60. Oh, shut up
61. The force is with... us?
62. Food makes the campus go 'round
63. Upside-Down Day
64. Idiocy repeats itself itself
65. Chez-cliche
66. My back pages
67. Wookin pa nub
68. Greatest Hits, Vol I
69. Greatest Hits II
70. Greatest Hits III
71. Let it be
72. veni, vidi, vici
Volumes: 1 2 3 4 5 6
Oh, shut up
Jan. 29, 1997
I might be in one of your classes. I might sit two seats away from you and make funny faces at you when you're not looking, but you'd never know it. Not because you're Superman and I wear lead underwear, or because of any transparency abilities I possess -- I think we all learned our lesson from Wonder Woman's so-called "invisible" plane. Linda Carter floating through the air in a reclining position would attract ZERO attention, right? Go suck on some kryptonite.
No, I like to be Mr. Anonymous in that for the most part, I don't talk in class. Sure, I've been known to mumble a sarcastic one-liner to nearby chaps, and like Young MC, passing notes is my favorite pastime. But I almost never offer my two cents; in fact, the check would probably bounce, what with all the crazy dollars I rake in laundering money with Tide. So in class I’m part of Nixon’s silent majority, playing the part of an Ellen Jamesian and saying nada nada nada.
I don't talk because a) I ain't no stool-pigeon b) I ain't got much to say on subjects more enlightening than, say, my butt; and c) I ain't no pretentious windbag.
Unfortunately, there are tons -- nay, hordes -- nay, scads -- nay, oodles -- nay, great green gobs (yeah) of people who talk till I'm blue in the face from self-strangulation.
In any given class, there's maybe one person who actually has something intelligent to contribute. But he's rarer than XXX. Let's call him Unicorn, because both the talker and the horned animal are mythical creatures who don't really exist unless you surgically alter a horse.
(Note: I shall henceforth refer to all these class clowns in the masculine because gender neutrality sounds weird here and isn't efficient in terms of word space and rhythm and... aw, screw it. It's because no chick's smart enough to talk in class. All they're good for is cooking and baby-making. Why did we ever give them the right to vote?)
More common is the guy who took a class with the professor last semester and feels that this makes the prof his close, personal friend. We'll call him Booty-Smoocher, or just BS. You can usually spot BS from a long distance as his ego will undoubtedly smack you upside the head Jackie Chan-style. He may even try to convince you he's a visiting lecturer, even though he's on the 14 meals a week plan. Symptoms include laughing too hard at the teacher's lame jokes, accompanying the prof to class, writing the words "love you" on your eyelids like in Raiders of the Lost Ark, or assigning homework.
But Booty-Smoocher isn't the most vocal in class, mostly because his lips are usually engaged in the activity that inspires his moniker. No, the Emmy for most talkative goes to someone far more vocabularious. Let's call him the Great Pretentio. How can you tell if the great one is in any of your classes? The word "ergo" gives it away immediately, as does any word with more than three syllables, references to books not available on this continent, or bringing Nietzche into the conversation.
Then you've got the dude who thinks he's the mack daddy for answering the simplest questions in the simplest way with the simplest logic. Let's call him Simon. Let's let him meet a pie-man. "George Washington is on the quarter. He's also on the $1 bill." Call up Random House, because somebody has earned himself a book deal. He's practically Lanny Poffo!
Obscure reference decoded: Lanny Poffo, brother of Randy Poffo (a.k.a. the Macho Man Randy Savage) was nicknamed the Genius and would recite a crappy poem before wrestling. If you knew that, 'nuff respect.
Possibly the most irritating is the redundant man. Let's call him Mr. Mister. You have to almost feel bad for this guy because he usually appears when someone gives a quick answer and the teacher is silent. Realizing he must say more, the elaboration begins and suddenly BS makes a comeback.
"Fitzgerald wrote Gatsby in 1925. That was the year that he decided that he, of all people, would write a book. Like so many before him, and so many more after him, he wrote a book, and it was in 1925 that he wrote this particular one. It was called Gatsby." Thanks for the clarification, senor. This guy's an idiot, due in part to his idiocy, and also because of the idiotic way he does everything, making him an idiot. Oh, did I mention him being an idiot?
Every given class is divided into Talkers and No-talkers, and it's a war between them. Talkers are the Hootie and Blowfish of class, reaping the benefits of high album sales/high GPAs because of selling out/selling out and sucking ass/sucking mule. No-talkers have to rely on those stupid things like exams and papers. I have been known to become a Talker now and again, but I speak so loudly that people get offended by the volume and don't even hear whatever drivel I may be spewing.
