1. A Cartridge in a Pear-Tree
2. The Army of Fiber
3. Potty-Trained and Proud
4. Europa, I Ropa, We All Ropa
5. For the Love of Four Oranges
6. Math Blaster
7. That's So Cute
8. What's Up with This Elephant Thing?
9. Heavy Middle
10. A Tank-Full of Thankfuls
11. FAME! I'm Gonna Live Forever
12. The End, Act I
Volumes: 1 2 3 4 5 6
A cartridge in a Pear-Tree
Sept. 21, 1994
Friends, Romans, undergraduates, people who think the Tufts bookstore is an evil empire that must be overthrown -- lend me your ears. Or your eyes. Or whichever part of your body you might use to read the Gospel according to Dan. Because that's what this is, and you're going to read it.
I hope.
Don't be misled by the name; this column is not flammable. Well, the paper it's in is, but that's one of those HUGE risks you take every single day in life. The name Absolutely On Fire is just an attention-getter. I figured people would be a little more prone to read a column with a wacky title than if I called it something like What I Think About Stuff, or Trying To Be Deep, or even I Have My Own Column And You Don't, So I Guess We All Know Who's Superior Here, eh?
Instead I opted for something a little more catchy. Something new. Something fresh. Something with 16 essential vitamins and minerals. Something marginally funny, even. I guess if I really wanted to really spark attention I could have called it, If You Read This I'll Give You Free Beer, but the economics and legality of that one sort of ruled it out.
Anyway, I'm writing this column after a marathon session of playing Atari. Yes, my humble Carmichael abode is the home of a deluxe Atari 2600.
You may remember this item from your past - the joysticks, the paddles, the beloved Pac-Man cartridge. Do not ignore your roots. As little as you may be willing to admit it, you probably spent long hours in front of the Zenith trying to destroy all the Asteroids or ward off those terrifying Space Invaders. But you were probably eight or nine at the time.
I'm eighteen, and it hasn't lost it's charm yet.
Sure, Alex down the hall has his big special "CD ROM," with its "stereo sound" and its "high video resolution," and its "actual movie sequences." I suppose all that modern technology makes me inferior or something.
Humbug; Alex is the same guy who brought me Pitfall and eleven other cartridges.
Aah yes, Atari is symbolic of our lost youth and innocence.
(retch)
Now, as will be the case many times throughout the course of these columns, I just started making a painfully cheesy analogy between something very mundane and something supposedly important to the world as we know it. However, I do have a bit of self-respect and cannot continue down this course with a topic as sacred as Atari. My point in these columns is basically to spiritually enlighten you or at least make you laugh so hard you vomit. This would do neither.
So what is the point of today's edition? Why did this whole rectanglular mesh of words come into being? I'd hate to have you read all this way and then suddenly announce that it was all a hoax. That you spent all this time for nothing. That this isn't a real column, but is actually a collection of exerpts from an outdated Geometry textbook. Wouldn't you feel foolish?
Just for the record, this isn't a collection of exerpts from an outdated Geometry textbook.
I guess I should reward you with some nugget of wisdom or something equally prophetic. At least a snappy punch-line. You deserve it, all three of you who've managed to navigate their way through this mess to the end.
AND NOW for the whole point of my column:
Atari is fun. It's simple. My favorite game used to be Adventure where the player is represented by -- no, not a realistic 16-bit color image of Sylvester Stallone -- a simple yellow square.
It's simple.
It's enough.
And it makes me happy.
I can already hear you complaining.
"If your point was that simplicity is such a great thing, then why did you present it in the most complicated way possible? That wasn't your point at all. You didn't even talk about Atari most of the time."
I smile back at you and hit the game reset button as I get ready to defend my cities from an impending missile attack.
It's like my close personal friend John Lennon once said, "Some kind of solitude is measured out in you; you think you know me but you haven't got a clue."
Welcome.
TOP
The Army of Fiber
Sept. 28. 1994
I spent the summer on the commuter rail. Well, not every waking second, although it would have been kind of neat if I did spend most of my days on the train and I even had my own special seats, monogrammed of course, and one of the conductors would bring me coffee and eggs -- cheese eggs, no less -- and when I'd get on the train I'd say "Good morning, everybody," and they'd all yell back, "Norm!" and then the train ride would become a string of witty banter beteween me and the other patrons, with a laugh track, of course.
Perverted fantasies aside, let's not forget the fact that I actually did spend great gobs of time travelling on the commuter rail to my job in Kendall Square. And the commuter rail, I dare say, is chock full of suits.
All kinds of suits. Blue suits. Black suits. Gray suits. Brown suits. Striped suits. Suits with out-of-date plaid patterns. Suits with checks. Suits with flecks. Suits that fit Sam I Am. Suits the color of green eggs and ham. Suits and suits and suits and suits.
The word "suits" is starting to not sound like a real word any more, and I apologize to the inventor of the word.
A veritable plethora of suits. A real hodge-podge, a varied array, as if Anderson Little and the Brooks Brothers had a big brawl and both detonated fiber bombs. A butt-load of suits. You'd have to be completely numb to not understand the image I'm trying to portray here: A LOT OF SUITS.
Mind you, the suits are not empty. No, each suit was filled up with a person. Men. Commuters. Office-workers with matching brief-cases and shiny leather shoes, reading newspapers, wishing they were elsewhere, picturing their secretaries naked, reading the latest bestseller by John Grisham, Michael Crichton or __________(insert trendy novelist of your own choosing).
Mind you, the men are not empty. Most of them are full. Full of ideas, aspirations, desires, Cheerios they ate for breakfast, and visions of naked secretaries.
When I get off the train, all the suits march down the platform in South Station. If there's strength in numbers, these guys could collectively bench-press Jumbo II because, oh boy, are there a lot (see paragraph about the number of suits - didn't I drive that point home enough times?).
The suits march in formation down the platform, lemmings following the current to their respective offices. Day in. Day out. Filing papers. Doing office stuff.
I sometimes wonder if this is where I'm ultimately headed in life. Will I trade in my jeans for pleated slacks, my sandals for shiny leather shoes, my silver hoop earring for unadorned appendages?
