36. In the know, in the nose
37. Rainy day column #12 & 35
38. Catching some Zs
39. License to ill
40. bizzy as glue
41. Animals get my goat
42. Choose your own column
43. Over the hill
44. A pile o' style
45. The Garden of Eatin'
46. Chatting up the adminsitration
47. What I want to be
Volumes: 1 2 3 4 5 6
In the know, in the nose
Jan. 31, 1996
I'm a bad guitarist. Not a bad-ass guitarist like Slash, but a bad guitarist like Peter Tork. This is because a) I don't practice very much, b) my fingers are as limber as lead, and c) I insist on playing guitars that are on fire which means I can only make music for a few minutes at a time before I become charred to a crisp and look like Freddy Krueger minus the claw and cool sweater and ability to infiltrate people's dreams and that's not even the look I'm going for so let's just accept that I'm a bad guitarist as my first sentence alleged, okay?
But I am a phenomenal whistler. Even the most ornately challenging baroque piece is putty in my supple lips. Hell, I can even whistle counter-melodies, chords, drums. If Tufts had a whistling team, they'd retire my number (pi). And if they gave out substantial grants to good whistlers, I'd make Donald Trump look like Bob Cratchit. (Needless to say, I am presently lobbying the TCU Senate for such legislation, though part stems from my really liking the sound of the word lobby. Lobby. Lobby.)
Still, as astounding and mind-boggling as these abilities are, half of my stupid friends can't even make noise through this air funneling process known as a whistle. Yep, my pals are wholly whistling-deficient. A healthy share of my chums just do this airy one-note jobbie that sounds oddly like a tea kettle, but not as much fun to listen to. And almost all of my comrades truly fail when it comes to putting their lips together and blowing (reference to classic film and nothing else; relax).
Why is this? Why am I blessed with these Bach-like abilities while my band of merry men is left with the musical talent of Warrant? Why can I do all six Brandenburg Concertos while they have trouble with "Cherry Pie?" It's not as if my mom hired a private whistling teacher for me when I was young and forced me to practice in front of a metronome so that I could be in the big recital and win the contest thereby saving the local nursing home from getting demolished by the evil town council. (I saw the after-school special possibilities, I took the chance.) Whistling is just something I inherently know how to do -- it just happens.
As does a less exciting substance, popularized by trendy line of '80s bumper stickers and apparently created by Forrest Gump.
There are so many things that we just "know" how to do. Like speaking -- nobody thinks about how to talk; you act like a Nike commercial and just do it. You also don't concentrate on movement; you act like a Taco Bell commercial and make a run for the border. These are things we learned all sorts of years ago and are now ingrained in our minds like a big old brain tattoo. This process is probably better explained by a developmental psychologist, but as much as I love that crazy Piaget guy, I refuse to clutter my arguments with facts and instead choose to continue with my inane line of banter.
Lobby. Lobby.
This being-mysteriously-in-the-know phenomenon was proven succinctly by the true spokesmen of our generation, Beavis and Butthead. After consuming many carbonated beverages, their bladders were filled to the breaking point. They stop in the forest to make like the 16th letter of the alphabet and pee. Suddenly, tension strikes as Beavis forgets how to do it. Butthead scornfully retorts something witty along the lines of, "You dumbass, you just... uh... you know, you just... uh... uh..." and continues to "uh" for the next 24 minutes.
As mindless as this all is, (the rest is them cringing in pain with a denouement of wetting the school nurse -- brings back fond memories of junior high, no?) the boys suggest an interesting point: How do you urinate? This is not a question like "How do you eat your Reeses Peanut Butter Cup?" because I'm just plain not looking for new and innovative ways of draining the main vein. I just mean, what do you do? Again, someone with more scientific training than just watching Mr. Wizard's World repeatedly (Don Herbert is officially the mack-daddy) could probably be useful here, but I'm not him. I'm me. I'm my own man, and no man is an island. There is one man I know who's an archipelago, but that's a different story for a different day in a different newspaper with a different stroke that makes the world go round, yes it does.
I prefer to assume that urination just occurs. We're all around the 20 year-old mark (give or take a couple years) and we've all been potty-trained for most of that time (give or take a couple frat brothers) and it's gotten to the point that we don't have to spend much brain-power on it (give or take a couple neurons). We just know how to do it. To be as transcendental as the cynical dan will allow, it just is.
(retch)
Knowledge is so weird. Not in terms of random trivia (like the fact that MC Hammer's real name is Stanley Burrell) but in that we know how to do all this stuff that we don't know how to do. "Huh?" you grunt. I retort: "I can whistle Dixie till Jefferson Davis makes his comeback, but I couldn't show any of y'all how to do it without extensive lobotomy work and ten dollars."
Sure, life is the quest for knowledge, and college is even more geared toward that end, and blah blah blah. Until somebody shows me how to wiggle my ears, I'm not satisfied with this whole "teaching" thing. Whistling can't really be taught, plain and simple. So what's the point of education if 72% of our nation's children can't whistle the alphabet song? (which, by the way, samples "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.") Why spend money on schools if we're raising a generation of tea-kettle whistlers? What is this world coming to? We're all doomed! We're done for! AAAARRRRGGHH!!
Thanks, you've been great.
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Rainy day column #12 & 35
Feb. 7, 1996
In my undying quest for fame, fortune, and fine condiments, I look to big-time Hollywood stars for examples on how to accomplish my life goals. I mean, they're the ones with celebrity status, so maybe talking to my close, personal friend Barabra Streisand will prove more fruitful and inspiring than talking to my close, personal friend Phillipe the singing UNICCO worker.
I've tried emulating stars in the past -- Jerry Seinfeld (nasal and annoying and always wearing sneakers), Phil Donahue (kind and sensitive and chock full of white hair), Harry Truman (old and presidential and dead), Bob Dylan (nasal and sensitive and dead, or at least as dead as you can be and still have a pulse) -- but those attempts have not taken me down the Road to Success. Nor have they led me down the Street of Efficiency, the Lane of Contentment, or even the Avenue of Neat Penmanship.
(I should have alluded to the Boulevard of Broken Dreams but I thought most of y'all would assume I was just wallowing in self-pity and not making a sly pop culture reference, as I am wont to do. In other words, you're too stupid for my high-brow, intellectual humor. Poop.)
Anyway, what all these convoluted, silly, and wholly irrelevant opening paragraphs (that are quickly becoming a Dentistry trademark) are pretending to say is that I've got to look elsewhere for inspiration. Not away from the stars, but to a different breed, a different pedigree, a whole other litter of celebrities. Namely, to annoying and angry assault comedians like Sam Kinison, Howard Stern, Andrew "Dice" Clay, and Boutros "Boutros" Gali.
What I've learned from these kooky kats is that the key to success is to shock and horrify (as proven by the Republican Revolution of last November). Why be nice to girls when what they really want is to be beaten about the head with a lead pipe? Why be polite and humane when the world will love me more if I go around kicking people and saying four-letter Anglo-Saxon cuss-words? Basically, I need to start shocking the world, and I don't mean just rubbing my feet on the carpet and then touching something metal (which actually is more fun than Chuck E. Cheese's).
