or something. I don’t really know. But since I am a tolerant individual, when I realize I’ve offended a large group of people, I think it’s only fair for me to say “sorry.”
So I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies to all prostitutes, madams, every worker involved in the sex industry and every client who has chosen to take his or her—womyn need satisfaction, too—business to a legitimate establishment instead of a sorority chapter. I’ve come to realize that, like the word “sorostitute,” the comparison I made in last week’s column is unfair to all the ladies-of-the-night past, present and future.
I mean, prostitution truly is the world’s oldest profession. To compare it to a group of upstart amateurs was to debase a rich tradition of courtesans and call girls, harlots and hookers, escorts, companions and “filles de joie.” What sorority girl can refer to herself as a “daughter of joy” if she hasn’t earned the title—breathy rubs at Shooters notwithstanding? No REAL whore would go to a “Tarzan in the trees, Jane on her knees” party, unless she was paid handsomely for it. Now that’s self-respect.
I’m sorry. I was wrong. I hope my fellow tolerant, nonjudgemental, concerned citizens can forgive me.
Now, on a lighter note, last week one of my fellow freedom fighters published a brave column in which she gave the Tailgate whiners the talking-to they deserved! Good job, concerned citizen, whom I will leave anonymous out of respect. This poem is dedicated to my friends in the administration, but more than anything, it is also for you.
“Towel”
For Sue and Larry...
I.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Natty Light, raving hysterical half-dressed,
Dragging themselves through the worn-dirt quads of Craven and Wannamaker next morning, looking for an Alpine fix
bleachheaded “sisters” burning after a less-than-heavenly connection, fuzzy-headed
on a too-loud mattress
who entitlement and sequins and fake-bronzed and buzzed sat up smoking in the
half-dark of Edens rooftops looking across sections, contemplating bulimia,
who bared their breasts to someone’s brother under a sticky layer of foam and saw
their best friends staggering past Shooters signs illuminated,
who strolled through University with a beer in one hand and their balls in the other,
hallucinating Andover and Exeter and pretending it was more than money
brought them here,
who could have been expelled for hazing pledges and scrawling obscene symbols
on the sides of bridges
who ignored the plights of the marginalized and the hungry, who groped for jobs in
finance, a new set of croakies and shorts embroidered with whales,
who confused their torsos night after night with pushups, with pull-ups, with
alcoholic calories, sex and drugs and endless bros…
II.
What sphinx of cheap beer and pop music ripped open their skulls and sucked up
their sympathy and motivation?
Tailgate! Partying! Filth! Tutus! Beercans and frattastic truckbeds! Tweens passed
out in the port-o-potties! Girl was light beer and
cheap fun! Tailgate whose fingers were stained is giggling in throngs! Lost families shielding the
eyes of children!
Tailgate! Tailgate! Nightmare of Tailgate! Tailgate the shameless! Terrible Tailgate!
Tailgate the nasty flinger of beer!
Tailgate the inexhaustible party! Tailgate the let’s-bone stench of outhouse and
congress of wild laughter! Tailgate whose food trucks were meatmongers!
Tailgate the vast lot of trash! Tailgate the flummoxed administration!
Tailgate whose mind was outright chaos! Tailgate whose blood was asphalt! Tailgate whose
breasts were encased in neon! Tailgate whose ear was a wailing Ke$ha!
III.
Sue and Larry! I’m with you in Flowers
Where you’re angrier than I am
I’m with you in Flowers
Where you must feel very marginalized
I’m with you in Flowers
Where you luxuriate in the only correct opinions
I’m with you in Flowers
Where you murder old words and devise new ones
I’m with you in Flowers
Where you believe we should care about football
I’m with you in Flowers
Where we can plot to destroy the scourge of the greek system, one
seemingly arbitrary rule at a time
I’m with you in Flowers
Where together we will create a new Duke, modeled on sobriety,
Independence with a capital I, global awareness and solemnity
I’m with you in Flowers
Where I, too, totally believe that this school would skyrocket back through
the rankings if we could just stop the undergraduate population from
having any kind of fun whatsoever.
I’m with you in Flowers
Where you assemble a team of multicultural students to grill limp hot dogs
alongside you on the rainiest of Gamedays
I’m with you in Flowers
In my dreams you walk dripping from a C1-journey across the campus in
beer to the entrance of the blue zone on a Saturday morning.
Concerned Global Citizen hopes Allen Ginsberg isn’t Howling in his grave.
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