In short, am I going to get trapped in an office doing a job I hate? Am I gonna be a suit?
So they march down the escalator (you didn't think they'd waste time and let the escalator carry them down, did you? Silly rabbit). It's an odd situation waiting for the red line. On my right is the battallion of neatly polished office-workers, patiently waiting for the next train to the battlefield.
On my left is the ratty and dirty slide-guitarist who sometimes plays at the Park Street station. While his fingers glide over the strings, I am instantly humbled in my own so-called abilities with the guitar. The music he makes soothes lions. The money he makes blows goats.
Actually, he might make a fairly decent living on the side if he were to blow goats professionally. In fact my cousin Zeke made a small fortune in the Himalayas doing just that.
But I digress.
And as I digress and look over what I've already written, I'm realizing that I've begun a cheezy analogy and that there's no going back on it at this point.
(gulp)
I stand at the crossroads (but this crossroads has a third rail). Where do I go now? Surrender to corporate America, roll in the dough and be miserable? Or follow my heart and be a writer and musician, and starve?
The idealistic me says to grab the axe (that means "guitar" for those not versed in the hip-cat tongue).
The fiscal me says to put on a suit.
The realistic me says to shut up and stop worrying about it until graduation. "You don't have to worry now," comforts Realistic Dan, "you're not a suit now. Relax."
He's right. I'm not a suit. I'm my own me. My job (telemarketing) doesn't make me wear a suit. There's no dress code at all. I often wear shorts and T-shirts. Hell, I could go to work in the sexiest ladies lingerie in the Victoria's Secret catalog, and everything would be cool so long as I make my phone calls and get people to buy these credit cards.
To buy them from the largest issuer of gold cards in the country.
It suddenly becomes apparent that I am just a minor gear in the huge network of machinery of a monstrous corporation. I don't wear a suit, but I might as well. I get all the crap that it symbolizes without the sweet paycheck.
When this depresses me into oblivion, I do what my close personal friend, Pete Townshend, did.
"I pick up my guitar and play,
Just like yesterday,
And I get on my knees and pray,
We don't get fooled again."
And here I thought I was such the idealistic neo-hippie, safely dodging the perils of growing up.
Aw shucks.
TOP
Potty-Trained and Proud
Oct. 5, 1994
I had a sore foot. so I went to the doctor's. For some reason, I still go to a pediatrician, despite the fact that I am a sophomore in college. I'm only a few years younger than some of the parents bringing their babies here which is not such a comforting thought.
So as I sit in the waiting room, I come to the realization that I am one of the precious few around these parts who no longer wears diapers. It's likely I'm the only patient with complete bladder control. I call the shots when it comes to my excretory system.
I'm poddy-trained and proud.
That aside, I wait. And wait. And in my boredom, I scan the room for someone my age or for something -- anything -- to do. My eyes seize upon two toddlers fiddling with brightly-colored interlocking chunks of plastic.
Legos.
Aaaaaaah.
The master architects at work are Ryan, 2, Billy, 3 1/2, and Dan, 18. We're all busy building. Dan is making a house, Billy is making a car. Ryan is making a mess.
Billy's car has one blue door and one red door, a solid white windshield, and square multi-colored wheels. It is highly unlikely that any Lego-men, no matter how deformed, would be able to drive this car -- what, with the lack of a motor and utter lack of any proportionality. This kid is no Frank Lloyd Wright.
The exterior of Dan's house is a complex striped pattern. There are spaces for windows and each room is fully furnished and ornately decorated. There is even a two-car garage attached with working doors. This guy is no amateur.
Ryan's mess consists of an uneven ball of blocks, randomly stuck together. He seems directionless. His creation is colorful but erratic. The sculptor in question, however, seems delighted with his work of "art." He should not be. It is lousy. This kid is no Leonardo da Vinci.
So I'm building my house, and I have suddenly run out of the yellow bricks I use to construct the thatched roof to the condo. When viewed from a distance (perhaps from a Lego plane that Billy thinks he's going to build; hah -- he wouldn't even know how to adjust the aerlorons) the roof looks remarkably like the skin of a leopard.
In dire need of a yellow brick, I grab Ryan's "brainchild" and remove a few. What should he care -- that thing's a mess anyway.
Surprisingly, he does care, and to let me know starts tugging on my shirt-sleeve. I ignore him. He starts to whimper.
What a wuss.
I return his ouevre (minus a few yellow bricks, of course) and complete my domicile. Sterling. Perfect. A true achievement of modern architecture.
Ryan's mom comes over and coos at him, "Hey big fella! What'd you make?"
He holds out his concoction of randomly put-together chunks of plastic.
"Wow! That's great! You're gonna be an artist someday, right? This is great!"
I am outraged. This woman obviously does not understand art.
"Look what I made," I say as I thrust the house towards her. "It's got moving parts, multiple rooms, all fully furnished and individually wall-papered. This is brilliant. That's crap," pointing to Ryan's heap. "This kid is a disgrace to the Lego company. He's not going to be an artist."
Suddenly I gain powers of precognition. "He's going to be a car mechanic and he's going to cheat on his wife with underaged high school girls. And he's going to eat at Denny's all the time. Artist? Hah! He's not even poddy-trained."
The woman looks at me strangely, now shielding Ryan and slowly backing away from me. Before the situation could further develop, I am called into the examining room, and my powers of foresight are gone.
When I went into the room, I was in luck. There was a Winnie The Pooh book in there, so I amused myself in his adventures until Dr. Popeo arrived. He looked at my foot. He looked at my throat. I don't know what he was expecting to find down my throat that could be causing my foot to be sore. Maybe a really REALLY long thorn. I don't know.
Ultimately, I had to have the entire lower half of my body removed. You may noticed this if you looked at me really closely. I found a great pair of used legs at a yard sale in Rhode Island, so the change isn't that noticeable. Unless, of course, you were really well-acquainted with my lower body.
I regret to say that the odds are strongly in your favor that you were not.
So in any case, the moral of the story is that you don't even need any coherence of thought to have a Misadventure in Dentistry. You don't even need facts. The only true thing in this column is that Dr. Popeo looked at my sore foot in a children's doctor's office. The rest is mostly the result of a kick in the head (as the Zamboni editor's box is often keen to point out).