Might I recommend the opposite to any potential Talkers. If you don't have anything good to say, get with me and Tricky Dick and join that silent majority.
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The force is with... us?
Feb. 5, 1997
Picture this: My uncle and aunt's house, Christmas Day, 1991, their wedding anniversary. A whole mess of family is collected to celebrate said joyous occassion. Rambunctious cousins are using me as a jungle gym, convinced that the best way to befriend me is to repeatedly kick me in the jimmy. To settle the kids down, I turn to man's best friend: television. Lo and behold, the saints at the USA Network are screening the entire Star Wars trilogy. Perfection in a bottle until my world comes crashing down with a question from Jess Tobin, age 11:
"Which one's Darth Vader? Is he the bad guy?"
My jaw hit the ground at the thought that anyone -- especially a child/annually challenged person -- had failed to memorized every detail of the Star Wars trilogy. For the last few weeks, everyone and their wookie's been reminding us that it's more than just a film -- it's an integral element of our culture and folklore. It's a way of life, man. It speaks to us. Yadda yadda yadda, the bottom line is that their lack o' knowledge shocked me like I was ohm on the range. My cuz'ns didn't know Darth because of a generation gap, and they wore khakis because they shop at the generation Gap. They grew up with ninja turtles, not storm-troopers, although I must say that Boba Fett would kick Michelangelo's pizza-eating ass all over the place.
So that was part of the point of this weekend's Star Wars re-release -- finally, George Lucas could introduce the world of Luke and Leia to a crowd more familiar with the world of Luke and Laura from General Hospital. Remember when they got married? I still get misty-eyed thinking how smashing they looked that day!
But the movie re-release had a deliterious side effect I wasn't counting on. Somehow, last Friday's Star Wars hit me much differently than when I saw it at Tony Staley's birthday party. First off, we didn't have to keep starting it over from the beginning every time somebody new came in. Second, there was no cake. Third, and most germane to my simplistic and oft-repeated argument, I was watching it as a grown-up.
See, Luke Skywalker's the perfect hero: a young farmhand rises to the call of duty, learns the ways of the Force, fights evil, saves the day, and gets a neatariffic spaceship. I always looked up to him, hoping I would someday save my galaxy. What killed me this weekend was the realization that Luke is no longer an elder to look up to. He's our age. Scott my nerdy Jedi housemate determined that Luke's about 18 or 19 when he blows up the Death Star, 20 when he first fights Darth Vader, and 21 when he becomes a Jedi.
My resume's not nearly as flowery as this. To compare: When Luke was avoiding tie-fighters in his X-wing, I was avoiding the science requirement at Tufts. When Luke was fighting one of the most evil men in the galaxy, I was fighting for my right to party. When Luke was learning the ways of the force from Yoda, I was learning all the words to "It Takes Two." When Luke was constructing his own light saber, I was constructing columns about my butt.
Luke is a Jedi, I am a dork. It is my destiny. The emporer has foreseen it.
So what this comes down to is good old-fashioned jealousy. I've said it before and I'll say it again: there's nothing I hate more than a successful young person. Be it Orson Welles, Silverchair, any NBA rookie, or the son of Annikan Skywalker, prodigies tick me off like carriers of lyme disease. To paraphrase my close, personal friend Tom Lehrer, it's sobering to think that when Mozart was my age, he had been dead for seven years. Granted, Mr. Lehrer was many years my senior when he said that, but the logic carries over.
Luke Skywalker is my Mozart, if you substitute Yoda for a concerto in D minor. Luke wouldn't get into the Burren without Han Solo's old ID, but he saves the rebel alliance and masters the Force. I also can't get into the Burren, but all I've saved is 50 cents on my next purchase of shampoo, and all I've mastered is baiting.
Time is running out for us to be impressive young'uns. I would need to zoom through med school in the next five minutes a la Doogie Howser to grab my last chance at being young, gifted, and a quack. Instead, I have to suck it up and be unspecial when I succeed. Just as Dentistry was all the more impressive as written by a wee sophomore, such will be the pattern for the rest of eternity.
And so I must accept the fact that there are always going to be people more successful and cooler than me. I can't bemoan the fact that when Tiger Woods was my age, it was last month. All that keeps me happy is knowing that even though I'd be useless to stop the Empire from running amok in Medford, I've got one thing over Luke Skywalker: I've kissed a girl. Chances are, Luke never got any lovin' unless he had some sort of Ewok fetish. Granted, the only other option was his sister, but still -- he never scored. Or perhaps he was a homosexual and struggle with his father's true identity symbolize his quest to come to grips with his sexual orientation...