But shock humor is just angst plus nitrous oxide (both make me queasy), so I can aim a little higher. In fact, I'm gonna go for the whole tamale, not just half the quesadilla. I want to be downright gratuitous.
Our culture loves gratuitous anything -- Showgirls and Terminator 2 made crazy box office dollars, 2 Live Crew and Snoop Doggy Dogg can now afford gold-plated 40-ounces, Eddie Murphy and the Dice-Man get $1000 per swear, and Howard Stern is more popular than sliced bread (which actually is not as much fun than Chuck E. Cheese's). Gratuitous violence, gratuitous sex, gratuitous obscenity, gratuitous mentions of the word gratuitous, it's all part of the new American way.
So as a columnist, it's my job to point out our world's ills and complain about a decaying society and offer solutions for a better tomorrow and advocate heavy narcotic use, right? Bite me. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
On that note, let me start over.
So this weekend was quite a landmark in that it was the first time I ever vomited in my sleep. I discovered this when I realized that the cool wetness on my shoulder was not drool like I had expected, but blown chunks of the previous night's Carmichael feast.
Quick Quiz: 1.)First animal I thought of? Yak. 2.)First article of footwear? Boot. 3.)First Jackie Gleason character? Ralph. 4.)First character from You Can't Do That On Television? Barfie the chef. 5.)First action having to do with pastry? Tossing cookies. There was vomit just about everywhere and I was just swimming in regurgitation.
No no no. Too gross. If I'm going to offend my readership, maybe I should be productive about it and less 2nd grade. Aha:
Lots of people complain that things today aren't as exciting as in other decades like the '60s or '30s. And I've decided that the problem is that not enough famous people get killed. If the President was shot, that would be huge -- think how we could unite our people. (And so the FBI file on dan tobin is started...) Or if a plane-full of influential rock-stars blew up -- wowzers. Essentially, I'm advocating death as a means of allaying boredom. Serial killers of the world, make our lives interesting!
Okay. That's as tasteless as tofu, and if this actually works and I do get famous, some crack-pot will mail unabomb me and kablooie. No, coming out on the pro-death side would be b-b-b-bad to the bone. New slant:
So I was naked in library...
I guess that the down-side to gratuitous anything is that it sucks if you're the one doing it. Despite the self-indulgent pleasure, I feel a good amount of guilt serving up mass quantities of offensive drivel. How can Geraldo sleep at night? (Ah, sweet chloroform.) When you deal in trash, you get that whole shame thing over not creating art, but creating fart, instead. But I guess you must built up some sort of resistance to it -- how else could you explain Maury Povich's lack of suicide?
I was going to end with naked women, big explosions, and a string of profanity. But I've decided to clean up my act, so if you really want gratuitous gratuitousness (gratuity included for parties over seven), you can go to H-E-double hockey stick.
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Catching some Z’s
Feb. 14, 1996
Mr. Sandman sucks.
You know who I mean -- the dude who's supposed to dribble his magical sand into your eyes and make you fall asleep. Call me crazy, but having abrasive, ground-up rock dust poured into my optic nerves isn't exactly how I want to be losing consciousness. Having Juliette Lewis massage my back while the Talking Heads sing me lullabies and Woody Allen tells me a bed-time story would probably be a lot farther up there on my list of best ways to nod off.
But besides the fact that this fantasy will probably not become a reality (unless I am somehow elected Supreme Ruler of the Universe), my real gripe about the Sandman is that he justr plain does not visit me. Either the guy has some personal vendetta against the Tobinator or he lost my address. No, he must know where I live because nobody around me has had sleeping problems over the years. He's visited my family, my roommates, my slumber party guests -- even former Texas Governor Anne Richards during our brief but tempetuous love affair.
Yep, Mr. Sandman sucks like a Hoover. And on a related note, insomnia sucks like Herebrt Hoover. When I say insomnia, I don't mean the Green Day song (although, is there anything relating to them that isn't completely awful?), but the lack of ability to stop being awake. Some fools can toss off suddenly, like good little narcoleptics, but I'm one of those people who can't fall asleep without a concerted effort, or even a concerto effort. The latter is more fun, but you do run the risk of the maestro robbing you once you're off in na-na-land.
Back when I was but a wee babe, night-lights helped me fall asleep and so my parents let me choose my favorite Disney character for the cover-piece to this illumination device. Thereafter, my electrical socket was adorned with a glowing Mickey Mouse who had light pouring out of his eyes and exploding from his face. Looking back, that sounds more terrifying than a naked Larry "Bud" Melman. But instead of scaring my young bowels into action, this actually relaxed me (the night-light, not a buff Calvin DeForest, you sicko).
Ah, how little kids misplace their fears -- a radioactive rodent was all hunky-dory, but the pinnacle of horror was, like, a mustache. Come to think of it, I'd be pretty spooked even now if I saw a giant mustache coming at me down the street. Especially if was eating mustachio nuts. As Al Pacino said over and over again, Hoo-hah!
These days, I've grown out of my night-light, much as I have grown out of my Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls, my Kangaroo sneakers (with pockets on the sides), and my Baracuda wind-breaker. Night-lights are so passe that I now need absolute darkness to fall asleep. Any evidence that the sun might exist must be eradicated (hence, insomnia strikes when there are sunglasses or anything solar-powered in the room woth me). Call me Dracula, but even the tiniest trace of light makes me lose count of the sheep, so unless I start dating a shepherd, I need to seal up my blinds with Super Poly-Grip.
Then, after the room is blacker than Zorro's cape, I can begin the rest of my night-time ritual. See, before I can even think about dozing off, I need the following: an hour of relaxation, a glass of warm milk, a few grams of morphine, a few more grams of Enya, a hynoptist, a thorough reading of the latest tax codes, and Sylvester Stallone punching me in the eye with brick.
See why I think Mr. Sandman sucks?
And forget about ever falling asleep if you're sharing a bed with someone. My close, personal friend Jason G (no relation to Warren G of "Regulate" fame) has a theory that the administration assumes we're all losers and don't need beds any wider than our own butts. And so Tufts beds are about as wide as a tissue box, so unless you use five foot tissues, you're gonna be awfully smooshed if you're planning on celebrating Valentine's Day a la John and Yoko (a bed-in, of course). Trust me, it was no easy feat cramming onto those narrow egg-crates with former Texas Governor Anne Richards during our brief but tempestuous love affair.
I totally envy people who can nap. Did I say "envy?" I meant "hate." Did I say "hate?" I mean "despise." Did I say "despise?" I meant "plan to disembowel and then grind what's left of the person into tiny pieces that I will then grind into tinier pieces until all that remains are entrails and person dust."
Ahem.