And I believe it was my close personal friend (and lunatic), Syd Barrett, who once said "I know a mouse who lives in a house, I don't know why I call him Gerald."
Words to live by.
TOP
Europa, I Ropa, We All Ropa
Oct. 12, 1994
So I was completely sick of the wild and crazy party life here at Tufts, namely, those elegant soirees at those lovely mansions that are more commonly known as frat parties. Ah the Greek system -- a rave for another Wednesday's column. But as for today's oeuvre, I was so completely sick of the party scene that I was even game to go out, (gulp) dancing.
Yes, dancing.
Now, you probably wouldn't guess that the Tobinator would be able to cut a proverbial rug, and you'd be oh so right in that assumption. It's not that I have a deficiency of rhythm. No, I have oodles of rhythm. It's just any sort of motor skills that I lack.
I've got about three different dance moves and they're all basically the same and they all basically suck and they all basically make me look goofy. But there are few things in this world that don't make me look goofy. Actually, the whole concept of dancing at a club seems a little strange to me. Dance is a performance art, so who exactly are you performing for here? The deejay?
Regardless, I was somehow coaxed into going out to a club (they must have used the old Jedi mind trick) and suddenly found myself within the confines of party central, otherwise known to us hip cats as Europa. Lots of businessmen in suits hanging around the bar with greasy-looking guys hitting on skanky-looking girls and everybody playing foozeball and listening to very weird foreign folk music.
Not exactly my scene, to say the least. But at least there were no Greek letters adorning the door as we walked in. I saw this as a plus.
So we hung out until a bouncer, who I'm convinced was Jesse "The Body" Ventura, let us into the dance hall. Aaah sweet techno (he says with an ounce of sarcasm) -- the bass that rattles your rib cage, the drums that pierce your eardrums, the fake strings that tear at your soul.
Techno is just disco, but angrier.
So we're all just boogying to the beat as my head is ready to explode since one of the geniuses in our party somehow decided to stand DIRECTLY underneath the speaker and now my brain pulses with each beat of the synthesized drum.
And the music keeps alternating between sonically abrasive technocrap and something else which I could only describe as Russian folk techno or perhaps Turkish merry-go-round music. In either case, it was in a language that none of us understood, yet everyone outside our group knew all the words and was quick to sing along.
Strange. That whole Tower of Babel thing...
Never mind -- it's an obscure reference. If you didn't get it, that's okay because most columnists don't throw biblical lines into the mix. This one did and wishes he didn't.
Moving on...
I'm shaking my body around in time to the music (after an hour I've clearly exhausted all three of my moves and dancing just becomes a chore) and I decide that I need a break from the audio assault and the rowdy people all around who insist in placing their elbows directly into the small of my back and hitting me with their butts. So I went to the bathroom. This was no small task, because once word got out that I was leaving (telepathically, I assume), everyone in the club locked arms so that there was no possible escape.
Until I sprouted wings and flew to the nearby staircase (those super powers come in so handy).
I walked down the stairs, said hi to Jesse the Body, and walked towards the bathroom. On my way, I was stopped by an attractive girl. I only note that she is attractive because I want you to be jealous of me. It turns out we graduated high school together, and we had been friendly, so you can stop being jealous. No, on second thought, keep being jealous. She was really attractive.
"Dan, how've you been?"
"Good. How 'bout you?"
"Great. Why're you here?"
"Dancing."
"But Dan, this is Greek night."
"It is?"
"Yeah. Every Saturday night is Greek night."
Every Saturday night is Greek night. Aaah. So, that was GREEK merry-go-round music I was hearing, and everyone was singing along to the GREEK lyrics and everyone there was of GREEK descent.
Okay. Fish out of water. I mean, sure, I think Greek salads are one of the best foods in the world, and I like that John Travolta/Olivia Newton-John movie as much as the next guy (catch that reference?), but this was a little overboard.
I mean, hey. This is Greek night. Every Saturday night is Greek night.
I decided not to share my newfound tidbit of information with my friends because I'm a cruel bastard and wanted them to wallow in confusion a little longer. But they figured it out as the deejay taunted the crowd with snappy lines like "How you Greeks doing?" and "We got any Greeks in the house?"
Ironic, eh? I leave the campus to get away from Greek life, and it just follows me around. There's just no winning, I say.
TOP
For the Love of Four Oranges
Oct. 19, 1994
I never fought with anyone over fruit.
Until last week.
I was sick with a nasty cold and decided that the best way to cure myself would be to take Vitamin C until my skin turned orange. My friend Jason gave me some Vitamin C pills, my friend Annie gave me an orange, my mom bought me orange juice -- I was set like Chet.
Incidentally, this seemingly useless expression is very appropriate to my story as it derives from the ancient Mesopotamian tale of Chet the Orange Harvester who had the largest citrus crop in the ancient world. So famous was his orange crop that the C in Vitamin C really stands for Chet.
Another fictitious fact from your friends here at the Misadventures in Dentistry Department of Education.
As luck would have it, Carmichael Dining Hall was serving oranges at lunch the day I was at my sickest. It was clear that my offering to Tropicanus, god of the rind, had been well-recieved, and I was ready to reap the rewards as I took the four least yellow oranges for my consumption. They looked pretty pathetic, but they had some of that Vitamin C that was certain to make me into a new man.
Fruit in hand, I happily marched around the inconveniently located salad bar and thrashed my way through the crowds of wild freshmen in line for pizza with wacky toppings. I think that day they offered a choice between pepperoni, eggplant, chocolate chips, and elephant brains.
So after navigating through the mass of humanity that had congregated for the sole purpose of being IN MY WAY, I walked out the door and past the card-swipe ladies, oranges in hands. And that's when I heard a strange alarm-type noise coming from one of the ladies. It sounded like "Hey hey hey hey hey hey" but it was very monotone and awfully spooky. Jay Ruttenburg has a theory that the line ladies are robots who are programmed in the basement of Carmichael, and this noise almost won me over to his school of thought.
I turned around and gave her my best angelic innocent face. "Huh?" I eloquently asked.