Then again, sometimes a light saber is just a light saber.
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Food makes the campus go ’round
Feb. 12, 1997
There's a whole counter-culture at Tufts that revolves around the Campus Center. I use the term counter-culture only because it sounds bohemian. But by its very name, you'd assume that pile of bricks was the center of the campus, and the root of all things Tuftonian. But upon further investigation of the Campus Center, you don't find Pax et Lux as much as Bagels et Lox.
The Campus Center is probably best-known as the eatery of choice for the cool-kid community. After sophomore year, dining halls start become the equivalent of Zips -- passe kid-stuff that the Fresh Prince's mother buys for him. C'mon, Mom, I'm not Bowser. So instead of paying through the nose for food at Dewick, we get to feel grown-up and pay through the nose for Hotung, the Commons, or the Rez. In fact with all this nose-paying, I started keeping my ID in my left nostril.
Frankly, I still haven't caught onto the Campus Center dining craze. Sure, I prefer getting to flash my pearly-whites to pessimistic seniors instead of optimistic freshmen, but the selection is limiting to us carnivorously challenged folks. Sure you can grab a slice at Hotung, but how can you live with the guilt of having eaten at a place called Hotung?
The Commons is fine if you're into spicy hummous and Biga breads, but the lines tend to be longer than Pinnochio's nose after he went to law school. While waiting for my veggie roll-up the other day, I actually had time to father a child, raise him, and XXX. But what I dig most about the Commons is the price of cheese. Granted, the price of cheese anywhere puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step. But the Campus Center combines the curd with a lack of logic, yielding sheer brilliance. You pay the exact same price for a few pre-wrapped slices of processed American cheese (or rather, the cryptically named "cheese-food") as you will for a wedge of genuine French brie. Only in Mehfuhd.
The other good place to eat at the Campus Center is the Info Booth, although the choices are even more limiting -- unless you're a papyratarian, you'll be sorely disappointed. Then again, if you are a papyratarian, you'll have a sore mouth from all those paper cuts. On the not-edible side, the Info Booth is a great place to find out the exact same information that's in the Pachyderm or Web.
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Upside-Down Day
Feb. 19, 1997
Thankfully, I chickened out and was able to keep my alterna-prep wardrobe fully relevant. Sometime that fear of pointy objects comes in handy.
The thing is, a major style change is hard to pull off. I started making my way toward more snazzy attire in the last year, but abandoned it when it started to involve mass shopping, a teerrible chore because my body is awkwadly shaped in such a way that nothing but socks fit me. Luckily they fit anywhere on my body. Regardless, piercing was my easy way out -- one size hole fits all flaps of skin and chunks of cartilage. Maximum coolness with minimal time investment.
Making the transition to a new style must be difficult. Let's say I was going to turn punk, much as cheese turns moldy. I'd buy some official punk clothes at the official punk store -- branches at Harvard Square, Landsdowne Street, and any other fine skankin' locales -- but due to financial constraints, I'd have to build my wardrobe slowly. As my close, personal friend Dolly Parton said, it costs a lot to look this cheap. But that would mean that I'd have only a partially stocked punk wardrobe. So would I be punk-dan four days a week and pseudo-suave-dan the rest? I'd have spiked hair and safety-pins in places you don't want to think about, but every Mon-Wed-Fri I'd be sporting a Gap button-down and a pair of Bugle-Boy jeans with it? Maybe if I added spikes to my Structure khakis...
Lo and behold, it was a nasty case of acting like someone I'm not. Assuming some sort of supreme racial understanding based on my Tribe Called Quest collection would be like indulging in some sort of supreme body-piercing based on my Doc Marten collection. It's a sketchy logical leap, but it's kinda true. I would have to revamp my whole image.
Never mind the fact that I'm an upper middle-class white-boy from the suburbs who saw the debut episode of Seinfeld, who uses the word "fantastic" with a straight face, who wants to be Woody Allen when I grow up, who loved Fargo. Just brush that aside and remember that I was down.
Take the Tobinator for an example. For a long time, I felt I understood African-American culture better than most people simply because I knew all the words to "Fight The Power." Just because I saw the debut episode of Yo! MTV Raps, because I use the term "the bomb" with a straight face, because I want to be James Brown when I grow up, because I loved Shaft, I assumed that I was an honorary black person, that I could understand and appreciate the blues better than other white people. I was down.