Napping is the world's way of mooning insomniacs. To take an hour-long nap, I need another hour to prepare myself for sleep, and even then it's a crap-shoot. The stress over trying to succesfully nap (and not screw it up and fall out of bed) makes the quick snooze not worth the effort. I remember in pre-school crying my eyes out at nap time. Of course, that was because Bobby Polonski had pulled down my pants and everyone was laughing at my Jimmy Carter underoos.
Worst of all are the scientists who keep mocking me by waving new breakthroughs in front of the bags under my blood-shot eyes. They keep finding miracle methods of inducing sleep in cats which is oh-so-useful to me. Not in humans, but in cats. Like, they'll stimulate part of the thalamus, or increase the acetylcholine at the neural synapse, or stick mustard-covered pretzel-rods in their ears -- things like that supposedly knock out a cat quick, fast, and in a hurry.
So I've decided to start wearing a cat-suit...
Of course, the only known cure for insomniac humans is to step into a classroom, an environment that instantly makes snoozing as easy as the questions on Double Dare ("What's 2+3?" "We'll take the Physical Challenge"). So I have decided to remodel my bedroom after Barnum 8. Not only will Film Series show movies in my closet, but I'll be reminded of classes, get all my beauty sleep, and have that High Pro Glow I've needed for so long. Hoo-hah!
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License to ill
Feb. 21, 1996
Let's begin today's Misadventure with a pop quiz. Hands on your buzzers (no whammy, no whammy, STOP), and here's the question, but since this is the Young Players' Edition, we'll give you a multiple choice. Drum roll, please: What's a hypochondriac? (10 pts)
a) A big water animal that does ballet in a tutu in Fantasia.
b) Somebody who advocates vegetarianism but then eats a bunch Slim-Jims.
c) That dude who medical students have to take their oath by.
d) Somebody who always thinks they're sick.
e) All of the above, including the headline and lead-in paragraph.
I shouldn't need to tell you the right answer, but for the benefit of anyone who got admission courtesy of the Mafia leaning on Don DiBiaggio, it's #d. Hypochondriacs are those messed individuals that perpetually think they have the disease of the month, be it the flu or e bola. A tummy-ache is clearly an ulcer, a cough must be lung cancer, and a headache is abso-smackin'-lutely a brain tumor (although the well-versed in pop culture references will assert in their best Austrian accent that it's not a tumor).
Well, I'm the polar opposite of a hypochondriac. In other words, I could be sneezing blood and have a temperature of 451 degrees Farenheight before I admit to any slight trace of illness. If I'm sick, that means I have to stop doing stuff, and I can't stop doing stuff because stuff is what makes my world go 'round and the Constitution protects my rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of stuff. I love stuff. Stuff rules. Go, stuff!
But add a "y" and relate it to my nose -- then stuff sucks.
Being sick at college just isn't any fun. Just like we don't have snow days, we don't really get sick days either. In high school, a bad case of the sniffles was like a Get Out of Jail Free Card from the Community Chest. Not exactly Free Parking, but certainly better than 2nd prize in a beauty contest. A college cold, on the other hand, is like rolling doubles three times in a row -- no need to pass Go or collect 200 dining dollars, you're going the Mike Tyson route.
Yep, a simple note from Mom could solve everything back in the day. Sickness not only got you out of classes without fear of reprisal, but it also meant that you got to stay home from school to watch cartoons in bed while your mom brought you chicken soup and patted you on the head with tender loving-kindness. This warm and fuzzy scene has been brought to you by Hallmark. (Due to increasing tuition costs, I've had to resort to corporate sponsorship in my writings; the new name for this column will be Oral B's Wonderful World of Dentistry, and I will now be known as dan mentobin, the fresh-maker.)
These days, there's no perks to getting sick. You still have to go to classes, you, you don't get soup, and nobody pats you on the head (unless there's a bug in your hair that somebody's trying to kill and you misconstrue this for a sign of affection). All you get is the actual illness which is only fun for health care professionals, masochists, and Kleenex shareholders.
The one cool part about being sick is sneezing. Well, it's actually a whole lot more fun when somebody else is doing it -- sneezing makes a far better spectator sport, although it usually requires protective clothing worthy of a Gallagher show. My friend C.C. (no relation to the former Poison guitarist) thinks that seeing people sneeze is the greatest thing in the world. Granted, she has no life, but it's still hilarious to see someone do the old ah-one, ah-choo.
Part of the fun is that everyone has a different style of sneezing. There's the Standard ah-CHOO -- kid-tested and mother-approved. Then there's the Rapid-Fire CHOO-only which usually occurs in pattern of three or four, mimicking an assault rifle (but beware: this sneeze may be outlawed by the Brady Bill). A personal favorite of mine is the Cliffhanger: ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-CHOO. Nothing like building up suspense in your audience to get a top-notch sneeze. There's the Repression Technique, sort of an ah-sch, where you let the pressure come out your ears. I hate this one because the people wince so hard that I half-expect their heads to explode; I ain't cleaning up that mess.
And who can forget about the Standard ah-choo embellished by a funny noise? My dad makes a great sound -- kind of like a drill sergeant barking out the words "God Bless You," which, if you think about it, is a pretty ironic thing to say while sneezing. Wait, did someone say irony? Maybe that angry young Canadian Alanis Morisette could add a verse about my dad's sneezing habits to her hit song. Then, much like George and Weezy, I'll finally get my piece of the proverbial pie.
But wacky noises and yodeling rock stars aside, being a sick college student is just plain bad. We're mighty quick to indict science for not finding a cure for the common cold, but I know better than that. Here's a little home remedy: if you guzzle O.J. till your skin turns orange and wait it out, you're golden. (Actually, you're orange, but for those of us who couldn't afford the Crayolas with the sharpener on the back, orange=golden.)
Vitamin C is all I've found to combat disease. Well, that and a machete. Of course the major up-side to being sick is that you finally have a legitimate reason to complain, and boy do I love to complain. I like complaining almost as much as stuff. Did I mention that stuff rules? Go, stuff!
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bizzy as glue
Feb. 28, 1996
in case you don't know i want to be famous and i want to be rich and and i want to be offered millions of dollars to do cigarette ads but turn the offer down because of strong moral beliefs and then do taco bell ads instead because of strong yumminess beliefs and i want all the idiots who made fun of me in high school to see my smiling face on magazine covers while they take out my garbage and then tell their kids that they knew me when i was just the guy they hated for no reason except for that clause in my nerd contract about them unjustifiably ridiculing me since they wwere so much cooler than i was but i did not come here to rag on the hell called high school although i could do so for a good hour or two or gimme twenty on your knuckles soldier
keep hands and feet inside the column at all times
dearly beloved we are gathered here today to learn about my newest strategy for more quickly attaining the goal of fame fortune and quality tailoring which pretty much goes hand-in-hand with the first two things because all famous people get cool duds except for grunge bands who choose to wear stupid clothes but get major expense accounts at salvation army thrift shops which balances out in the end because they're certainly rich and famous but as for the third they fall somewhere between quality tailored and zachary taylor
see i've decided that i'm not nearly marketable enough and that if i'm ever going to become a household name like tylenol or nuprin or advil then i need to become some sort of pain reliever which is not in my chemical make-up so i need become something else like an antihistamine which is also tricky without a top-of-the-line chemistry set and a better imagination than the muppet babies so i will take their cue and realize that if i want to become a household name like kermit or daffy or pluto then i need to get myself a catch-phrase or lingo so that people will relate to me and think that they're a part of my secret society of fans i mean that plan worked for jerry seinfeld who hasn't been funny in four years but he still pulls in viewers like a cowboy uses a lassoo to pull in little cows which are called calves which are also a muscle in your leg which does not moo or give milk or get roped in by cowboys so why is it called calf anyway?
