48. This is a call
49. Highlights fr. 68 hot days in the city
50. Why did the chicken cross the road?
51. La doobluh-vay say
52. The W is for dork
53. Where it's @
54. Not the same old apartment
55. Tapes, road trips, Poison, & the ABCs
56. Presidentistry
57. Like a goddam horse and carriage
58. A letter to ourselves
59. Outta here like Vladimir
Volumes: 1 2 3 4 5 6
This is a call
Sept. 18, 1996
If Tufts is the Game of Life, then this column would be my orange car which makes me a little armless peg, androgenous save for its blue tint. To stretch this lame board game analogy to its pseudo-profound limit: at this moment, my chunk of car-shaped plastic is about to cross the fated bridge at the end of it all. Thus, the denouement approaches, known to the brothers Parker as the Day of Reckoning.
Welcome to my hell, a.k.a. the 1996-97 academic year.
Yes, folks, for a full quarter of you, this is lucky semester #7, and the start of your final year on this fair campus. One more year to do everything you were supposed to do as a college student. One last chance to do everything from Animal House, everything your once-hip relatives think college students should do, every little thing that's magic. So this is you have to head for the hills and do it all. As my close personal friend Daffy Duck said, "You realize, of course, that this means war."
No, this is not my Unabomber Manifesto nor is it an anonymous tip about an upcoming sojourns to Centennial Park. No, this is a call to all my past resignations from going out and living the Army credo: Kill anything that moves. Uh, no, the other one: Be all you can be. Seize the...
Well, I'm hesitant to reccommend any seizing of days. Partly because I'm damned sick of Dead Poets Society, but also because the logic itself is flawed. If you followed Horace's advice to the proverbial T, you wouldn't even be reading this column because you'd be at home scratching your private parts and watching the boob tube and eating Cheetos. Or you'd be doing stuff from Mountain Dew commercials and using the word "extreme" a lot and eating Cheetos. Or you'd be doing illicit narcotics and having unprotected sex and eating illicit and unprotected bags of Cheetos.
Going to college, fab as it is, means that you're not getting as many Cheetos as required by recommended by the USDA. You're also not completely seizing the day because it's a four-year investment in a future that may not even pan out. College is wonderful, but you do NOT seize the day in order to more calculus problems. If you do, well, go seize the letters M, I, and T and stay away from my simple, agrarian lifestyle.
The whole problem is that completely carpe-ing the diem means not taking the consequences of your actions into account (i.e., bungee-jumping into a rock formation, getting genital warts, invoking the wrath of Chetser Cheetah). So I'm not saying to get out there and, oh captain my captain, stand on your Carmichael table to prove some point. No, let's leave seizures to the epileptics (ouch), but it doesn't mean you have any right to sit on your duff and scratch your private parts. This is it, oo-wop.
Granted, this stuff isn't new -- Horace came up with the notion, and he was around when Latin was the popular language. Everyone's given their little dissertation on living life to the fullest, so the topic isn't original. What I've got in my corner, besides Appollo Creed, is timing. For us seniors, there's one more year to take the Nike advice and just do it. Even if you're not of the senior persuasion, appreciate the zeal for living it up I'm hoping to instill in the Class of '97 so that they won't feel like the Ass of '97 come May. Get out there and live it up, already. Kick out the jams, y'all.
I’ve spent the past four semesters of this column bemoaning the fact that I was eventually going to graduate. Now that the moment is looming closer than ever, I'm not even worried any more. I can't really account for this Zen-like peace I've attained except to say that I had a most eye-opening summer and sort of was purged of one of my major stresses (cough, GIRLFRIEND, cough cough).
Once again back is the incredible, the rhyme animal.
Yeah, this is a call. It's a call to everyone to rock the house and leave the rest of Tufts wondering what hit 'em.
Welcome back, suckah. The dentist will see you now.
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Cynical highlights from 68 hot days in the city
Sept. 25, 1996
Note: This is 98 percent true: dates are slightly skewed and names have been changed to protect the idiots.
Day 1: Call me Ishmael. I move into Columbia University housing in a six-person suite, but because I'm arriving a week late, the others have already settled in. In fact, one's already settled into my room. Let's call him Dickhead. The room I'm left with smells funny. One of my suitemates seems like a decent guy, even though we have nothing in common except for living in the same place for the summer. He's a California frat-boy jock. I'm a Massachusetts preppy-boy dork. He has a tan and uses the word "burly" to describe Independence Day. Let's call him Surfer Dude.
I meet my boss for dinner. She's 28 and single, and we discuss the summer over pad thai noodles. I learn that the office I planned to intern at will not be an office. The magzine is being run out of her apartment. I'll be making phone calls and working on articles from her living room. She gives me a key to her apartment and pays for my dinner. Let's call her Mrs. Robinson.
Day 2: First day of work. I get on the elevator and discover the perfect symbol for New York City. I push the button for my floor and notice a blotchy mess nearby. Beside the pristinely lettered door open button are the remains of what had once been the door close button. Impatient, hustling, bustling New Yorkers had reduced it to gibberish. Call me Overwhelmed.
Day 6: Mrs. Robinson sends me to a press event sponsored by Johnson & Johnson. I check in at the desk: dan tobin from Cm, a college magazine. In fact, I am registered as dan tobin from Beauty Handbook. This throws me off. It's one of Mrs. Robinson's other gigs. I guess now it's my gig, too. I get a gin and tonic and begin to schmooze. Everyone wants to know about the magazine. Well, I've never seen Beauty Handbook. What is it? Who publishes it? What's your annual gross sales? Of course, I've never seen it either. I stammer and stutter and make stuff up. To cap off the day, the Johnson & Johnson product on display is Uristat, a product used to treat urinary tract infections in women. I pass on lunch.
Day 10: I have no friends. Surfer-Dude is okay, but dumb. He's never heard of Amish people and he refers to Dominique Moceanu as "Gabriela." Luckily, the last guy to move in is Surfer-Dude #2. He's just like his predecessor except that Surfer-Dude #1 is taller. They bond. They share a brain. Another sutemate who's not evil is 28 years old and views marijuana as one of the four food groups. Let's call him Jim from Taxi. There's also Invisible Boy who I only see going into the shower. I never see him come out of the shower or do anything else. And then there's good old Dickhead who only emerges to complain and be a jerk. If it weren't for my two Tufts buddies in Brooklyn, I would snap. Let's call them DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.
Day 12: I go to see the Fun Lovin' Criminals play a show downtown. They rock. It ends. I get on the train toward 116th St where I live. Note that Harlem begins at about 125th street. In case you don't know much about Harlem, it's where pro wrestler Bad News Brown was from, and there was a reason he was called Bad News. Tonight I learn that the train doesn't stop at 116th street after 11:30 p.m. and I end up in the center of Bad News. The danger has been exaggerated and I get home safely. Everything is hunky. Everything is dory.