She merely frowned at me, stuck her hands out and said:
"Hand 'em over."
Now, this would probably be appropriate procedure if, say, I was six years old and had just stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. Or if she had a gun and I was holding two big bags of money. But I was simply exiting the dining hall, minding my own business, carrying some oranges. They weren't even good oranges. They were barely orange.
"No, I'm taking them. The rule is that if you're going to eat it, you can take it. I'm going to eat them all."
"Hand 'em over. You can only take one."
"Bite me."
Well, I guess I didn't phrase it exactly like that. I think it came out more like, "well, I'll give you two of them, but I need the other two. One's for me and one's for my friend." After all, I had to repay Annie her orange. Once you start withholding fruit, you start losing friends. This is a lesson I learned the hard way; every time I see a guava, I get a little choked up.
"Nope. You can only take one. And the Carmichael manager's right there."
I think the threat of bringing the Carmichael manager into our argument was meant to be such an intimidating prospect that I would immediately drop the oranges and run for the hills sobbing.
Instead, the effect was about the same as the threat of calling over the assistant manager at Denny's. I'm sure you can understand why I was hardly shaking in my proverbial boots.
So I decided to devise a most diabolical scheme to outfox that evil Carmichael SWAT Team.
"Okay, just let me put the oranges back myself."
So I enacted my plan as I walked in the dining hall and started to stuff the oranges in my pockets. I turned around to see the Carmichael manager smirking and waving his finger at me like the kindergarten teacher who just caught someone eating paste. Curses, foiled again.
A guy I know named Evan stepped in to help me out, offering to carry one of the oranges for me. I decided that I was going to get all four oranges out, even if it came to brawling it out with the Carmichael manager or his robot sidekicks. I thanked Evan and he went on his merry way.
I tried all sorts of schemes with hiding the oranges in different locations under my clothes, but none seemed both comfortable and believable. Eventually I found my friend Laura who had a backpack and I forced her to smuggle out my fruit, confused as she was by my actions. And I returned the fruit to Annie so as to not lose her friendship and all was well.
But the story doesn't end there. Oh no it doesn't.
When I got to my creative writing class, I found out that when that guy Evan tried to leave the dining hall, the Carmichael manager patted him down. He PATTED HIM DOWN.
He checked Evan's pockets to see if he had any oranges in there.
Hello?
HELLO?
HOW MUCH DO ORANGES COST?
Have they suddenly become such a hot commodity that they must be guarded no matter what? Why did the dining staff get so hyperactive for the love of four oranges? According to Alex the Floridian, you can buy four oranges for "a buck twenty-five." And according to a "Tufts Dining" pamphlet provided by Senator Claudia, I pay $6.06 for each of my 14 meals a week.
So if I go with their figures, Casio the Calculator says tells me that I am entitled to roughly 19.4 oranges for each meal that I skip. And since I have skipped an average of 2 meals a week for the last 5 weeks, the Carmichael manager owes me more than 90 oranges in back pay.
So the Carmichael people should be showering me with oranges not taking them away. And they shouldn't be patting down anyone. Okay, maybe if there was a really good reason to suspect someone of putting one of those comfy reclining chairs in their pocket, but not for ORANGES.
Listen:
I have one piece of advice for dining services and here it is: loosen up. It's just fruit, guys. I'm not gonna sell it on the black market. I'm just gonna eat it in the privacy of my own room.
Sergei Prokoviev (the guy who wrote "Peter and the Wolf") wrote a piece of classical music called "For the Love of Two Oranges," and I never knew what it was about.
Obviously this happened to him twice.
TOP
Math Blaster
Oct. 26, 1994
Scott, my nerdy roommate, informed me that I was wasting $1,900 on my statistics class. He's right, because I don't go to that class any more.
There is absolutely no need. I am not a mathematical genius, nor do I play one on TV. But I see no point in waking up for an 8:30 class that is wholly and completely useless. That is time that would be better spent lying in bed, drooling on my pillow.
And I sense that I am not alone. I know that many of you drool on your pillow. And I know that many of you skip your math classes, and with good reason. This is my second math course at Tufts and I have failed to be at all impressed by either one.
Now, the problem isn't totally the material. Okay, granted, calculus is not a hotbed of excitement (and if you disagree, you should put down this column and flip over the Barry Manilow tape you're listening to) but it doesn't have to be this painful. Just because the topic sucks doesn't mean the class has to.
But it does.
Because the teachers are pathetic.
I know that it's bad to make blanket assumptions about people. We're supposed to be loving to all of God's creatures, or something enlightening like that. But when it comes to Tufts math professors, I have a certain degree of prejudice. I do not feel that they are one of us; they are perhaps aliens sent to lay waste to our collegiate minds and money.
First off, my professors do not seem to speak English. Funny. I thought that language skills were an integral part of teaching. I guess I still have much to learn. I suppose that the administrators decided that it would, maybe, stimulate our brains to not be able to communicate with our professors.
For any aspiring Jumbo mathers, indecipherable accents are a must if you want to be a math professor here. In addition, frequent grammatical errors and blatant mispronunciations will help make your class unforgettable.
Now, even if the teachers all spoke like Don Pardo, that wouldn't be the end of our troubles. They make mistakes left and right, as if our intellects will be enhanced by an incompetent fool who can't subtract correctly.
News flash: THEY WON'T BE.
The profs don't answer the questions asked of them. Let's take a look at a typical math class in a scene from the play I wrote, entitled, How Statistics Ruined My Life. The following is an exchange between dan tobin and the teacher; we'll call her Professor Stupid Face.
DLT: Could you go over problem #17?
PSF: Problem #17?
DLT: Yeah. 6 + 4.
PSF: Right. Well, in order to find the area of a cube...
DLT: No no no. Problem #17. The addition one.
PSF: Yes. I know. You take the cubic area, times it by five..
DLT: NO! SIX PLUS FOUR!
PSF: Six plus four? Eleven. Anyway, you times it by five, carry the two...
They don't teach the material either. What we do in class, what we do for homework, and what we have on the test are three COMPLETELY different things. They don't overlap. They don't peacefully coexist. They barely even call each other on the phone just to chat.