note that reprising this faulkneresque stream o' conscisouness style does not mean i'm recycling but am pushing the envelope of modern writing or something equally pretentious
so my catch-phrase is not goint to be hasta la vista baby or huh-huh that's cool or go ahead make my day or i tawt i tawt a putty-tat or yo adrienne or no new taxes or rock me amadeus or doah! or i'm crushing your head or homey don't play that or what's up doc although i will admit to toying with what's up dentist
it's going to be something far less accessible to human understanding and it's going to "bizzy as glue" which is alluring in that i spell busy wrong which is cool since misspelling is always a pile of phun but it's also super-special in that it's a nonsequitur expression in that elmer's isn't something you often think of being particularly occupied with multiples tasks although i don't wish to understate the importance of holding two surfaces together because i can't do it no matter how hard i try because i'm not nearly as sticky as i'd like to be despite my best efforts at adhesivizing myself
the plan is that people will see me and say hey it's that guy with the funny hair who's says he's bizzy as glue' which is an expression i've heard enough that i now like him and want to sleep with him and want to give him money and cook him food and refill the ink cartridges in his retractable pens and it's all because of that crazy expression of his and isn't he the pimp of the year
know what i mean vern?
ladies and gentlemen of the jury may be wondering why i have selected such a confusing expression to be my personal mantra and i will defend my stupidity in pointing out numerous silly idioms like exhibit a: cutting off your nose to spite your face or exhibit b: looking a gift horse in the mouth or exhibit c: stitching up time to save nine or exhibit d: throwing up pretzels with a bunch of rabbits and except for the fictitious choice d they are all truly foolish sounding terms that still have taken off and with that i rest my case you honor 'cause boy does my case need a rest
the way that i will make this whole fiasco work is to encourage people to start using this expression as much as possible and then when others ask where this bizzy as glue thing originated the credit will come back to the tobinator and i will excel and be voted sexiest man alive in people magazine although i have the sex appeal of butternut squash but that will be overshadowed by my mass infiltration into the collective social concsiousness of the nation and stock in butternut squash will go through the proverbial roof so poo on you
this will be the way in which i achieve the celebrity status i so yearn for but the risk is that i will become overexposed commercialized like in that traveling willburies song and will go the way of the spin doctors and hypercolor t-shirts and become a has-been by age 22 which isn't as far off as it used to sound which means (to paraphrase pink floyd) i'm getting shorter of breath and one day closer to death but that's a pessimistic column for another day while this is a happy jolly yet bitingly satirical piece of wicked satire or a least a piece of pure chewing satisfaction
so after all is said and done and said a few more times i will be rich famous and quality tailored which will make me happy since we are living in a material world and i am a material girl and i leave you with the advice to take your protein pills and keep your helmet on and of course of course to use the expression i have coined because i've never coined something before
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Animals Get My Goat
Mar. 6, 1996
My mom is allergic to fur and animal hair, so I missed out on the whole pets thing as a kid. I never had a dog to tell me about a fire down at the old mill. I never had a bird to flutter around my house and poop on my treasured belongings. I never had a cat to do whatever it is cats are supposed to be good for. I never even had a hamster to run endlessly in its wheel (of course, "endlessly" is different for hamsters since their lifespan is only about four or five minutes).
I never had any real pets, so I don't like animals too much now. I'm totally turned off by anything you can't reason with (which is why I'm a Democrat) and animals fall under the category of unreasonable. When Raoul the Dobermin Pincher is leaping to dobermin pinch your corroded artery between his merciless fangs, you can't sit the dear pup down and casually discuss the pain, suffering, emotional scarring, medical bills, and doggie-drool stains this action will cause. At that point, you can only pray for nuclear holocaust or a philanthropic sniper.
Pets just make me uneasy. I don't like that we tie dogs to trees, put birds in cages, and deprive sea monkeys of their natural habitats -- the small envelopes they're mass marketed in. Not because I'm some four-legged loving, Body Shop supporting, Kibbles and Bits investing, save the whales picketing, environment fixing, boy do I just love animals yelling, neo-hippie. That's my sister. I'm just concerned that when the revolution comes, some Siamese will put me on a leash and make me eat person-food out of a bowl with my name on it.
Think back to the old Bullwinkle Show, with Mr. Peabody the dog and his pet boy Sherman. That's PET BOY. In more contemporary terms, think of that song, "We'd make great pets" by Porno For Pyros. (A joke on their name would be far too easy and I like to think that I'm above that. Poop.) Why did humans get to be the pet-owners and the quadrupeds got stuck with playing dead and catching things in their mouths? That makes about as much sense as naming your kid Grover (which Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland certainly did, but that doesn't make it right).
The only pets I ever had as a kid were fish. I taught one how to catch a frisbee in his mouth but we only could perform that trick once because it killed him. I taught another how to play dead but I could make it convincing by killing him. Come to think of it, the only good trick you can do with a fish is to kill him and that gets old pretty fast. Well, unless your name rhymes with Barles Danson in which case fish : people :: marijuana : herion. Can you say gateway? (And I don't mean the pentium people.)
Fish aren't pets. Fish are more like posters -- posters that eat and crap a lot, but posters nonetheless. They don't do anything besdies swim around and do that cool thing with their mouths that I can only do after drinking brake fluid. Goldfish also hold the distinct honor of being the only common pet that doubles as food commonly eaten for dares, hazing rituals, and Pepperidge Farms commercials.
The other big plus about fish is that, unlike Raoul the Doberman or Tony the Tiger, an itty-bitty fish can't maul you. My friend Joshy-Josh is convinced that a goldfish bit him, but he also honestly believes that his farts smell good, so take his anecdote with an entire shaker of salt. Other animals tend to be more combative than the little swimmy guys.
I encountered this phenomenon while visiting cousins over winter break. They had three cats, a bird, and a baby. I count the baby as an animal because I couldn't reason with her (and because she had a tail), but we ended up getting along since niether of us can tie our own shoes. At first, things went well between the animals and I in that minded our individual space limitations. One cat tried to climb into bed with me and I had to explain the whole concept of fidelity and commited relationships and politely turn him down. But we bonded nicely and ended the evening by splitting a few mice and taking a few hits of cat-nip.