Day 16: Jazzy Jeff asks why I didn't call him back. You didn't call. Yes I did and I left a message with your suitemate. Hmm. Dickhead was the only one home that night. I speak to him about it. He denies getting the message. Let's continue to call him Dickhead.
Day 20: I'm with my Tufts buddy (call him pH) and we're in an East Village used-CD shop. He turns to me and says, It's definitely French Night in here. Confused, I turn around to see a man in a beret and think that pH has made a poor, poor joke. We leave and I learn that he had said, That's definitely Fred Schneider. Who is Fred Schneider, you ask? Call him the weird guy from the B-52s. Call me King Dumbass for not realizing it at the time.
Day 27: I kill a cockroach in the common room. It's big and black and cockroachy. I panic that there are more elsewhere. Call me Bug Magnet.
Day 32: Thing have gone awry with Cm and I start work at another of Mrs. Robinson's gigs: For The Bride. This is a step up from Beauty Handbook. My assignments include editing articles on honeymoon havens and writing a piece on wedding cakes. Call me Secure in My Masculinity. I'd have to be to keep on keepin' on.
I tell Surfer-Dude #1 about the cockroach. He tells me about the mouse. Apparently, we have at least one mouse scurrying around our heating vents. Let's call him Jerry of "Tom and" fame.
Day 40: I find out Dickhead has been failing to give me phone messages again. I go on a reconnaissance mission into his room to see how I can get revenge. I steal a pen. Call him Unfazed.
Day 47: Mrs. Robinson sends me to a trade show for the Accessory Circuit. I meet a famous luggage designer and he gives me a bag he designed. It's nice. Only after I've been sporting it all day do I realize it's a women's bag. Between that and continually identifying myself as dan tobin from For the Bride, I feel my last dops of masculinity slip away.
Surfer-Dude informs me that Jerry has gotten into his room. Call him Infested.
Day 53: I go to a concert that ends late. I go back to Brooklyn with Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. We stop by Katina's Diner at 4 a.m. One woman (call her Tyson) starts throwing fries at another woman (call her Seldon). They argue. We hear the f-word a lot. The waitress tries to call the police. Tyson grabs the phone and clocks Seldon over the head with the receiver. Seldon starts throwing coffee packets and pie covers. Tyson grabs a serated bagel knife. A man grabs the knife and Tyson leaves. Seldon starts crying. Jeff, Prince and I exchange a glance, scarf down our rice pudding and make a quick exit. Don't call us, we'll call you.
Day 55: I go to the refigerator and notice a moustrap with a piece of cheese on it. It looks like something Wile E. Coyote would use. I find out that Surfer-Dude II is hell-bent on catching Jerry. He now refers to the mouse as "Bitch." He says things like, I'm-a kill that mouse! Then I'm gonna leave the body for the other mice to see! I'm-a get you, Bitch! Call him Robert DeNiro in Cape Fear. Call me Thankful It's Day 55.
Day 58: Jim from Taxi tells me that some girl called. He tells me the name and it doesn't sound familiar. It was, like, hard to hear on the voicemail. Then why'd you delete it? Uh, sorry, dude. I would delete him, but he means well. He told us a good story about moderating a Dungeons and Dragons convention where some people dressed up like lizards. Nuff respect.
Day 62: I go to a press event for honeymoon resorts and start drinking red wine. Mrs. Robinson is supposed to meet me but instead she hands me the cold, hard dis. I decide to befriend Ernest and Julio Gallo. I see Robin Leach, but he won't talk to me. I drink more wine. We watch promotional videos and listen to Jamaican executives. Six glasses later, I leave, unable to operate heavy machinery. Call me the stork from Bugs Bunny.
Dickhead is in the common room. I give him the super-warm greeting I can only give while drunk to those I despise. I stumble to the phone and call the chiquita I was dating back then. Let's call her Betty, and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al. Betty asks if I got her letter. No, I didn't. Then go check to see if it got delivered today. But that's all the way across campus. Please. So I went. Call me Fido.
I exit my room and immediately fall down the stairs, giving myself the nastiest rug burn known to man. The fire department doesn't respond to the smoke rising from my knees. I zig-zag to the mailroom. I get a feeling of deja-vu. My mailbox is empty. I realize that I did indeed check earlier. Call me Einstein. I call Betty on a pay phone and howl about my knees. She thinks I'm a big dork. She's right.
Day 63: I wake up dehydrated. On the way to work I reach into my satchel and pullout Betty's letter. I remember that I did get the letter on my first visit to the mailroom but decided I was too drunk to read it. The rugburn was for naught. Call me Einstein and a Half.
Day 68: I realize I have no pictures of New York. I don't want random shots of places so I walk around holding the camera at arms length and snapping shots of me around the city making goofy faces. People think I'm a big dork. They're right.
I say goodbye to Mrs. Robinson over a similar order of pad thai noodles. They taste much different this time. More familiar. It's a symbol for how I've changed over the summer. I like it. I'm a New Yorker. Don't call me. Kawl me.
I pack up my room and leave Columbia. On my way out I tell Dickhead that some girl called. The phone hasn't really rung. He doesn't know that. Call her back. And call me avenged, boyee. Start spreading the news...
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Why did the chicken cross the road?
Oct. 2, 1996
Laugh, dammit.
The chicken joke is funny. Granted, humor tends to be lacking when somebody has to inform you that a joke is funny -- like a long, involved story followed by something like "What a yuk-fest," the international signal to give a pity laugh and smack the joker upside the head with all your might.
I just can't seem to convince people of the divine comedy of the chicken joke. I mean, it's cleverer and funnier than anything live from New York or at all associated with Pauly Shore. Of course, Bob Dole spinning yarns about tokin' reefer with John Quincy Adams also seems hi-freakin'-larious next to SNL or the weeeeeasel.
Think about it: "Why did the chicken cross the road?" Assuming you've never heard the joke before (the #1 criterion in jury selection for high-profile court cases), you inevitably start thinking about why the foul left his coop to get across I-95. You think hard and access the mental database of all the jokes anyone's ever told you -- nothing sweeter than being a big jerk answering with the correct punch-line. Of course, answering too smarmy a tone could result in a different kind of punch-line.
"Did he look both ways first? Okay, he crossed the road because, uh, he was hungry, he was looking for a change of pace, he was chasing some hot chick (get it?), he was running from Frank Perdue/Colonel Sanders/Gary Larsen, he wanted Olympic gold, he was following his horoscope, he was following his runaway telescope, he was following a Scope mouthwash salesman, he seeking of Necromonicon, he was trying to rent Operation Dumbo Drop, he was protesting drinking Pepsi -- am I close?"
Obviously the punch-line is going to be some wacky and hysterical chicken business he had to attend to. Little did we realize that the answer was the obvious: "To get to the other side." Well, duh. Why does anyone ever cross the road? What other purpose is there for crossing the road besides getting to the other side? I have a feeling that has existential possibilities that would make Professor Devigne's mouth water, sometimes a chicken is just a cigar.