Ah, sweet stereotypes. They're so crazy, they should be called hystereotypes. But there's actually some truth to them, just in that most people tend to carve themselves a style that leans toward stereotype. Everyone starts identifying with some culture, special interest, or clothing manufacturer. Ever notice that friends dress and look alike? XXXXX The problem arises when you adopt a persona that isn't really you.
See, it all comes down to knowing who you are and how your style works. As described in a previous Misadventure: How you walk, how you talk, how you do an impression of Peter Falk -- it all factors into your individual style. And my style does not incorporate rings in places you can't clean with a Q-Tip. If I got a nose-ring, I'd have to start wearing baggy pants and Pumas and a Triple-Fat Goose jacket. I'd be wicked alternative.
But I resisted the serpent's temptation of a body-pierced apple, realizing how big a dolt I'd be if I got an eyebrow-ring. My personal style is casual-preppy with a pony-tail for that added bohemian twist. The earring works in that wimpy-hip kind of way, but an unconventional piercing would just make me look like a big old wannabe. And when it comes to wannabes, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want: not to be one. Although I wouldn't mind being a Spice Boy...
Cross my heart, hope to die, stick some jewelry in my eye(brow).
In reality, I just needed a style change quick, fast, and in a hurry. Moodswings tend to stir up the need to change my personal style, as if altering some aspect of my appearance will suddenly make my whole world fall into place. "I once had no job future, but then I bought argyle socks and opportunity won't stop knocking!" No thanks -- all that's knocked on my door since I went argyle has been opportunafish. Still, I've shaved two different sketchy-looking goatees after relationship woes (or lack-of-relationship woes), and something about those hot times, summer in the city made me want to perform fashionable acunpuncture on my face.
So anyway, this summer I was thinking about getting something pierced. I already have a silver hoop in my left lobe -- ear, that is, not prefrontal or canta- (think melon). For some reason, I decided it would be genius idea of the century to jam a shaft of metal through some random body part. I'm not sure what caused this perplexing, pointy piercing passion -- mere boredom? Fascination by the human pincushions in the East Village? Masochism induced by repressed childhood memories of National Geographic documentaries? Leftover high school desires to emulate the cool kids?
Enjoy. Yield: mass confusion if directions are not followed.
Okay, kids, let's try something a little different today. This'll be a topsy-turvy column, a pineapple upside-down column, a flippin' your lid column. Why call it that? Because the paragraphs go in reverse order. To comprehend today's witty line of banter, start with the last paragraph and move upwards. Hopefully y'all will figure this out from the title and perhaps come to realize that what comes first is not necessarily the beginning. Deep, huh? Either that or another attempt to push the envelope of stupidity.
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Idiocy repeats itself itself
Feb. 26, 1997
As a baby, if I started to cry in public, my mom would give me a spoon to play with. Forks, knives, spatulas, wisks -- these kitchen items amused me not. Somehow, it took a small, shiny, convex dining utensil to quell my primal scream. Call it spoon therapy.
Now fast-forward eighteen years to my cousin Andrea's wedding. A lot of that side of the family's really nice, but they're much older than me and are about as much fun as a tetanus shot. In my infinite wisdom, I decide the best way to amuse myself is to drink so much wine that tetanus shots sound appealing. And imbibe I do. Chardonnay after chardonnay, Lil Sis occassionally suggests I show some moderation. But she's bored enough to find tetanus itself appealing. Mostly she just giggles at my drunken ramblings. Tee hee.
It all comes crashing down when Mom 'n Pop are set to jet. I decide to stand up. My knees decide not to stand up. I go flopping down. Luckily, Mom's there to catch me. She's not pleased. Somehow she discovered my ruse, possibly decoding my cryptic declaration, "I'm so drunk."
I hobble outside and wait for my dad to get the car. One arm is around Mom. One arm is around Sis. The other arm doesn't exist because I only have two. Moving an arm will result in my getting well acquainted with the pavement. Did I mention that this wedding was taking place at the Ritz-Carlton? It is, and we're outside the Ritz.
"Wait!" I yell. They tell me to hush. "I need my sunglasses! Woohoo!" They look embarassed. I reach into to jacket pocket to grab my hip shades. Instead, I pull out... a spoon. Whoops. My mom stuffs it back into my pocket, terrified I'll be arrested. Public drunkenness! Underaged drinking! Petty theft! Being a dumbass in front of impressionable family members!
Oy gevault -- guilty as charged.
The rest of the afternoon included the following highlights: falling out of bed a few times, waking up to vomit on the foot of the bed, throwing my sheets in the garbage, and discovering more goodies the next morning, namely a few place cards, an ash tray, and another spoon.