The situation took a turn for the gross when I ignored the admonishment of my eldest cousin not to leave clothes in piles around the apartment. "One of the cats has a urinary tract infection and goes around peeing on things. If he finds a warm spot, he's likely to, er, mark his territory on it if you catch my drift."
I caught his drift like bubonic plague. "So why don't you just take the cat to a vet?" I retorted, always the clever problem-solver.
"Well, we don't know which one it is. Just keep your guard up. Sleep well."
I figured I had little to worry about since I had befriended Fluffy the previous night. But when I accidentally left a pair of boxers on the bathroom floor after a shower, I discovered that the overlooked advise had been truth after all. One kitty's bladder was a little overactive and especially fond of Fruit of the Looms. I realized I had been lulled into a false sense of security and vowed the cats' demise. I learned never to trust an animal, especially while under the influence of some good Jamaican catnip.
My war with the cats was uneventful -- the major skirmish involved me drinking all the milk to starve them, finding out that cats don't drink milk, and being hospitalized for Vitamin D poisoning. My battle against the bird was one-sided in that he found it necesarry to belt out a song at 6 a.m. every morning and I just sat there. I have a clock radio at home, so I'm used to hearing groovy tunes to wake me up. But this was a bizarre, high-volume, syncopated, Afro-Cuban, bossa nova, annoying scrawl worthy of the Cranberries. There was nothing I could do to the bird except call my close, personal friend Sylvester the cat who isn't even good at catching birds and always gets scared of that baby kangaroo he thinks is a giant mouse. Dummy.
You know, after complaining about my cousin's zoo, fish are starting to sound better and better. They don't climb into bed with you, theyt don't make noise, and you never can tell if they're peeing -- and if I ever accidentally leave my boxers in the aquarium, I guess I deserve whatever happens in there.
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Choose your own column
Mar. 13, 1996
In my constant efforts to expand the boundaries of stupidity, I've assembled something new and exciting today, something vibrant and fresh and minty and part of this complete breakfast. Yes, it's the first ever Choose Your Own Column, based on the format of those pick-a-path books you used to read in sixth grade that always seemed to end with dying in a big explosion. Since I couldn't convince the Daily to give me my own 70 page supplement, I numbered paragraphs to help you navigate Tufts' first ever interactive column. Hopefully, it'll be as clear as a pre-teen's face after Oxycution. If not, I'll come to your house and personally explain everything in a calm, well-modulated voice. You have my word on it (and my word is "foot").
1. Well, spring break is only a few days away, there's been lotsa talk about Spring Fling, I got new springs put in my mattress, and I've even been showering with Irish Spring soap (which turns you into quite an opera singer if you believe the commercials). In other words, the warm season is almost upon us, even though the Massachusetts definition of spring involves a few blizzards and thermal underwear.
For a dissertation on spring-related issues, go to 2. For a dissertation on my pathetic job future, go to 3. For a dissertation on my butt, go to 4. For wasting more time on a useless introduction, read 1 again and make a goddam choice.
2. Ah, that time of year when the birds sing and the flowers bloom and the school-work becomes almost impossible to do. Not as impossible as face pushups, but pretty dang-burned tough. As pollen count goes up, concentration abilities go down like the 1929 stock market. For more complaints about schoolwork, go to 5. For praise of pretty spring-time things, go to 6. To change over to my butt, go to 4.
3. Ah, that time of year when I realize I'll never get a job because I'm an English major. Poor little me. The beautiful air and singing birds just reinforce the fact that I'm missing the provincial aspects of existence like gallivanting naked in a field of daisies. For images of me gallivanting naked, go to the red light district. For images of a big explosion, go to 11. For complaints about schoolwork, go to 5. For paragraph 9, go to 9.
4. Ah, that time of year when my buttocks get all saggy and spongy and very much not "of steel" at all. I think it has something to do with the birds and the bees. EIther way, this time of year makes me wonder why we have rumps in the first place. For the bad about bums, go to 7. For the good stuff about gluteous maximi, go to 8. For Swedish fish, go to Jumbo Express.
5. Although the atmosphere is starting to become more carefree, the work-load is becoming far more hubba-bubba and terrifying. Luckily, the Era of the Midterm is winding down as profs finish their annual Psych experiment to determine who will succeed in college and who will snap and blow up the World Trade Center. For international terrorism, go to 14. For more academic grumblings, go to 9. It's not too late to get on the fairly explosoin-proof butt-train, now departing from track 4.
6. Grass is pretty swell, and so are flowers. Of course, they start to lose their appeal when being held hostage by the frozen fluffies know as snow-flakes. Why even bother Mr. Groundhog with all that shadow crap if Massachusetts is going to have a perpetual winter anyway? To avoid a big explosion, butt out to 4. Otherwise, go to 10.
7. There is nothing bad about bums. A militant derriere-defender gets dynamite and you die in a big explosion.
8. Bottoms look so cute, all symetrical and vertically bisected and such. Plus, they make chairs infinitely more comfortable and make your pants fit a lot better than they would on the assless. For a list of assless Tufts administrators, go to Reitman's office. For gratuitous references to former US Presidents, go to 11.
9. I think my teachers get together and plan the most concentrated, unflexible schedule possible (i.e. seven exams in two hours). There's one in particular who I think really just wants to see me cry. I realized this when she gave me three papers and an Indian suburn. Man, why haven't you started in on the butt stuff? You're dumb and I see a big explosion in your future. If you think I'm bluffing and want to read more about homework, go to 12.
10. You should have taken the butt route. Somebody detonates a flower bomb and you die in a big explosion.
11. The bravery shown by John Tyler, the only elected official to have one giant butt-cheek, should be an example to us all. Of course, we should be keep in mind the dangers of indulgence by looking at William Howard Taft, a man whose buttocks required their own Oval Offices. For more on presidential posteriors, go to hell. For the definitive hooplah on hindquarters, go to 13.
12. Homework sucks. Look -- a big explosion in which you die!
13. What would the world be without rumps? What would aging male chauvinists pinch? What bodily appendage would double as a popular conjunction? For the exciting conclusion, go to 15. To screw everything up like an idiot, go to 12.
14. Terrorism tends to be linked with big explosions. Strangely, you die in a big explosion. You've never read one of these before, have you?
15. You successfully kill the alien invaders. The mayor plans a big reception for you and the desirable member of the opposite sex that you rescued from the burning spaceship wants to get married. You are rich. You are famous. You are the best. You are also about to die in a big explosion.
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Over the hill
Mar. 27, 1996
I'm feeling too damned old these days.
This is unrelated to the fact that I recently stopped being a teenager and hit the big 2-0 and have started drinking prune juice and listening to Glenn Miller records. No. Rather, it concerns the fact that I've realized I'm a junior with only a few months left of my third-to-last semester of college. But alas, I'm not here to complain about my job future (yet again) because I have resigned myself to a simple agrarian life where my talking pig who thinks he's a sheep-dog will support me and possibly win an Oscar for best visual effects.