See, the intentionally misleading nature of the chicken joke is what makes it so funny. You're totally expecting an outlandish reason for him to cross the road when BOOM -- Captain Obvious comes crashing in to wield the answer so far from what you were expecting that it must have come from another world (or from a general hospital or from all my children, even, but Susan Lucci will just never win that Emmy, so stop holding your breath).
Okay, totally dissecting this joke has robbed it of any humor that may have been there in the "yuk-fest!" but that's not why it garners as many laughs as Ernest. It's because it is the omnipresent joke. It is the Joke, like the Man ("You da Man!") the Bomb ("That CD is the Bomb!") and the Absessed Tooth ("I had the Absessed Tooth!") All these expressions are usually followed by a dope "Awwwwwww, yeah," except for the Absessed Tooth which is usually followed by "Aaarrrrrggghhh, yeah," and then the Misadventuring Dentist demanding that you rinse.
Those of you playing the Dentristry home-game should now rinse also.
You hate the Joke because you've heard the Joke so many times. You probably heard heard it for the first time when you were five; at that age, the only other jokes in town are people getting hit with pies and the word "poop," and let's face it folks, pretty much any joke pales in comparison to the word "poop." If Bob Dole really wants to endear himself to the country, he should start using the word "poop" as often as he refers to himself in the third person.
See, if you heard the Joke for the first time today, you'd appreciate it. You wouldn't bust out like a hyena, but you'd smile and give one laugh. If there was food in your mouth, it would become airborne and pret-a-porter. But you're sick of the Joke and the result is still food spit onto the joke-teller, but as a purposeful act of vengeance instead of an involuntary reaction to the hilarity. (Incidentally, everything is funnier with food in your mouth. Nonbelievers should ask my Scott, my nerdy housemate, about how he used a Yoda impression to make me vomit through my nose.)
To bring it all back to a cliche, familiarity breeds contempt. This is the same principle that lets you smack your younger sister when she gets annoying but keeps you from doing the same to the guy who cuts in front of you at the Baybank machines.
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La doobluh-vay-say
Oct. 9, 1996
Caca is mystifying stuff. To think that even the most delectable entree becomes a pile of smelly yuckies is mind-blowing to a simpleton like me. There msut be biological reasons for it, but I've never cluttered my arguments with facts before and I don't intend to start now. For our purposes, let's assume there's a magic gnome who lives in your gut who adds stink juice to the Big Mac you ate for lunch and turns it into a big ole mess of doody. It's alchemy gone horribly wrong, but that's what goes on in every single person's innards.
See, there are only a few things that link absolutely every human on the planet: eating, sleeping, breathing, expelling waste matter, and hating the XXXX. We're willing to do each and every one of those in front of other people except for the toiletorious activities (toy-le-TOR-ee-us - adj., of or relating to the porcelain god). What's so sacred about these acts? Why not do them in public?
Now wait a cotton-pickin' minute. That just sounded like I'm complaining that nobody pinches a loaf in front of me, and that's not really where it's at. Where it's at concerns two turntables and a microphone and does not concern bowels or exposed genitals. The whole idea of moving private parts into the public sector for such a purpose is uncool like the anti-Fonz, and nobody wants to see that crap. Literally.
But why is it that we're so reluctant to even admit that we go to the bathroom? Parents can do lots of embarassing things, but the most cardinal sin, the most heinous offense, the most gravely important don't-you-ever-do-that-or-I'll-be-in-therapy-till-I'm-80 is for Mom/Pop to tell somebody on the phone that you're in the bathroom. Yeah, as if the person on the other end of the phone would be so offended at your reaction to Cracklin' Oat Bran that they'd instantly hang up and feel so icky that they'd have to bathe for seven weeks to cleanse themselves.
That's not how it works. But still, society dictates that we don't ask, don't tell. Parents need to be schooled on this sensitive issue, so we train them to tell convincing lies: "He's taking a... I'm on the other line." It's fool-proof. In college it's more like the nuclear policy of assured mutual destruction -- one roomie would never spill the beans, because he knows that the other has an equal amount of ability to damage. If you press your luck and take a message by saying that he's "on the crapper;" you'll almost certainly stop on a whammy.
I take this fear to insanely stupid levels. Not just moderately sane stupid levels, mind you, but insanely stupid ones. Like, I could never admit to an attractive member of the opposite sex that I expel waste matter. Sophomore year, I went to visit my then-girlfriend over spring break. I stayed at her house for the weekend, yet I could not bring myself to count up to the number two. I just didn't have the intestinal fortitude (figuratively and literally) to drop the deuce. I guess I was scared that the aroma would give me away. Worse still, I ran the risk of recreating the scene from Dumb and Dumber where Jeff Daniels has a round of Ex-Lax brownies and ends up clogging the toilet at his date's house. Smooth as a belt-sander.
"What kind of boy are you dating?" I could hear her mom scold. "A boy who just goes and expels waste matter. To think!" And then they'd put a scarlet letter on my buttock and my romantic life would be as over as A-ha's 15 minutes of fame.
Worse are public restrooms. Ever have problems starting because you know there's someone at the next stall? This may be the dumbest one yet. Public restrooms are designed for two purposes -- washing and toileting (toy-let - vb., to utilize the porcelain god). Everybody's there for the same reason, so why be embarrassed? I'm terrified to emerge from a stall for fear of having accept responsibility my actions.
"Hey guys!" I can see the guy in the next stall call out as he opens the door to the restroom. "Check out what tobin's doing! Can you believe it? In a restroom!" And then they'd put a scarlet letter on my other buttock and my social life would be as succesful as A-ha's comeback tour.
Why are they even called "restrooms?" With the pressures of having to perform for an audience, it's not terribly restful. To paraphrase my close, personal friend William Shakespeare, a bathroom by any other name would still smell as gross. Bathroom, restroom, men's room, little girl's room, water closet, WC, doo-bluh-vay say (in French), lavatory, the can, the john, the loo, the caca kitchen, the poopoo palace, the feces factory -- no matter how base the potty humor I'm using for a cheap laugh, it's the same place.
And we avoid it. We avoid because society says to. In fact, the only time that any form of toileting becomes socially acceptable is when two drunkards decide to urinate together. Oh, the joys of choosing a favorite tree, patch of grass, or administrator to relieve yourself on with an inebriated pal. It only works for the 15th letter of the alphabet, but that's a good thing.
What we need to do is loosen up a bit about the doo-bluh-vay say. Toileting is a common bond between all humans -- regardless of race, creed, color, or butt-size, everybody poops. Be proud of what we all have in common. Dogs have no shame, and so should we. Of course, dogs also tend to eat their own doody, so take that advice with a whole shaker of salt. But next time you go to the bathroom, have your roommate tell any callers exactly where you are. They'll appreciate your honesty, you'll feel better about yourself, and maybe A-ha will stop by for a rousing chorus of "Take On Me." Trust me.