One hope is the TA. In my IR class, the TA is better than the professor -- I wish he taught the whole class. But not in Statistics. The TA there is more clueless than the class, and it's painful to think that she's actually being paid out of my pocket to mislead students each week.
So the lonely class is left with going to the book for help. But this is no picnic either. The people who write math text books are the same people who make instructions for hair dryers ("never use while sleeping"). The problems have 16 parts to them, require knowledge of advanced math topics you've never studied, and have in wrong answer in the back of the book.
The book would be better used under the tush of one of my short friends when they drive.
I understand the importance of math. You need to know addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, fractions and such. But why do we need calculus? When am I ever going to use any of this stuff? Sure there was that time I was being mugged on the Red Line when the thief threatened to kill me if I didn't take the derivative of x squared plus two. But how is this stuff ever going to come in handy otherwise?
$1,900 is a fairly decent sum of money. To put that amount of money in perspective, that would buy you 135 new CD's, 7,600 packs of Garbage Pail Kids, or 19,000 Gummi Fish. So why did I spend my money on math?
Oh yeah.
The administration is making me.
Here's what I think. It's not unreasonable for Ballou to require us to take two math classes at Tufts. But it really is unreasonable to require us to be taught by incompetent dolts that wouldn't last a second in the public school system. My close, personal friend Michael J.W. Stickings once said that Tufts graduates are as well-rounded as a beach ball and equally hollow. The math requirement here just plain isn't helping anyone. At all.
One note: this entire column could be reprinted as a wholly valid yet completely different article by merely replacing the word "math" with "world civ." Go figure.
TOP
That's So Cute
Nov. 2, 1994
In the seventh grade, I decided that I was going to ask out a girl. Enough of this loser act, I was ready for the bright lights and big city atmosphere of going to Papa Gino's. I barely knew her, but was undeterred by this fact. Yeah, she would be unendingly charmed by my metallic teeth and chubby exterior. Who wouldn't?
Well, needless to say, she was not impressed by the little squirt that would someday evolve into the Tobinator, the precursor to the fine specimen of humanity you see before you today. In fact she passed the whole thing off in one blanket statement. When I told her I liked her, she just said, "Aww. That's so cute."
Cute?
I can't think of any other words that could have been more grating on my eardrums. Even "get away from me before I bludgeon you with a meat-hook, you lousy filthy slob," would have sounded better to my seventh grade auditory system. Cute?
Now, while my appearance has improved (slightly), my abilities with women and aversion to the word cute have remained about the same as that fateful day in the fall of '87. But I will not ramble about my lack of skill in relationships. No, this week's dissertation revolves around one word and one word alone.
CUTE.
For those of you illiterate-types/engineers who look through the Daily for the pretty pictures, that's pronounced KYOOT.
Defined by Webster's as "an adjective that can mean anything you want it to, so long as it's annoying and negative," this evil word has infiltrated the English language like a Primary Sourcerer at an ECO meeting. It seems to have endless meanings, and hacking through to the correct definition is a problem and a half.
Case in point. You are a guy named Hansel and you meet a nice-looking girl named Gretel. You flirt up a proverbial storm with her and hope for the best. The next day, you see Gretel's friend Matilda and ask her what Gretel thought of you.
"She said you were cute."
What does this mean? How can we interpret this cryptic statement?
There's "mildly-attractive" cute. Gretel thinks you are sort of good-looking, but you perhaps have three nostrils and she considers this a bit of a turn-off. Still, your appearance as a whole is enough to make her, well, not quite swoon, but not quite vomit. You're okay but not set for life.
There's "teddy-bear" cute. So basically Gretel wants to put you on her shelf and let you sit with her stuffed pigs. Maybe she'll occasionally take you down off the shelf for a tea party where she'll pinch your cheeks a lot and make you drink imaginary tea with imaginary cream and imaginary nutrisweet because you don't want to get imaginary cellulite or have an imaginary heart attack. But this is hardly the optimal situation.
There's "sarcastic" cute. You pulled the quarter out of your nose and then ate it, and then pulled it out of your butt. In a public restaurant. "Yeah, that was pretty cute." You are not set for life or even for the next fifteen minutes. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.
There's "comfortable" cute. It's unlikely that this is the correct definition since it really only applies to coffee-shops or bistros or pretentious little establishments that rich people enjoy.
Basically, your chances of scoring with Gretel are slim. Especially with a goofy name like Hansel, and with that sweet tooth that could lead you into trouble with, say, a witch in the forest.
Now, I know that today's column has digressed into the realm of the completely random and slightly Grimm (groan) but bear with me nonetheless.
In my opinion, the word "cute" should only be followed by "ip" and should have to do with cleaning your ears. (Holy obscure reference, Batman!) This is a word that is just plain not needed in the English language. We could get along very nicely without it, and it may even cause world peace and stop global warming and all that happy fuzzy stuff.
I urge you all to write letters to Mr. Webster to eliminate the word from his big book. I ask all of you to refrain from using the word. Maybe set up something with your friends so that any time one of you says it, the others flog you repeatedly with a blunt object. Let's alter the vernacular. Let's change history.
Wouldn't that be just adorable?
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What's Up with This Elephant Thing?
Nov. 9, 1994
Poor, poor Jumbo II. His tail fell off. Again. Boo-hoo. I'm so ditraught, I could just weep my sad little eyes out.
Now, if you're hard of reading and can't quite detect the saracasm in my tone, let me assure you that I am most certainly NOT in hysterics over the fact that some hephalump-shaped concrete block has begun to fall apart. I'm a bit concerned, but I'm definitely not going on a hunger stricke over it, I'm not pulling out my own hair, I'm not getting ferklempt.
(Damn it -- five points off for quoting an overused SNL routine that isn't remarkably funny in the first place; I should have known better)
So when the class of whatever unveiled the statue, we heard all the hubbub and uproar and whining and such. The deal goes something along the lines of that big gray slab of cement in front of Ballou Hall is supposed to rally our spirirts and make us love our school. And oh how it does. Hardly a weekend goes by that a crowd of students don't gather around Jumbo in a candle-light vigil, singing Tuftsy songs and sharing in the camaraderie that only a big elephant statue can bring to us all. And let us say, Amen.