My concern lies in the fact that nobody's older than me any more. Your immediate reaction is to point out the flaw in my reasoning -- Seniors are older than you, dan. Duh." My immediate reaction is it punch you in the eye and step on your foot really hard. "NEVER clutter my argument with facts," I mutter as I cut off your ear, dancing to K-Billy's Super Sounds of the '70s. "Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right..."
See, I don't like being the old fogey who tells the little freshmen about how it was back in the day. Why, when I was your age, we didn't have any Tufts Connect or those new-fangled ethernet contraptions. I remember a plainer, simpler time when we had the Jumbo-pages and the Glutton Guide, when Carmichael was the deluxe eating on campus, when hundreds would flock to see Giantman toss butterscotch to the masses, when the Chickey-Chickey Lady was a campus hero and it was hard to find a free table at Hodgdon's Pasta Night, when the Zamboni and Primary Source were actually funny, when Miller and South were state-of-the-art because of their "high tech" Internet connections, when Pearl was the main e-mail node, and when Guster was still just plain Gus and were in my classes.
Now get me my Metamucil.
NO! I'm too goddam young to be reminiscent yet. Every time I see my two remaining friends from high school, a lot of our conversation revolves around our glory days in high school and the things we did in high school and what it was like to be in high school. High school high school, high. School.
If we keep up at this pace, reunions aren't going to be anything more than just checking in with crusty old math teachers and eating canned peaches off of Styrofoam trays. As appealing as that may sound to the socially retarded, I ain't down wit' it. I be chillin' elsewhere, if you can dig where I'm comin' from, Daddy-o.
Something that terrifies me about this whole "time passing and unemployment approaching" thing is to look through my Freshmen Facebook. You know -- that royal blue novella that everyone thumbed through when we got here, looking for attractive members of the opposite sex to stalk for the next four years. These days, it's a valuable resource to see how everyone's changed: this one transferred, this one's in a frat, this one got a restraining order against me for stalking, this one this one threw up on my shoes, this one devoured my chem TA, this one had roast beef, and this one had none.
Not only does everyone look different than in their pictures, but they often have changed in other ways, too. (Like that guy from my French class who turned from a solid into a liquid.) Check out the activities under each name -- 83.7 percent of the time, they're not applicable any more. If I had a nickel for every friend of mine who was a master thespian in high school but doesn't get dramatic at Tufts... I'd have about 25 cents.
My friend Boom's two-line bio says "Photography, Tennis," yet I've never seen her with a camera or racket (although she is a notorious racketeer). The Freshman Facebook is a window into our previous lives, a passageway to a different era, something you'd read about in A Wrinkle In Time, a magical DeLorean to go back in time. The scary thing is, all that was only a couple of years ago.
Freshman year, after I got over the standard "I was editor of my yearbook, so step aside, inferior one" phase, I'd go to sporting events and plays and marvel at all the big kids who were the masters of their proverbial domains. Even at the Daily -- the people running the show seemed so huge to me (this of course has to do with the fact that I was 4'6" when I matriculated, and this newspaper used to be run by Lyndon "Magic" Johnson).
But now I'm over the hill, and I'm not talking about the substantial incline this campus was brilliantly built on. I'm the big guy, now. I'm one of the people running the show at the Daily, and people my age are dominating the basketball courts and Balch Arena. Hell, a lot of the new stars are younger than me, and that makes me feel like an octogenarian. I'd rather feel like an octagon, which is twice as hip as being square.
(groan)
The scary thing is, once you're closer to the top, you realize that everyone isn't nearly as big as you once thought. In fact, a lot of their statures would allow them to work in a mine and flirt with Snow White. I guess that everything in life becomes different as you change your perspective. Wait a minute, that wasn't the pseudo-profound point I was trying to make. What was I trying to say? Something about being a geezer at age 20 and about getting old or something.
I guess the memory is the first thing to go.
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A pile o' style
Apr. 3, 1996
Somebody recently informed me that I'm not stylish. I was shocked at the prospect that what I had thought to be my fly threads were not really fly at all, but instead were rather whack. Wiggity-wiggity whack, to be specific. Apparently I've been living a giant fashion faux-pas for a long time and nobody bothered to tell me. Is it an emporer's new clothes kind of thing or was this indictment off the Marky-Mark?
The analysis of "not stylish" caught me completely off guard (I was covering the forward). I take great pride in the fact that I don't wear white socks with black shoes (except when I want people to know that Billie Jean is not my lover), shun anything bearing the moniker "Hyper-color," avoid pants with 70 pockets, and set fire to anything coed and naked. Sure there was the time I went shopping with my mom -- she said, "What's wrong? This shirt cost $20." I said, "Mom, the shirt is plaid with a butter-fly collar." I won't even get into the time I boosted her brand new Porsche (Would she mind? Mmm, well, of course not).
So now, thanks to the harsh clothing critic, I learn that all my fashion sense and sensibility wouldn't even make Emma Thompson look twice, let alone compliment me on my trousers. But upon a rigorous interrogation process (ever see A Clockwork Orange?), I found out that I am not in fact a bad dresser at all. No, I am adequate. There's nothing sceramingly offensive about my wardrobe that violates any Geneva conventions. I'm noty even a fashion misfit, like the guy in Arrested Development. I'm just not stylish, that's all.
Stylish?
"Style" is that undescribable element of personality that makes some people Fonzees, and other people Urkells. How you walk, how you talk, how you do an impression of Peter Falk -- it all factors into your individual style. But "stylish" is a different story. To be stylish is to be on the cutting edge of fashion; when New York says polka-dots are all the rage, whip out that magnetized slab o' plastic and redo everything you own in little circles. When the top designers announce that extra appendages are tres chic, run to the plastic surgeon and start adding limbs. And when Paris tells you that baldis beautiful, take a bath in Nair.
Stylish. Decked out. Posh. Suave. Chic. Swanky. Hip. Hip replacement surgery. Hospitals. Ailments. Mad cow disease. Death. JFK. Oliver Stone. Platoon. Charlie Sheen. Martin Sheen. Apocalypse Now.
Through word association, we realize that style leads us to the apocalypse and therefore, high fashion will bring about the end of humanity. Utter nonsense? As my close personal friend Balky Bartokomus says, "Well of course not, don't be ridiculous." Trends breed conformity, and conformity breeds ignorance, and ignorance breeds Republicans. Need I say more?
So if we don't want to follow, we have to lead, right? Well, we can't all hope to be the actual trend-setters -- if everyone set the trends, there woldn't be anyone to follow them, and then they wouldn't really be trends any more. They'd just be high-priced screw-ups. I guess that's what a new style is: an expensive mistake that thousands of people make on purpose (that just so happens to cause the destruction of civilization as we know it, simultaneously).