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The W stands for dork
Oct. 16, 1996
If you don't know what I look like, then more power to you. I describe myself as tall, dark, and goofy-looking, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a twist of lemon. It must be that tart kick at the end that makes the ladies swoon on those rare occasions that I achieve swoonage. I pretty much look like a bean-bag chair with legs. The thing is, I know there's a big hunk inside of me trying to get out. This relates less to my penchant for cannabalism than to the fact that everybody has that ability to become an American Gladiator with the right amount of effort. There's a little Jack Lalane in all of us, sure, but where can you nourish your inner stud?
Yonder by Cousens Gym, I reckon.
For a long time, I couldn't get up the nerve to set foot in the gym. I could set arm just fine, and even set face, but I had mondo trouble getting my butt in gear -- alas, I purchased a standard-transmission posterior and never learned how to work the clutch. Part of what kept me away was good, old fashioned intimidation. Not that the girl taking IDs stole my lunch money and gave me an Indian suburn -- that was card-swipe lady at Dewick. No, it's Hans and Frans curling Volkswagens that make me a smidgeon self-conscious when I'm struggling to bench-press a broom handle. A hollow broom handle. Made of paper mache. At zero gravity. Yikes.
I decided to confront this fear head-on. According to my analyst, it all goes back to my childhood when Uncle Jesse the Body Ventura would babysit me in a steel cage. And as my close, personal friend Dave Matthews once said, sometimes you need a gymmy thing. I had get over this fear of muscles (soloflexophobia) and force myself into Cousens with threats of academic reprisal. So I signed up for a weight training class andwas on my merry way to pumpitude.
Surprisingly, it wasn't that painful. People were kind enough to laugh at me behind my back, and I only got pantsed a few times a week. The only sketchy part was when some A.C. Slater look-alike would ask me for a spot. You know, help him if he starts to have a problem with the amount weight he's lifting -- yeah, as if there's anything I can do to stop 600 pounds from crushing my new "partner." After flattening three or four mongos, people only asked me to spot them on the bikes, which meant that I would stand there ready to catch them if the thing broke and they started coasting around the gym.
So my class went well for a while. In fact, it was going so well that I had to go and mess everything up. I do that -- I'll be happily dating someone, and then slip up and tell her about some girl in high school I liked more. Or I'll be working on a paper and decide that Cornholio should narrate my discussion of how middle names were all that distinguished John Adams from John Quincy Adams. Or I'll be writing moderately interesting columns and then write one all about poop. It's my self-destructive nature, and it reared its ugly head in my weight-training class.
Now I make no bones about being Self-Conscious Dork-Boy of the Universe, so I had a real problem wearing sneakers to my next class after the gym. I dare say I had issues with it, in fact. Sneakers only work with your ensemble if you're an athlete, a coach, or Jerry Seinfeld. Otherwise, it screams out seventh grade dork, and you might as well break out the Kangaroos with the velcro pouches on the side and carry a Trapper Keeper. I have that goofy-looking thing working against me as it is, so I'm not about to sacrifice the little fashion sense I have. Like, not even, like, accessorizing could, like, save me if when I'm sporting, like, New Balance shoes.
So I got a locker to keep my stuff in. And I brought in my own lock. And I kept my stuff there. And everything worked out. I even started toning up a bit. Life was good. And it would have remained good had I not skipped one class and gone on Spring Break and skipped another class and returned class to get my clothes only to realize that I had FORGOTTEN MY FLIPPIN' COMBINATION.
I checked my wallet. I checked my desk. I checked my refrigerator. I did so many checks, they could have named a party mix after me, but I just couldn't find those three magic numbers that would provide the open sesame to Ali Baba's gym locker.
So I waited.
I don't exactly know what it was I was waiting for -- waiting for the combo to mysteriously turn up, waiting to discover a special skeleton key to all Master locks, waiting to exhale, shoop shoop shoop, I dunno. But I waited, and it eventually got to the point where I was going to fail the class. I was going to fail weight training. I'm not sure you understand the full impact of just how pathetic that is. It's a pass-fail class, and you pass by showing up. You go, you pass. You don't, you fail. You'd have to have the IQ of furniture to fail and I was about to fail. Determined to remain smarter than my barka-lounger, I decided to withdraw.
There's a collective fear of withdrawing from a class because of the terrible scar it leaves: a big W like in It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. If one letter is tuly scralet, it's the W on your transcript that supposedly stands for "Why the hell would you want to employ someone as shiftless and evil as this bloke?" But in my unique situation, all the W stood for was dork.
I think my advisor put it best when I handed him my add/drop/withdraw form and explained the scenario like I was Busta Rhymes. "That's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard," he said comfortingly.
So I got a W on my form, and all because I couldn't remember three numbers. As far as getting my stuff out of the locker, the woman in the equipment room handed me a pair of clippers as big as Hillel President Louis Leibowitz, and said, "I trust you with these." I went into the locker room, snipped the lock, and reclaimed my goodies, fighting my temptation to cut up other people's locks and steal their jock straps.
And that's why I still describe myself as tall, dark, and goofy-looking. I tried, and I failed. Rather: I tried, and I withdrew. Know the difference.
* * *
Okay, if you really want to know what I look like, today's your lucky day. Turn to page nine. Yeah, I'm in the race for Homecoming King again, so help me out with your vote and, as they'd say in a game checkers, king me.
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Where it's @
Oct. 23, 1996
I used to be an e-mail junkie. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon, the obligatory 2 a.m. check -- I was the emissary of e-mail, the prince of pine. If I didn't get my daily fix, I'd break out into a cold sweat and start foaming at the mouth. Sometimes I'd just start foaming at the mouth for no reason, or to try and impress people, but nobody ever seemed to be drawn to my drool, magnetic as my saliva is rumored to be.
Mind you, this e-mail addiction afflicted me in the olden days before ethernet, back when computers were made out of stone and you weren't allowed on the Web without credentials identifying you as a big geek. This absence of widespread networking left me beholden to a 2400 baud modem and my phone line. So, the decision to use e-mail meant choosing not to receive any phone calls during the whole of my online binge. A hard choice, but I'm sure the top ten sexually tilted lines in Star Wars were far more important than anything some stupid person might have to say on the phone.
Wow, did I used to be cool.
I eventually went cold turkey after that month-long emerald crash my sophomore year, but I never fully recovered. "Why bother calling Gunther?," thought a mentally scarred Tobinator. "I'm on his distribution list." And so e-mailed had ruined my attitude toward communication because it was so easy an appealling -- instant gratification, computer nerdery, and the chance to use the verb "finger" in polite conversation. And e-mail does rock and roll in some respects, so long as you know the ups and downs of other forms of communication.