Uh, is that more sarcasm, Mr. Tobin?
Okay. Enough ranking down the elephant. I'm sure Williams has a concrete purple cow in their quad and that Notre Dame has a concrete leprechaun and that Harvard has a concrete big red thing.
But I've got some questions about Senor Jumbolaya. Everyone asked "why" so much last year that we started sounding a little too existentialist for our own good. I'm not going over that ground again. No, Misadventures in Dentistry is always forging the path of progress and innovation in trying to make you giggle during class. As I inferred in my first column, I won't quit until you laugh so hard you vomit.
So, what happened to Jumbo's tail?
Ironic that the only part we still have of the original Jumbo is the tail, (the rest was baked mascot long ago) and the only part missing from his hardened replacement is now the tail. Perhaps the two have met each other and joined forces at the proverbial elephant graveyard and are performing strange cloning experiments like in Sleeper.
(Obscure reference decoded: it was a Woody Allen movie and there's one part where the Pope dies and all they have left is his nose and they try to clone him from that. No, really. I don't make this stuff up.)
(Well, some of it, but not this one.)
There's also a theory circulating that aliens landed uphill and walked up to Jumbo asking to be brought to his leader. When Mr. Inanimate Object declined to respond (hmm, maybe because he's, I don't know, INAMINATE?) the Martians got angry and atomized his tail.
I don't believe that one, though. If aliens were to land, they'd obvisouly land down-hill on that weird-looking chemistry building stuck to the back of Pearson that might even be called Pearson, but why clutter my columns with facts? I'm pretty sure that that building was erected by aliens, like those big dominoes the monkeys stared at in 2001.
I think the tail fiasco was actually a plot by the administration to boost school spirit. They want us all to rally around the missing tail, and bond in its utter missingness. Maybe a campus witch-hunt for the thief. But now that we actually have one sports team that doesn't suck, the whole thing's kind of shot. So return the tail, Bags.
Another question for inquiring minds is why can't they keep the tail stuck to Jumbo's butt?
I've got some Elmer's, some masking tape, even some Crazy Glue if you guys want me to help out. I did earn a merit badge in Concrete Elephant Repair when I was in Tufts Scouts as akid. Our mascot is Jumbo, not Eeyore, and we should be able to keep his anatomy in tact.
Speaking of anatomy, did you check out the unit on that thing? Poor Mrs. Jumbo. She must be one sore elephant.
Another thing. When is Jumbo III coming?
My dream is to build a motorized elephant that would storm around campus, looking after the student body. Half pachyderm, half robot. Stopping crimes, fighting bad guys, protecting Tufters, educating little kids.
We call it Jumbocop. I think we've got a winner here.
So there are really a lot of unanswered questions about the big guy, and I don't see any easy answers. It's like my close personal friend
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Heavy Middle
Nov. 16, 1994
I dare say I have a middle name fetish. Now, I understand that perhaps admitting to a fetish in an internationally read publication like the Daily (Julie E. in France is quite the MID fan, I've heard) -- well, that would be quite a bad thing. But this isn't so terrible. It’s not like I’m admitting to bombing the Hillel Center or masterminding a Monkees reunion. And "fetish" is such a harsh word. Why not use a kinder, gentler term like "hankering," or "passion," or "obsession," or "only reason to LIVE," or "WHAT I NEED TO CONTINUE BREATHING."
But back to those middle names. I think my deep love for middle names stems from their utter uselessness. They just plain aren't necessary to modern life. Well, unless you're one of George Foreman's sons, that is. According to a Meineke commercial (pointed out to me by Senator Jill), all of the professional boxer's sons are named George Foreman, but each with different middle names.
Mr. Foreman (senior) has perhaps taken a few too many shots to the head, and his litter of junior brawlers are the rare exception to the rule. To recap: middle names don't do jack.
My middle name does nothing for me, and because Copernicus proved that the world does in fact revolve around the Tobinator, I am one only one who matters. And my middle name hasn't gotten me money, it hasn't gotten me friends, it hasn't even gotten me a free lunch at Denny's on my birthday. Come to think of it, it hasn’t gotten me anything on my birthday, not even a card. And it hasn't called in over a week, it hasn't remembered our anniversary, and now I'm starting to wonder if my middle name is seeing other people without my knowledge. It was all going so well, I thought...
For those of you still with us:
Invariably, the question is burning in your collective minds, "What is dan tobin’s middle name? Would a guy who doesn’t bother to capitalize his first and last names even have a middle one?" Okay, show of hands. How many of you thought that, because of the weird spacing in my name for the column, that my middle initials are A.N.? Daniel A.N. Tobin? Come on -- no Daily columnist is pretentious enough to do something like that with two middle initials and all.
My middle name: Leopold.
Okay, that’s a lie. It’s really Lawrence (as in Joey), but for some reason that even I don’t understand, I always tell people that it’s Leopold. I wish it were Leopold. Not that Lawrence is a boring name, but that Leopold is just so much better. To put it in SAT terms:
Lawrence : Leopold :: Chocolate : Heavenly Hash. 'Nuff said.
Little kids hate middle names. If it's something like Thomas, fine. But I know people with middle names of Bernard, Joyce, Dee, Radcliffe, Stone, Sacurada, and Cyprian. Try admitting those to the playground bully, whose middle name is most likely Biff.
My friend Paul Hirsch says that he can't wait to have kids so that he can give them messed up middle names. This is the kind of sadism that creates inferiority complexes in small children, and if you see Paul Hirsch around campus, you should immediately lay waste to him.
Actually, be merciful to him. That's the kind of creativity that makes for my utmost amusement, and for lame topics of columns as well.
(sigh)
I think the only real use for middle names is as an escape hatch. My friends Auburn and Ronald became Mark and Mike respectively. For them, parents were even more sadistic than Paul Hirsch, and middle names were the only possible route for them to hopefully avoid ridicule. H. Ross Perot did likewise, I'd imagine.
The one I don't understand is the fool who ran against Ted Kennedy for US Senate. Mitt Romney is a man with a stupid first name. Mitt is not a name, it's what you wear to take a hot pie out of the oven, it's what you catch a baseball in, it's what you become when you're playing tag ("I mitt!"). It's just not a first name. And, as fate would have it, it's not his first name.
