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Sitting here, writing my final column, there’s the temptation to turn it into something major and profound. All I can see in my head is some amalgamation of the last scenes of The Breakfast Club and Animal House... there’s some crappy ’80s music playing as the screen freezes and the subtitles comeup: “Matt DeTura is now living in a box in East Orange.” Not really my style, though.
Rumor has it that Christian Laettner, our favorite shot-making misanthrope, was once asked to donate to Duke. In response, he supposedly gave money earmarked specifically for the Primate Center because he found its inhabitants easier to deal with and more likable than people. While I’m certainly no fan of people either, I don’t want the lemurs, who are arguably smarter than most of us here, getting access to a slush fund because I fear that they might rise up and take over the campus. Nonetheless, it is that time of year, and the 10 or so of us seniors who have decided to make our bill for college a nice round $140,020.05 (insert joke about this school taking every last nickel) have a choice to make: where do we send this cash? I’ve racked my brain, addled by applications as it is, and offer you a few suggestions for your hard-earned beer money.
The truth can finally come out now that my parents have made the final payment on my college education. Four years ago, I had to make the choice between Princeton, in my home state of New Jersey, and Duke, in what might as well have been another country. Sure, the reason I gave them was that the kids at Princeton are snobby, elitist, boring jerks… and not knowing anybody at Duke, they bought it, hook, line and sinker. (Suckers!) The real reason, of course, was the weather. Make that two counts that I was disappointed on. At least in Jersey you know what the weather pattern is going to be like: crap, crap and more crap. North Carolina is the land where God taunts you with a day of 70-degree weather so that you’ll be wearing shorts when it starts to snow.
This is the worst possible time to be a writer. By “worst possible time,” I mean the whole “this day and age” thing, and not Friday, specifically. Although, given that most of my potential readership is either a) too hungover to read this without a headache, b) too hungover to even get to campus to pick up a paper or c) still drunk, Friday’s not spectacular either.
I"ll readily admit: I"ve been looking forward to this moment all year. The time had finally come for me to write my scathing critique on sorority rush! I downed a few beers, sat down at my computer and... ...couldn"t do it. No, it was just too easy. I mean, I could sit here and shoot fish in a barrel (such an activity will be henceforth referred to as 'seafood recruitment'), but instead I"m going to take the hard road. No final-semester slacking for me, no sir. I"m going to write about religion.
Y ou can’t flip a channel today without stumbling over a reality show. (As an aside, I consider myself something of a game show connoisseur, and the title “reality show” bothers me. How many times have you walked down the street and had Donald Trump spirit you away for a two-month-long job interview? These are game shows. There is nothing real about them. Call them “reality-based game shows” or “let’s stop what we’re doing and talk to the camera shows” or something a little more accurate, okay?)
Breathe. Breathe? Breathe. Breathe because we do it 20,000 times a day and don’t think about it once. Breathe because it’s five or six seconds to yourself. Breathe because you can’t inspire and you can’t aspire without it. (Spiro, spirare, spiravi, spiratus.)
I was people-watching on the Bryan Center Walkway the other day, and I saw a couple speaking to a friend of theirs at one of the tables. The guy made a snarky comment about the girl, and the girl responded by whacking him one in the side of the head. After a chuckle, the guy admitted: “Yeah, I had that coming.” Somebody makes a stupid comment and they receive swift and fitting retribution? I am intrigued.
Apparently, fall has arrived: The leaves are starting to come down, the days are getting shorter, and seniors are scrambling for jobs like it’s their… uh… job.
Two months away from the election, I should probably pick a candidate. After all, this is the MOST IMPORTANT ELECTION EVER as everybody keeps reminding me. (Let me tell you, there’s nothing I love more than when the democratic process meets WrestleMania hyperbole.) So what are my choices? I like Jeb Bartlett’s integrity, but he’s a little too leftist for me. I used to like Andrew Palmer, but the whole murder/cover-up this season was a bit… excuse me? You say it’s completely irresponsible and naïve to vote for fictional characters (the Presidents on West Wing and 24, respectively)? In the words of Michael Corleone, “Oh. Who’s being naïve, Kay?”
The beginning of the school year is always a bit of a frightening time. Freshmen, wandering around aimlessly, lost on campus with parents cramping their style. Seniors, wandering around aimlessly, realizing that maybe classes have started and they should put on some pants. Yes, the start of any year can be a bit disorienting, and nothing’s scarier than uncertainty. What will my classes be like? Will I meet new people this year? Will this next batch of Dillo queso be the one that kills me? Thankfully, ladies and gents, there’s no need to flip out because yours truly is providing all the answers. (For example, the answers to the above questions are “Borings”, “Nos” and “Either Way, I’d Be Close To A Bathroom If I Were You”). Let us gaze into the crystal ball…
Welcome, once more, to summer. That special time of year when young, ambitious students go out into the world and make copies for little-to-no pay. At least, I wish I were making copies for little-to-no pay. Instead I'm stuck back home in New Jersey earning... you guessed it... little-to-no pay.
Whether you are for or against the current conflict in Iraq, it is important to remember that America gives you the right to protest in exchange for certain social responsibilities as a citizen. The recent rash of protesting on campus reminds me of a coach arguing calls after a game is over: too little, too late.