In person communication is clearly the most personal, but it's also the only form where you have to smell the other person. I guess the smellaphone would count, too, but it hasn't caught on much, mostly because I just invented it a sentence ago. Human contact is best for the heart-to-heart or the big emotional issue, especially if you want to physically intimidate the other person with, say, a pointy stick. But it's also the riskiest because there you are, face to face, a couple of silver spoons.
The next level down is the phone, medium of choice for pre-teens and smelly people around the globe. Calls can range from a quick business item to a long, involved, intense conversation that should have been done in person but got started accidentally: "So I was tying my shoe and WHOOPS I want to sex you up." A heart-to-heart over the phone is safer but wussier. Like, breaking up with someone by telephone would put you in the lead for the role of Sweet-chuck in the next Police Academy movie. You make Mr. Rogers look like Sgt. Slaughter.
The business call to someone you only vaguely know is the call that's trickier than the three card monte but not quite as tricky as Monty Hall. It can be painful to chit-chat with the lame-o you called purely to find out when your paper's due, but it also could blossom into a beautiful friendship. Maybe it'll work, probably it'll feel like a game of mercy against Sgt. Slaughter.
And that's where e-mail can save the day: On the sea or on the land, it puts the situation well in hand, just like Mighty Mouse. It's a quick means of communication personal enough to get your message across, but distant enough to protect against a potential dis. Cutie in your History class? Call and you'll be hurtin' for certain if Cutie isn't down with your jive. But shoot off an e-mail, and the lack of or lacklustre response serves as the subtle hint that Cutie is unattainable and, in all likelihood, is just a hyena in a Cutie mask. E-mail gives you that Publisher's Clearinghouse no-risk trial offer: Try out a friendship/relationship over the net and, if it doesn't fit, bring back your receipt and stop hitting the "r" key.
But what of real live letters? You know, those slabs of tree embellished with funny-looking runes that tend to disgruntle certain government employees. The straight-up letter is a lost art form that only re-emerges during vacations, time abroad, and Kwanzaa. 12 new messages makes me happy, but a full mailbox is nicer than a full inbox. Even bills are kind of special -- to think that they chose you to pay for electricity! Real mail gets taken more seriously, in part because it's tangible which means you can eat it. You can't eat your e-mail unless you eat the whole emerald computer system, and the people at ACS might not find that as amusing as I would.
Besides, don't you just love your P-key?
The impersonal nature of e-mail is both its strong point and its shortcoming. As a freshman, I got caught up in the Cult of Forwarding and so instead of filling people in on the trivialities of my life, I "communicated" by sending along other people's bad jokes. One day I realized what I had done to my life, checked into Gerald Ford (Betty handles drunks, Gerry handles dorks), and got back into the social groove. E-mail is a privelege, not a right, and those who can't handle it should be stripped of their space bars and issued cell phones.
* * *
A big shot out goes to everyone who voted for me last week and made me king. Thank you infinitely. I'll be dedicating the win to all of Walpole High School who collectively despised me for being me. Now in college I get to quote my close, personal friend Sally Field's Oscar speech: "You like me! You really like me!"
Exaggeration? Perhaps. Genuine gratitude? Damn straight.
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Not the same old apartment
Oct. 30, 1996
Barenaked Ladies have been the toast of the Canadian music scene for years, but they're just not the toast of the American scene. Nor are they the sliced bread of it, or even the crackers. They're more like Ritz Bits here. But, as my close, personal friend Paul McCartney once said, it's getting better all the time. Their concerts have been filling progressively larger venues since 1992, they've played Conan's pathetically overrated show, their latest album rocked the semi-obscure Billboard Heat-seekers chart, and they got a cut on the trendier-than-the-macarena Friends soundtrack. Now, lo and behold, they've got a song on the radio. Woohoo!
So why am I not happy?
Their third and latest album, Born On A Pirate Ship, came out over spring break last year, and I was convinced this would be their Please Hammer Don't Hurt 'Em -- a crossover of epic proportions. Armed with intelligent lyrics, deft pop culture references, sharp four-part harmonies, and the catchiest pop hooks since the above-mentioned Liverpudlian, I thought this would be their ticket to mainstream success and the pleasures it brings. Now entering Hitsville (Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary).
As long ago as December, the residents of Bedside Manor -- an Internet mailing list for obsessive Barenaked dorks like myself -- selected "The Old Apartment" as their "U Can't Touch This." Many moons later, "The Old Apartment" is suddenly on heavyish rotation on WBCN and garnering a more favorable response than Calvin Coolidge ever did. Maybe you've heard it: "Broke into the old apartment, this is where we used to live." Yep, Barenaked Ladies look like they're finally on their way to some kind of substantial gratification, and I ain't talkin' about the Stanley Cup.
Now, my complaint here isn't that new fans aren't true fans and that mainstream success is ruining my good old boys. I'm not that petty. I'm just that Tom. Sure, I've been diggin' that song for months and I've already heard it played in concert twice, but I'm a good kindergartener and I'm perfectly willing to share. I'm also perfectly willing to eat paste, and I did in fact I pee my pants when I heard the Ladies on the radio.
But what kills me is that the radio version is a remix.
It's not even a huge remix. No techno drumbeat added, or the Fugees singing backup, but subtle enough a change that only the biggest nerds would notice -- a short guitar intro, subtle guitar solo embellishments in the background, slightly more echoey guitars all over, a mildly harder drum beat, and one lyric now sang through an effects processor. To the average listener, it's the same old apartment.
But obsessive, compulsive, borderline stalking fan that I am, I happened upon a promo single with both versions on it. Okay, I hijacked WBCN. Reagrdless of how it came into my possession, I sat down to compare the "Album Version" and the "Radio Remix" like the King Dork of the Universe I am. What I noticed is that the new one is pretty much the same as the original, just a bit more WBCN-sounding. A bit more alternative, a bit more Stone Temple Pilotsy, a bit more acceptable to the faceless music-buying public that made the New Kids into multi-millionaires.
It's like the record label handed the song to some hot-shot producer (his name is Ben Grosse in case you want to hunt him down and give him a wedgie). "This could be big if we make it sound like everything else," they told him. "Make it fit our program style. Make it the same."
The 14 tracks on Born On a Pirate Ship took four months to record and mix, so it's a good guess that the band put a little time deciding exactly how they wanted things to sound. So why remix it? Basically, Mr. Ben Grosse ruined a piece of music that four guys wrote, performed, assembled, and engineered into a piece of art they were satsified with. Mr. Ben Grosse glazed "The Old Apartment" a bit and homogenized it into something more MTV-friendly that Dan Cortese and Kennedy can gush over before they go back in the dressing room to eat more paint chips.
"Why complain if it's such a small difference?" I hear you say. "It's minor enough that it's basically the same song, right?" I chortle as I rip your heart out of your chest Temple of Doom-style. If it's such a small difference, why bother changing it at all? One of my favorite things about Barenaked Ladies is that they have such a fresh sound -- very clean, very sharp, very much unlike the angst-ridden doody polluting the airwaves since Kurt. If you change their trademark sound, what possible impact on the music scene could they even have?