The name on the ballot said W. Mitt Romney.
Evidently, he CHOSE to use the name Mitt. WHY? Even if his first name is Wendell or Wormface, it's better than Mitt. Mitt is the kind of middle name you keep covered up hoping that Biff doesn't ask you. I bet he would have won his Senate bid if he had called himself Wormface M. Romney. Much more Congressional and distinguished-like. Mitt Romney makes him sound more like a Chippendale's dancer. Not that I'd know...
Well, I suppose that I should end with some tidbit of advice, some nugget of wisdom that will both uplift and enlighten you. Sort of like the last five minutes on a TV sitcom where Theo admits that he was wrong and hugs his dad as the audience applauds and the theme song kicks in.
Unfortunately, Misadventures in Dentistry does not have a laugh track or theme song (although I'm looking into acquiring both for next semester) and so this sort of ending seems a bit difficult. So instead, I'll leave you with a useless yet slightly relevant quote from my close personal friend Tom Petty.
"I've been over to your house, and you've been over sometimes to my house, I've slept in your treehouse, my middle name is Earl."
You tell 'em, Tom.
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A Tank-Full of Thankfuls
Nov. 26, 1994
Well, this is the last day before Thanksgiving break officially happens and the mass exodus begins, and I am left with presenting you a final pre-Turkey Day column. And since, like, only four people on campus are reading this, I decided not to be bothered by writing a real poignant column (as if I do that OTHER weeks) and so instead present to you:
25 things I'm thankful for
1. Getting off of the campus. I haven't been home in an obscene amount of time, so it should really nice to spend some time with my parents.
2. PEZ dispensers. How many kinds of candy offer you a fun toy when you're done eating? Sure candy necklaces and ring-pops are cool, but when the munching is done, so is the jewelry.
3. Cookie Monster. He RULES.
4. The Oscar Meyer Wienermobile. The best vehicle the world has ever seen.
5. The Talking Heads. I wish they hadn't broke up, but at least I've got their music to maniacally spin around the room too.
6. Crayons. 10 colors is all you need to have fun for weeks.
7. Juliette Lewis. Sure, the rest of the world hates her, but I'm gonna marry her some day.
8. Stanley Kaplan test prep centers. They provided me with a free beach ball, pencil, coffee mug, and computer program. Any company that wants to buy you off with free stuff can't be all bad.
9. Free stuff. It's free. 'Nuf said.4
10.
11. Run DMC. Live in our dining halls, it's the guys who brought rap into the mainstream. Bring your Adidas.
12. The students of Tufts University. They understand that "Stupid Face" is not a racial slur.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20. Natalie Merchant. Rrroww!
And conversely, 25 things I'm not thankful for.
1. Spending Thanksgiving with my 10-year-old cousins who think they're professional wrestlers and that I am their punching bag.
2. Necco Wafers. They taste like Rolaids.
3. Telly from Sesame Street. What a wuss.
4. People who think the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile is just a big phallic symbol on wheels. It's so much MORE.
5. Green Day. My roommate woke me up one morning by blasting "Basket Case," and I convulsed so hard that I almost knocked the bed over.
6. Colored pencils. They write too lightly, and they don't erase even though the word "pencil" implies that they should.
7. Jerry Lewis. No real reason, I guess. He's just annoying.
8. Stanley Kaplan test prep centers. I just haven't been a very big fan since they threatened to take "legal action" against me.
9. Expensive stuff. It costs too much. 'Nuff said.
10.
11. Ice T. Man, he dissed me hardcore -- there goes the audience.
12. Hyper-sensitive department heads trying to brand certain Daily columnists as racist. Man, some people have no shame.
13.
14.
15. Kenny G. If there's one pop artists who deserves a good wedgie, it's him.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20. That chick who opened for Natalie Merchant. Uh...
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FAME! I'm Gonna Live Forever
Nov. 30, 1994
God bless Tufts. The lovely and elegant MacPhie/Dewick Dining and Entertainment Center brings economy to a whole new level. Sure, it's a dining hall -- BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! It's also a pub, an auction-hall, a sewage treatment plant, and a performance arena! So act now as part of this limited time special TV offer!
No, really. How cool is it to go see a concert in the same place you nibbled your Zesty Bean Casserole? Sure, the Spin Doctors cancelled a few years ago when they found out that they would be playing a venue with milk dispensers, but for the most part I think it's a pretty swell idea. Besides, it's either MacPhie or Cohen, and everybody knows that the acoustics in Cohen are similar to, say, if the concert was held inside my butt.
So last Tuesday was the Natalie Merchant show, held in the same place I eat fluorescent green falafel sandwiches (they just shouldn't look like that). And because I am a mean person and pushed all the peasants out of my way, I got a pretty good seat.
Well, it wasn't really a seat. There weren't any chairs and I wasn't about to sit Indian-style on the ground. Wait, can I say that? Maybe I should have said Native-American-style. No, let's try cross-legged. Or let's just forget the whole thing; whatever point I was trying to make got lost a few sentences ago.
Anyway, I'm standing in the crowd ten feet away from Natalie Merchant. And that's when the brilliant revelation comes to me that I'm standing ten feet away from Natalie Merchant. NATALIE MERCHANT.
This is a woman who has sold millions albums. This is a woman who has been on the cover of Rolling Stone. This is the woman whose face is on a poster in my room. This is the woman who was the lead singer for the band that every girl I've ever dated has gone berserk over. And I am TEN FEET AWAY FROM HER.
A few years ago I may have broken into whining that I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy, but I don't want to lose any more points for quoting lousy SNL routines. Damnit -- I just lost five points for abbreviating something that shouldn't be abbreviated. I just can't win.
Back to the chick onstage. There are 1200 Jumbo eyes staring at her. (Not abnormally large peepers, just Tuftsish peepers). She stands up, we're amazed. She spins around, we're enthralled.
What's up with that?