What we can aim for is to be relatively well-dressed and assemble outfits that look nice without beating you over the head with an polo mallet and screaming "THIS LOOKS NICE." I tend to stick to basic duds that are low-risk, low in sodium, and promise to stay unoffensive for years/decades. I pretty much steer away from the "cool" clothes since the current "in" style changes too quickly for "me." I guess I'm still a bit shaken up by the time my mom convinced me to buy a pair of those MC Hammer pants with all sorts of fluorescent patterns on them. Zubaz was the brand, and they were only worn by professional wrestlers and American Gladiators. So when the chubby 14-year-old Tobinator tried them on and wore them to school...
Let's move to a less emotionally scarring paragraph, shall we?
Society's emphasis on clothing is just plain silly. I mean, if it looks okay and feels okay, what's the problem? If the proverbial shoe fits, proverbially wear it, capiece? I do realize that sneakers are comfortable and that wearing them with a three-piece suit is a strict no-no, so that's where you let individual judgement play a role. People have to make their own decisions and should wear what they goddam feel like (unless it involves a cape, in which case thy should stay in the Hall of Justice and leave me alone).
All I have to say is that dressing is best left to salads. If you can't figure out what exactly to wear, take a hint from Calvin and a legion of Renaissance painters: au naturel is the way to go. When in doubt, make every day the Naked Quad Run. I promise -- I'll bail you out.
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The Garden of Eatin'
Apr. 10, 1996
In the beginning, there was a fat guy. And God said unto this porker, named Adam, "Woah, you're fat. Huh huh. Huh huh." And there was a woman named Eve, who was fine with a capital I. She had it going ON. She had more sauce than Heinz 57. She was hot hot hot like a Buster Poindexter song.
And so Adam, being of heavy stature and heavier libido, decided to bust a move unto Eve, at which time she replied, "Thou art obese in a foul way. Goeth awaeth frometh meeth, jerketh." And so God created a chicken for Adam to choke, and he vowed to not partake of the substance known as food until such time as he could satisfy his other hungers. And let us say, Amen.
So the first diet began, as boy tried to impress girl when his belly o' jelly scared her off. But as anyone who's tried some sort of fasting has discovered, depriving yourself of all yummies is like turning water into wine, parting the Red Sea, making Mariah Carey explode: as much as we can pray for these miracles, they ain't gonna happen soon (unless they let the Unabomber go to the Grammies).
It's hard to give up tender vittles, because your tongue has a very strong role in decision-making. Let's put it in the simple terms that I pretend are the only factors running the American economic system: supply and demand. Thus, if the supply of food down your esophagus is lower, the demand becomes greater. Thus, if your Twinkie intake dwindles, your Hostess Gland really starts to act up and demand that cream filling be take intravenously. Thus, the demand sky-rockets and you need a larger snack-cake, or as they said in Ghostbusters, "That's a big Twinkie."
(I guess I just assumed economic theory would be heavy on the "Thus" ratio; Thus I was wrong.)
Sinead O'Connor's nose grew as soon as she titled her album I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got. Thanks for playing, but no. If she's talking about her hair (which she certainly hasn't got) then maybe the claim works, but people always want what they haven't got, except when what they haven't got is some sort of rash. Material goods or careers are sought after, as is a tatsy entree, which nothing compares 2.
The whole not-eating-bread-products-for-a-week thing for us Jewish-types really made me think about food and the general desire for it. No, I don't mean that recurring dream about running wild through the JJ Nissen factory, chomping away on the leavened items like Pac Man surrounded by power pellets. I mean the wanting what you haven't got, in this case, yeast.
Mmmmm. Yeast.
See there's the problem -- I never crave bread. I never sit there and start drooling over rye (though I have been known to catch it). I never feel something in my heart yearning for crust. But take the dough away from me, and suddenly I'm like a smack addict munching on poppy-seed bagels (FACT: poppy-seeds are mild opiates; FICTION: Henry Huggins has a paper route). So why this pressing need for leavening in my diet all of a sudden?
Okay, granted, everything I eat is breaded so that might account for a smidgeon (holes in my argument like a fine swiss cheese). Alas, as the Rolling Stones sang, "You can't always eat what you want." I paraphrase, of course, but the addendum (only heard in the house mix) is that "You always want to eat what you can't eat." Keith Richards never listened to his own advice, and you see what he looks like today. If you measure beauty in Toms, he doesn't even make Tom Arnold; in fact, he makes Tom Petty look like Tom Cruise. Maybe if he had eaten more selectively he wouldn't look like a tree.
But the desire to eat what is forbidden is a notion as antique as a Model T. Everyone's had their hand caught in the cookie jar (who me?), and the embarassment and hide-tanning that go along with it didn't exactly deter us from sweets. No, it tempted us all the more. Jim Henson personified this desire with Cookie Monster, a symbolic and blue representation of our desires for outlawed pastry products. Perhaps if we had googly eyes, we too could shout "Kowabunga!" and eat everything in sight.
It all goes back to the Garden of Eden. Understand that my knowledge of the bible just barely supercedes my knowledge of former President James Polk's social life, but I think that God said something to the effect of, "Eat everything you see except that stinky old apple." There was pizza, ice cream, boneless spare-ribs, Reeses Pieces, lobster thermadore, and all sorts of goodies, but what did Adam and Eve go for? Which of the tasty treats did A&E seek? The forbidden fruit, simply because it was forbidden. You know, I ought to forbid women to have sex with me, just so that they'll all want it. Hmmmm...
And Adam, being of slender body and not at all slender libido, went forth to mack on the divine hottie known as Eve. Seeing his new and super-charged body, Eve said, "Thou art a big stud." Having successfully lipo-suctioned his way into bliss, much begetting began, and Adam's children were as numerous as the chins he soon developed. And let us say, Oy vey.
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Ask the Administration
Apr. 17, 1996
There's been some harsh words spoken about certain university policies lately, and I'm not talking about the Senate, Concert Board, or other student-run organizations. I'm talking about the string of sketchy decisions by everyone's favorite money pit, the Administration. Looks all imposing and dictatorial when you capitalize it, no? Well, I want answers and I think I can handle the truth, so I've invited the Administration to the Land of Dentistry to field questions about their utter ineptitude.
Issue #1, the most popular for belly-aching, would be Tufts Connect, or should I say Tufts 40 Thieves? Don't get me wrong -- accessing the Internet from my room is certainly a priority, especially in bringing Tufts' procrastination into the 21st century. Why settle for Minesweeper, when you can visit playboy.com? I also am appreciative of our networked phone system; it's saved my poor little fingers from having to dial all those big, scary seven digits. Of course, my PAC code is longer, but here's my real complaint:
Those prices -- it's enough to make Trump do a double-take. Yes, it's because of installation fees and lunar positioning and yadda yadda, but isn't it a little more important to protect the students before a large corporation? Isn't the university's job to make things better for the students? Shouldn't we be getting a good deal?
We feel your pain about Tufts Connect, but it's an investment in the future. Maybe it sucks for you, but the Class of 2003 will be fully prepared to go into the real world and steal your job and make you homeless. It's all best for Tufts in the long run; your suffering is secondary to our prestige. You're not gonna pay a lot for this muffler, but you might have to pay a lot for this phone service, and we appreciate your patience. Plus, it will teach you cope with employers who screw you and will demonstrate how hardship will strengthen moral character.