My only hope lies in the people who buy the full album just to hear "The Old Apartment" and realize how kickin' the rest of Pirate Ship is. But hearing this song also panics me in that the remix could signal a more commercially minded sound for the Ladies in the future. And when you stop making art for yourself, the art gets an F, and that makes it a fart, and nobody wants that.
I'm at the point now where hearing the remixed version "The Old Apartment" just makes me mad. But I'm not going to stop listening Barenaked Ladies, nor will I stop purchasing their albums or attending their concerts or spying on them in the shower or calling them and hanging up or breaking into their house and pretending I live there. When their live album comes out November 19, I'll probably own it by the 18th. I'm still a Kathy Bates-like fan, and this remix doesn't change things. It just took a little of the fun out of it. Watching your favorite band pay their dues and slowly break through to a mainstream audience is fun. Watching them cheat and and sacrfice their art is not.
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Tapes, road trips, Poison, and the ABCs
Nov. 6, 1996
Any of y'all bought a tape recently? The 99 cent blanks don't count, yo. I'm talking the real deal, here -- prerecorded and packaged for the Gen X consumer, instantly tallied on the Billboard master computer in the center of the earth, filled with the jammin' music of today's hottest artists. Of course not. Do you even know anyone who's bought a tape recently? If so, they must be quite a hipster, sporting those acid-washed jeans and pledging allegiance to the old Reagan-Bush administration.
Back in my first Misadventure, some 53 columns ago, I waxed idiotic about my trusty Atari 2600 and how it still rocked compared to the kick-ass CD-ROM system down the hall. Then, like now, I was all riled up because technology had reared its ugly head, and this head made Courtney Love look like Courtney Cox. Now the evil head rears again in a new realm -- it's one big, musical, ugly-ass head.
Compact discs rule the land with an iron fist these days. Just as my Atari was obliterated by more advanced systems, tapes are out like Professor Trout. Wait, no, he got tenure, right? Or how did it end? Well, since only about seven of you aren't shaking your head going, "Some fish teaches here?" we'll just chalk it up to the semi-obscure Tufts faculty reference and move on to bigger and brighter and more commercially acceptable references. Know what I mean, Vern?
Discs are it, period. The only tapes anyone buys any more are for making mixes or for using the unrolled spools to strangle defenseless woodland creatures. Mix-making must be the only thing that keeps the cassette industry from completing ten and turning the page to Chapter 11. That and those rockin' $2.99 collections of the Monkees' greatest hits and ultra-rare tracks from Sha Na Na. But beyond has-been hits and cheap but thoughtful birthday presents, cassettes are just not in effect any more.
Except...
Four guys pile into a car to escape the hazards of everyday life and to travel wherever the concrete leads them. It's the bonding experience of a lifetime: the fated road trip, and it rules like a fine monarch. Sure, my close, personal friend MTV has tried to pervert the concept into a Real World on wheels, but the crucial difference between cable and reality is the soundtrack. Whereas Road Rules gets the dopest, freshest, flyest, most abrasively current buzz-bin junk-pop crap poop yuck stuff, a real road trip sounds like a bad high school dance minus the oldies.
God bless modern rock radio, but it's worthless once you cross state lines. Then it's pure tape country. Yes, TAPE country. You can rely on the radio's seek button, sure, but prepare to groove out to Phil Collins or Rush Limbaugh, two of the greater evils of century. Pretty much the only musical alternative whilst in motion is the tape player. Unless you're Mr. Audio Obsessive and installed the fattie system of the universe in your dashboard, replete with CD player, graphic equalizer, amplifier, atomic reactor, sandwich maker, salad shooter...
Hey -- a guy can dream, can't he?
I'm at my my musical prime on road trips because that's when all the bad music resurfaces and shines on like a crazy diamond. What to feed a hungry tape player? Most car-tape machines subsist on a steady diet of Skid Row, Milli Vanilli, Cindi Lauper, Run DMC, Huey Lewis, or any other artist who's languished in the back of your music collection since the heyday of those acid-washed jeans and the Reagan-Bush administration.
Just think how you'd feel if you were a copy of Look What the Cat Dragged In, the glam-rock manifesto that forever changed the status of mousse in rock 'n roll. Follow me -- imagine yourself as the debut Poison album. One minute you're talking dirty to me in the tap deck of the old man's Ford, the next minute you're clocking time at the bottom of somebody's closet next to a shoebox of valentines from third grade.
Kind words won't soothe the shattered ego of a now obscure LP (assuming, as Mr. Rogers has taught me to do, that tapes do in fact have feelings). Only a road trip forces us into accepting and even relishing the fact that bad music is part of our common heritage, and we only discover this because we own it all on tape. Pop in Tone Loc, and you'll be surprised. Even if you haven't drank any funky cold medina since puberty was raging in your body, you still know all the words. And everyone in the car still knows all the words. And you'll still know all the words to "Wild Thing" when the wildest thing in your life is metamucil. It's with you. And it's with you on tape.
Lots of people can't handle this fact and will pretend that like they never liked Def Leppard in the first place. These people do own tapes, but usually they're 16 practically identical Phish bootlegs. My advice for dealing with these people is to pour some sugar on them and demand they lighten up. The wrong tapes can make a road trip lethal, so choose wisely over this long weekend.
May the force be with you, and may a tape of Slippery When Wet be with you, too.
* * *
Notice anything unusual about the first letter of each paragraph here? That may account for today's minor disjointedness. Whether or not we explore the second half will depend on audience response and my ability to remember the rest of the alphabet in order. Word to your mother.
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Presidentistry
Nov. 13, 1996
Nobody knew what to expect last week. Would Bob Dole come from behind and become first one-armed bandit to get elected president? Would Ross Perot feed off voter apathy and mass love for short people to capture the White House? Would Libertarian-cum-freak-of-nature Harry Browne emerge out of obscurity to become leader of the free world? Would Howard Stern zoom into power thanks to a grass-roots write-in campaign? Would Millard Fillmore return from the dead to reclaim the office he once held in near obscurity? People just had no idea.
Oh yeah. Oh freakin' yeah. They had no idea.
People basically followed the '96 election like they watched the Dream Team in Hot-lanta: They knew who'd win, but tuned in to see how bad a rout it would be. And they wanted to see if Clinton could do that behind-the-back pass he touted so much in the debates. Basically, he had clinched the victory in May or June or whenever it became apparent that Bob Dole had the charisma of a Chevy and the tax plan of a Jaguar. And because of that, the election served Nytol. 1996 will henceforth be remembered as the night-time, sniffling, sneezing, stuffy head, so-you-can-rest election. Or is that Nyquil? Or is that Nytes In White Satin? Whichever the case, this election was a snooze-fest.