The whole concept of fame is pretty sketchy I think. Let's start with a definition. Perusing through the Misadventures in Dentistry Brand Official Dictionary, ($19.95 while supplies last, your parents put it together) we find that "fame" is defined as such:
1. An old TV show about kids (Leroy, Bruno) at a school for the fine arts.
2. A cool song by David Bowie and John Lennon that got destroyed (they call it a "remix") for the Pretty Woman soundtrack.
3. When people who you've never met know who you are.
Think about it. Let's say your name was, oh, I don't know, Boutros-Boutros. One day, a total stranger comes up to you and says, "Oh my God! Boutros-Boutros! I worship you! The walls of my room are covered with posters of you! I even named my pet llama Boutro-Boutros! You are the messiah, and I will sacrifice my first-born unto you."
This is the price you pay for fame. Being the world-renowned superman that I am, I've finally come to terms with my widespread celebrity. I was first thrust into the national spotlight as a spokesmodel semi-finalist on Star Search, and now have taken the world by storm in a Sternish fashion, proclaiming myself king of all Tufts media.
There's a distinguished honor for you, not to mention a false one.
But do you think it's fun to be hounded by beautiful women day and night? Do you think it's easy to be the subject of every conversation this side of the Atlantic? Do you think I get any pleasure from the millions of dollars I make in celebrity endorsements? No. It's difficult. Pure heck, I say. (Pardon my French -- I guess in French it would be heque).
Fame does have its perks. I've heard rumors that I'm being nominated for Supreme Ruler of the Galaxy, and I got over 40 dinosaur stickers in the mail once -- FREE.
Meeting famous people is always a strange experience. First off, you always feel stupid. What can you tell them that they haven't heard before? Besides, it's a pretty big deal for you to shake hands with, say, the president. But I'd be willing to bet that Mr. Clinton doesn't give a flying rat's ass about meeting you. Nothing personal, just that you're completely uninteresting and you SUCK.
I just love insulting my readers.
Anyway, I think this column started out in MacPhie at a Natlie Merhcant concert, so let's return there. My friends Jana and Lena informed me that during the opening act, Natalie was amongst the crowd, hanging out, dancing. Why they did not inform me of this DURING the show remains a mystery (oh yeah -- they're mean). But it didn't even matter because a funny thing happened to me whilst watching the show.
"Excuse me, are you dan tobin?"
"Why, yes. Yes I am."
"Wow. My name's Natalie and I'm a big fan. The walls of my room are covered with posters of you. You are the messiah, and I will sacrifice my first-born unto you." And then we had wild passionate sex right in the middle of MacPhie.
Surgeon General's Warning: Believing today's Misadventure may cause emphesema, lung cancer, chronic farting syndrome, or some guy bopping you on the head.
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The End, Act I
Dec. 7, 1994
There is no "middle of the semester." Somebody made up the concept because they wanted to mislead us poor little college students. Seriously -- the time period does not exist. Either the semester is beginning, beginning, beginning... and then suddenly you have fifteen research projects and twelve exams all in the same week, and you realize the semester is ending, ending, ending.
And so that fateful day has at last arrived; here is the final Misadventure of the semester. STOP CHEERING. You were supposed to get all choked up and misty-eyed over the good times we've had together. C'mon. Work with me, people.
I really wanted this to be a big huge extravanaganza -- I was thinking about giving out free balloons with each copy of the Daily, but that didn't quite work out. So then I thought to myself, "Hey wilbur," because I always call myslef wilbur when addressing myself. "Why don't you just write an amazingly brilliant and insightful column that will touch the hearts of millions and put an end to poverty and injustice around the globe?"
That didn't quite work out either.
So I was trying to think what to do with this last column. I really can't write a Holiday-Seasonish column. Rail against everything being too commercial, complain about the zooish shopping malls, make fun of Santa Claus -- wait, that sounds pretty good. Making fun of Santa Claus.
No, someone would inadvertantly take it the wrong way. I don't know -- people who live in the North Pole, members of the Reindeer Culture House, Clausish-Americans, the math department, elves -- somebody would get offended and then I'd have to change the name of the column to Misinterpretations in Dentistry.
I could expound my knowledge on finals, but I have none. Not finals -- yowzers do I have plenty of those. It be knowledge I don't got none of. Good grammar, me have. Talk real good.
I could do an end-of-1994 best-and-worst type thang. That would be great except for the fact that I am a complete loony and don't remember much of what happened on Sunday, let alone back in January. In any case, I think I take the award for "Best new Features column written by someone who doesn't capitalize their name," but that's because we wouldn't let k.d. lang have a column this semester.
I was thinking about doing one of those flashback episodes like they used to do on the Cosby Show and Family Ties. When they didn't feel like making up a new show they'd just splice some old ones together. Thus: "Hey, remember that wacky time when I tried to steal oranges from Carmichael?" and then some reprinted paragraphs from that column. "Oh, that was fun. But how about that time I talked about middle names? Oh-ho-ho, what a wacky time that was!"
Uh, yeah.
Well, what are we left with? It looks like I've committed myself to one of those "ideas I didn't use" columns, but that's such a lame way to end the semester. I guess I could look back at that my first one of the year and see what I declared as my intent for Misadventures.
"My point in these columns is basically to spiritually enlighten you or at least make you laugh so hard you vomit."
Hmm. Have I fulfilled that goal?
(The piano part of "Layla" starts playing in the background)
I doubt that I spiritualy enlightened anyone. But I did have some people tell me that they peed in their proverbial pants. Not exactly vomitting, but I go for any bodily function I can. So that means that I have a goal, a reason to come back after break. I must cause vomit!
("Layla" gets louder and stronger, having quite a stirring emotional effect)
It's great to live in America! I love you all! Good night!
CREDITS:
MISADVENTURES IN DENTISTRY
Written by : d a n tobin
Produced by : The Features Battalion
Musical score by : The Misadventures in Dentistry House Band
Key grip : Some guy named Earl
Best boy : Pinnochio
This column is written in Panavision. Any resemblence between characters portrayed in the column and any people living or dead is purely the result of the warped imagination belonging the afore-mentioned goober running the show. All rights reserved, all seats reserved, too. Tune in next semester for another exciting episode of MID!
My name's dan tobin, thanks for indulging me.
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