Um, let's talk about May 19. Betty Bao Lord may be well-known and highly respected in certain circles, and she might be a fantabulous speaker, and she may have a great chocolate-chip cookie recipe, but who asked for her? Who chose her?
President DiBiaggio selects the Commencement speaker.
Hmmm, last I checked, Commencement had something to do with seniors. Remember them? You know, those people who've sunk $100,000 and four years into this place. Maybe now that they've mailed their last tuition check you've forgotten that they still count. Well, this is their graduation, so why don't they get a say in who speaks at it? Why does DiBiaggio get to choose? That means we get somebody who he owes a political favor to, or who looks good on a diveristy check-list, or who will give Tufts a few more bucks to squander on building a more confusing library. Shouldn''t the students have a voice in who their speaker is?
Obviously the seniors are not qualified to make such an important decision. They would not be able to find an appropriate figure to represent our university, and they wouldn't be able understand all the behind-the-scenes dealing involved. Lecture Series Shmecture Series. Just because they bring huge names to this campus doesn't mean they'd do anything for the one day that actually matters. The President is doing a fine job.
How about class registration The fact that we have to wait in line to register is bad enough, especially when you're in the 14 classes or less line and the guy in front of you clearly has 17. Electronic registration should be standard, especially with all this fabulous new Tufts Connect technology. But why toughen the add-drop policy? Making us get another signature to drop anything is more annoying than Martin Short. If you think that sticking a piece of paper under my advisor's nose when I need to switch recitation times is going to foster some new bond between us...
It isn't that much more work to get another signature. You're overreacting.
No, you're missing the point -- classes are for students more than they are for the ones teaching. You can't put the faculty's need for a finalized class list above the students' desire to take the best selection of classes.
Put yourself in the professors' proverbial shoes: how can you expect someone to teach properly when they don't know if there are 43 or 44 students in their class? Certainly, students can sacrifice a little to help for the greater good. Besides, as Saul Slapikoff said, "Students pre-register without giving a damn about what they really want to take." If you're too dumb to take the right classes the first time, you don't deserve a second chance.
I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall. This univeristy is here for the students. We provide your paycheck and your career, and you should respect what we have to say. We're #25 according to some magazine zippedee-doodah, but we also have an administration completely out of touch with the student body. Are you even listening to me?
Oh we're listening, all right. We just don't care.
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What I want to be
Apr 24, 1996
The most overwhelming concert I've ever been to was Barenaked Ladies at the Somerville Theater in Oct '94. I only vaguely knew their music then, but I dug their style and wanted to broaden my musical horizions like the diverse and culturally aware citizen of the universe Tufts has made me. Either that or I got free tickets from the Daily. So I made my way into Davis for the show (back when the Safety Shuttle ran a more convenient route -- it actually drove through the dorm hallways and stopped next to my bunk-bed).
My reaction to the show was a mixture of elation and despair. I was ecstatic because the show had been so entertaining and amazing and beneficial to the Middle East peace process. What I adore most about Barenaked Ladies is how they can combine the ultra-serious with the ultra-silly and walk away with a product that's both hilarious and meaningful.
But I was also depressed because I knew I could never do that as well as they had.
Oh, why do we bother getting introspective at the end of a year? That's like sitting on a cactus for all three hours of Braveheart and then afterwards saying, "I'm gonna try to sit on cusions from now on." Wouldn't it make more sense to evaluate your existence/derriere's comfort at the beginning of the semester/Oscar-winning film so that you can actually change your philosophy/underwear?
Summer becomes that idealized opportunity to evolve into the rational thinker from a Rodin sculpture (think Rolo's commercial). NEWS FLASH: Change does not require warm weather or television reruns. Change can occur in any season or in any seasoning; though I would recommend cumin for tolerance, paprika for transcendentalism, and basil for transcendentistry.
So I understand that I'm going to use this summer to become a Barenaked Lady -- the cost of surgery would be euthenasia on my already parapalegic checking account. But, I can try to strive for that delicate balance of humor and substance; hell, I try for it every Wednesday already.
It's just that seeing somebody do something brilliantly, it discourages me more than it makes me get up and shake my rump -- I mean, all I wanna do is zooma-zoom-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom. I get that depressed feeling of hopelessness watching Annie Hall or any Woody Allen tragicomedies; I get it after a really good Simpsons; I got it when I read Catch-22; I've even gotten it after one or two articles in this very paper; and I get it every time I see Barenaked Ladies.
They are everything I want to be: funny yet serious, mature yet childish, successful yet respected -- if they had magical powers, I would need to become them quick, fast, and in a hurry.
The other thing about that kills me about Barenaked Ladies is that despite enormous popularity in Canada and a devoted US following, they're still just normal guys. When I met them at an in-store signing this weekend, they were too nice and human for me to be overwhelmed by my unjustified idolatry. I wanted to drool over the guys who wrote and performed three of my favorite albums, but they were too real to let that happen. They're not rock stars -- they're guys who happen to play in a band.
I've seen every campus group I'm involved with flourish and wither under different leadership, and I've learned a lot about how to lead (especially if it means getting some ducklings across a busy Boston intersection). I've looked at the good leaders and the bad, but have avoided the ugly ones because they're, well, ugly. I mean, who wants to look at Yassir Arafat any longer than they absolutely have to? You may love the man, but he'd never earn the Community Chest card about 2nd prize in a beauty contest.
Leadership isn't about flexing your power or hitting people until they agree with you or kicking people until they agree with you or poking people with pointy objects until they agree with you. Leadership should be more like Teddy Roosevelt speaking softly and carrying a big stick. Any effective leader has to be your friend first; Barenaked Ladies somehow achieves this, and I don't even really officially know them.
I guess I'm in the middle of my third hour of Braveheart and I'm finally starting getting introspective about that desert plant prickling my buttocks. End of the semester or not, there's still a certain comfort in setting your thoughts down on paper; there's a nice permanence to having a philosophical mission statement in print. So where do I stand now?
I can say that this quest to balance the yin of funny with the yang of serious isn't completely a new thing for me; looking back 46 Misadventures ago to, I said that "my point in these columns is basically to spiritually enlighten you or at least make you laugh so hard you vomit." While I haven't said anything that would make Rousseau perk up his ears, and I haven't gotten anyone to blow chunks yet, I've managed a decent combination of the two in lesser degrees of each.
As for becoming a decent leader... let's just say that I'm still waiting to claim my piece of the pie from George and Weezy. It's disconcerting to think that I'm about to become a senior, and that my freshman year crew from Tilton-4 is just as old. So to all the current seniors who are just as scared to take their on their new titles (isn't "graduation" a dirty word?) I wish you luck and love and a lack of cavities. If not, I know a good dentist who's always got space for some unemployed former Jumbo.
My name's dan tobin, thanks for indulging me.
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