Quite a thrill that this was the one we got to vote in, huh? As the rhyme dictates, first is worst, and this was dull with a capital L, people. Somebody call that talking giraffe and the Better Business Bureau, because we got gypped. Somebody gather up the chess pieces because we got rooked. Somebody sleep with my wife because we got cheated. We deserved a real contest, an election, a fight, a controversy, a brouhaha, a royal rumble, a knightly joust-- SOMETHING to get people to care more about the electoral college than football at Boston College.
Ronny Reags was our last two-termer, and I guess his reelection couldn't have been too exciting either -- hell, Mondale was born with his right hand on his forehead in the shape of the letter L. But four years later, there was an actual race in both parties for the nomination. The whole Bush-Dukakis show-down, though far from ideal, had more suspense and intrigue than John Grisham could muster, regardless of the number of lawyers and mobsters and Susan Sarandons. It was exciting because both nominees had a chance of winning in '88 -- like my close personal friend Marlon Brando, either one could have been a contender. It ended up as a rout, sure, but that's only because Duke didn't fully exploit mass love for short people. If his running mate had been, say, Papa Smurf, we'd have gotten a first lady named after a baby cat.
Still, '92 was the ultimate in excitement. Clinton looked like he was down for the count early, almost TKO'd when Gennifer Flowers kicked him in the jimmy. But he bounced back like Jello, the voice of change after 12 years of elephants. Bush was fallible and the governor was there like Evander Holyfield. Plus, we had the first viable third party candidate in years, even if he was insane in the membrane. Incumbent George vs. incisive Bill vs. insurgent Ross -- poifect.
This time we got lame-o Bill vs. lame-o Bob vs. ultra-lame-o Ross. Whoopee.
Understand my frustration here: I'm absolutely ehthralled by the notion of presidency, and this was finally my first election. Okay, that makes it sound like a Fisher Price toy, but it's true. I got to vote for Senate and Congress and blah blah blah two years ago, but this was the first presidential race where I could take part and that meant something to me.
Victory in a presidential election is unfathomable -- to convince 30 million people that you're the best man to lead the free world confuses me more than the new card-swipe machines in Dewick. To have everyone know you, think about you, criticize you, debate your existence and performance, and to also know that you could sick the National Guard on your detractors -- woah. That kind of fame, power, and importance, and the judgement necessary to pull it off is why I'm so obsessed with presidents -- if you haven't noticed, I've already name-dropped 24 US Presidents in confines of this column, and I intend to nail the other18 by the time I graduate. And last Tuesday should have been my banner day.
Why couldn't we have had a more exciting race? This was probably only the second election where I made my own decision and didn't just blindly repeat what my parents said. Me in 1980: "Carter's been besieged by bad luck, and Reagan's a brainless conservative elitist, and I want to be a fire engine when I grow up." Me in 1996: "I've come to the rational conclusion that Dole and Perot are suck-monkeys, and that fire engine thing's looking better and better."
Xenophobic Pat Buchanan, though thoroughly evil, at least made the 1992 convention interesting. Now it's a big infomercial. In 1956, Kennedy almost became the Vice Presidential nominee.
You
Zero point in complaining about it, though. We're not going to make the past any better, obviously. But it just feels better
* * *
Wow -- the first ever Dentistry sequel! If your memory is anything like our beloved mascot's, you already knew that the first letter to every paragraph here follows a pattern that started last week. Today's column brought to you by the number 26 and the letters ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOQRSTUVWXYZ. Where's the P? Running down my leg -- hah!
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Like a goddam horse and carriage
Nov. 20, 1996
My buddy Gunky got sick, so they asked me to videotape Tara and Jeremy's wedding. Foreshadowing for my summertime tenure at For The Bride Magazine? Perhaps, but my focus was on the cash-money-money to be earned from a little point, shoot, grin, wink, I do, kiss, throw bouquet, eat hors d'oeuvres, end up with a spouse, have kids, die, get reborn -- rock 'n roll.
Now, weddings aren't exactly my cup of tea. They're more my cup of tea-E-R-R-O-R. I'll decline to Tony Roberts' philosophy in A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy: "Marriage is the death of all hope." Call me Al Bundy, but wedding bells do not sound in tne to me. Love and marriage may go together like a horse and carriage, but carriages are slow and horses smell like ass. Thus, getting married means that you'll drive in the right lane and not even a forest of little trees will improve your aroma. Poor Tara and Jeremy. But lucky me -- I was in store for more dough than Pillsbury's boy.
The ceremony was as dull as expected, but I had a seat onstage with a big-ass camera stuck to my face, so that livened things up for me. I had heard you're supposed to cry at weddings, so I poked myself with pointy objects until I was in enough pain to reach water-works. That, of course, means I have to pay four times what I roll unless you also own electric company which pays ten, but then you'd also have to yell, "Hey you guys!"
So after a whole lotta religion, rings, and relatives poking themselves with pointy objects to seem sentimental, we headed to Tara and Jeremy's post-game reception. I got on the tip, got a grip, came equppied, grabbed my proton-pack on my back and then split. Like the Bobby Brown song I just plagiarized, I was on my own at the fiesta. And in a twisted way, it was a rite of passage for me. Well, maybe that has something to do with the fact that I got circumcised after the cake-cutting ceremony, but it was also my first wedding without the 'rents.
I barely knew Tara and J-J-Jeremy, but they certainly were part of my g-g-generation. It was the first non-family wedding I was at, and that meant that people my age were set to be married. I mean, I sat at the table with the bridesmaids and groomsmaids and chambermaids and they were only a couple of years older than me. Suddenly I realized that I could soon turn into Tara and Jeremy.
Growing up too fast! Too much growth! Somebody must have sprinkled Miracle Gro in my Cheerios.
But I happen to not be Evie from Out of This World, thus I was unable to put my fingers together and magically freeze time, so I dealt with this realization and sat back to groove out to the cool tunes emanating from Sherm Gloogle and his Swingin' Cats or whatever hipsters they had hired. It was the typical recipe for cheesy wedding music:
Start with a base of oldies, like "Shout" and "Old Time Rock 'n Roll." Mix in a cup of songs with repeated words, like "Hot Hot Hot" and "Mony Mony." Add a quart of easy dance songs for people with no rhythm, like the Electric Slide and the Macademia, er, Macaroona. Now, just a dash of we're-havin'-a-party songs like "Celebration." And stir in a healthy dose of swing tunes for the older couples, like "New York, New York" and "It Had To Be You." Yield: generic wedding #7629401.
I must say I was rather crushed that there was no lip sync contest or freeze dance, but I guess the crowd wasn't ready for Ray Parker, Jr. Unfortunately, my only other experience with being dressed all snazzy by myself at a catered event was the seventh grade bar mitzvah circuit. I'd like to think that I've evolved a bit since then -- I mean, I used to have a tail and walk on all fours.
So I boogied to the beat. It wasn't as enlightening an experience as the recent graduation party where the deejay actually handed me the microphone to rap along to "It Takes Two" (absolute truth). And it wasn't as exciting as the baptism where I taught the whole crowd how to do the dance from the end of the "Beat It" video (absolute lie). But at least this was a wedding of my peers, so the music was on par.
(Now, I'm not exactly sure what point I was making, so I need a good conclusion to tie everything together. Since I don't know what I was saying, I'll leave the decision up to you:)
Sappy, Nostalgic Ending: And I guess going to your first wedding is just part of growing up and becoming an adult. Someday, that'll be me getting married, and my mom will be as proud as when I said my first word. I hope I'm as happy on that day as my parents were on theirs, because love and marriage darned tootin' go together like a horse and carriage.
Social Commentary Ending: And the problem with today's society is that we confuse the reception with the wedding. People spend more time choosing the right flowers than they do choosing the right mate, and now divorce is as common as chewing gum, family values have been shattered, and America is dying, and it's all because of "Hot Hot Hot." Stop lavish receptions, and make sure that the marriage has love to pull it along, or we'll soon end up with a big old carriage and no horse.
Republican Ending: And the reason I didn't have a lot of fun at this wedding is that Bill Clinton and the Democrats are trying to steal your hard-earned money. I'm just a plain-spoken, simple kind of guy, and my wedding will have religion! It will have gusto! It will have patriotism! And those liberals say they need love with marriage? If elected, I promise a horse and carriage in every home. God bless America!
Avant-Garde Ending: and i cannot tell what the giraffe means by this travesty of justice in that rice is thrown and a union a marriage a union is constructed out of social constructs and feta cheese yet the one who LIVES shall be known as the one who IS and the bride is merely hope soaking in pride and why oh why oh why oh my are there many horses yet who loves a carriage like the giraffe?
2 Live Crew Ending: And it doesn't matter if you actually marry the ho or not, so long as you get to knock boots when you want. Like, the best place to get skins is in the backseat of a horse-drawn carriage. Hump away.
Pig Latin Ending: And-hay eddings-way uck-say. Own-day ith-with arriage-may! Ow-nay! Ow-nay!
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A letter to ourselves
Nov. 26, 1996
Coming soon...
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Outta here like Vladimir
Dec. 3, 1996
So this was the first Thanksgiving without a big reunion of my remaining friends from home. We usually get together at Gunther's house to eat his food and watch his TV and charge things on his credit cards and beat his dog senseless with a broom-handle. We trade stories about various misadventures, be they dental or mental, and wait to one-up each other with tales of our own higher education high jinx. And because we're jerks and ignore each other during the school year, we use this glorified weekend -- pardon me, "vacation" -- to play catch-up and play with ketchup. We're one big happy family again, which makes us eligible for AFDC dough, right?
But this time, I exploited Gunther's material goods by myself. Just me and his mom and a brand new broom-handle. Gunther did make an appearance with his significant other to hold down his pup while I housed the pooch ill-style, but where were the others of my clan? Most were bizzy as glue with their significant others and forgot to add a dash of Tobinator to their recipe for Thanksgiving cheer. Hell, my best bud Gunky was in a whole other time zone, off in Cali with his significant other.
When did they all grow up? And why didn't I?
Oy, the end of the year -- time to reflect and ponder get all philosophical-like. Just give me credit for not spending the whole semester belly-aching about how we're almost in the real world and how we're all getting older and how time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin' into the future a la Steve Miller, benefactor of a shmoov uphill dorm. Gimme credit -- a full cash refund won't be necessary, but merchandise credit will do. After all, I almost completely avoided my standard complaint in ‘96, choosing instead to further push the envelope of stupidity.
But that doesn't mean that the againg process wasn't rolling forward like the big boulders that smush Wile E. Coyote. We lived. We learned. We went down on you in a theater. We grew. We matured. We got that much closer to lifey-life and the funky bunch. And with only a few more months of kollij in my future, I'm starting to panic again about my least favorite verb tense: the future.
This semester must have been sponsored by the Wright Brothers because it flew. Straight over the cuckoo's nest and into the annals of history, 1996 is outta here like Vladimir. And did we learn anything? Are we any wiser? How come everybody wanna keep it like the Kaiser? And why does Flea insist on wearing a sock on his unit? Did he steal that bit from Andrew Jackson? Was that why he was called Old Hickory? Are there enough question marks in this paragraph? Shall we return to the pertinent question of what we all learned? In the south would they abbreviate we all to w'all? Do they even know what "abbreviate" means in the South?
Hmm?
So what have we learned? Well, I learned that during senior year, academics take a backseat to friends. In fact, not only do they take the back seat, they get the middle with that unretractable seatbelt you can never find both pieces to. Friends get to ride shotgun and choose the radio stations. I mean, when you graduate, which will you treasure more -- your extensive of knowledge of Messopotamian cooking utensils or the time you stayed up till 4 a.m. discussing which cartoon character would be best in the sack? (For me, a tie between Jessica Rabbit, Natasha from Bullwinkle, and Lucy from the Peanuts; why I'm attracted to animated bitches, I've yet to learn.)
I learned that time is the most valuable natural resource on this planet. Screw fossil fuels, think Fossil watches. Unfortunately, there's never enough time to dowutchalike. I've pleasure read a grand total of 0.0 books in my four years here (excluding vacations). That's partly because I'm illiterate, partly because I'm a book-burning fascist, but mostly because time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin' into the first half of this article. Yeah, five yard penalty for repeating a reference. Sue me.
I learned that I'm not going get my dream job in the next ten minutes or even in the next ten years. But as Heinz ketchup commercials have taught me, good things come to those who wait. And tapping on the 57 make it come out of the bottle faster. So if I can just tap on the proverbial 57 on the bottle of life I'll get a job writing dentistry for Details, right?
I learned that complaining doesn't make things better. No, cheddar makes it better. And Eddie Vedder makes it ledbetter. And getting off your duff to do something brings about improvement. If you want to change the world... oh, set your sights on something more realistic, you goddam neo-hippie. Try a more localized endeavor. Like, if you want to change your underwear, rip off them tighty-whities and step into something more colorful. Just try not to do it in the Commons during open block.
And I learned that my friends from home are growing up and all I'm growing is more hair. I can grow mold, too, and maybe that's why I lack a significiant other. Hell, I could be at Gunky's wedding in a year. Youth? Humbug -- one of my friends is getting her own intern next semester.
Shoot me.
It's a wacky world, and a bunch of us are on the verge of embracing it. But there's a few more months to soak it up, so let's all become giant sponges ASAP. To my friends going abroad, I wish you many a fine foreign misadventure. Hopefully our paths will cross again one day (except for E.L. whose path I hope will never diverge too far from my own). As for now, I leave everyone in peace and in pieces, same as it ever was, preparing for that one last jaunt into the diary of a mad-dan. When next we meet, it'll be the anchor-leg of my Tufts experience and LA'97 will be more than just a doo-hickey at the end of my name.
My name's dan tobin, thanks for indulging me.
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V O L U M E S
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