Fast-forward two more years to a press event for honeymoon resorts. It's my summer in New York, and my pseudo-mentor is a no-show like XXX. In my infinite wisdom, I decide to drink so much wine that XXX sounds appealing. Burgundy after burgundy, nobody suggests I show any moderation. Even the bartenders encourage my abuse. One even winks at me, but he's a he and I'm into she's not he's. Tee hee?
It all comes crashing down when I get home. Actually, I come crashing down. I decide to walk down the stairs. My knees decide not to exist. I go flopping down. Hard. Unfortunately, nobody's there to catch me. I rip up my knees with some funky rugburn. It hurts. I hurt.
The next morning, I reach in my shorts pocket to find my keys. Instead, I pull out... a spoon. Whoops. Will I be arrested? Public drunkenness? Underaged drinking? Petty theft? Acting like a dumbass in front of the entire the city that never sleeps?
Oy gevault -- gulty as charged.
Now the reason I bring this all before you today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is not to brag about my past episodes of my inelegant inebriation. Nor is it to own up to the sin of binge drinking. Nor is it a subliminal message to seduce all the women of Tufts. It would be if I knew how, of course, (sleep with me) but I don't think it works (tobin is sexy) and who'd believe it anyway? (come to butthead)
Rather, I point this out to explore the psychoanalytic phenomenon that when I indulge in consuming mass quantities of alcohol, I tend to revert to my days as a baby and seek out spoons. Everything chronicled above is stranger than fiction and thus is truth, and.
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Chez-Cliché
Mar. 5, 1997
#1. A barrel of monkeys is not all that fun. It's cruel, it's hard to manage, and it probably smells really bad. Ask any liberl activist: monkeys should not be kept in barrels. Rather, they should be kept in ziplock baggies -- yellow and blue make green, and green is keen. A barrel of chickens might be kind of fun. A barrel of pickles would be a goddam riot. To recap: kosher dills, yes; chimpanzees, no.
#2. Sliced bread is not all that great a thing. In fact, sliced bread doesn’t seem like much of a treat at all to me. Maybe it’s because I was raised in a world where bread sliceage is a given and I can’t understand the grueling experience of a life full of bread that has not been predivided. I guess I'm a cretin. Maybe I should give up on college and just go break stuff.
#3. Something that has come straight from a horse's mouth is not something I want to touch or even be around. Horses tend not to floss or use Scope. There's a reason you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and that reason begins with an "h" and ends with an "alitosis."
#4. On a related note, there's a lot of point in beating a dead horse. Isn't it more humane than beating a living one who has pain receptors and nerve endings all a-flutter? Mr. Ed would cuss me out if I were to try to whup him sill-style. Plus, beating a dead horse burns calories, builds muscle, and might even save the expense of cremation.
#5. Clams are not all that ecstatic. Would you be if you had a shell for a body? Would you be happy if people kept mistaking you for an oyster and squirting sand in your eye to make pearls? The answer starts with an "n" and ends with an "o way Jose."
#6. A stitch in time only saves five and a half. In Ben Franklin's day it might have save more, but inflation and the advent of double-coupons have reduced it significantly.
#7. A friend in need is not necessarily a friend indeed. A friend in need may be a friend who can't think of a tactful way of escaping the conversation. Or a friend in need may be the only friend home at the time, or the one with a coupon to Arby's. A friend in San Diego may be a friend indeed. And a friend with seed may become a friend with weed, making him a friend to feed, perhaps a friend on speed. If he's a friend who bleeds, or a friend whose advice you shouldn't heed, then quit the rhyming and dump the freakin' idiom, idiot.
#8. Other ways of skinning a cat are of little importance to me. A scissors, a lot of patience, and a scratch-proof suit are all I need. Other ways trouble me not.
#9. Love is not deaf or blind. Nor does it walk with a slight limp or get to park closer to the entrance of shopping malls. If anything, love is dumb. And it when it comes to males, love has a bit of a speech impediment. If love were truly blind, Keanau Reeves would be homeless and Chris Farley would be selected as People's sexiest man alive. Of course, Chris Farley's pretty dumb, too. Maybe he's blind, which would be cool because then he'd get one of those dogs and those sticks and... maybe I should stop while I still have something left of my soul.
#10. If the best things in life are free, somebody should catch them and put them into captivity so we could more easily locate those great things. Perhaps create a zoo of the best things in life. Then we'd finally know what we were missing out on.
#11. Boyz will not be boys. They will either be 'n the Hood, II Men, or 'enberry syrup.
#12. A cookie does not always crumble in one predetermined way. Thus, to infer that one knows exactly how this process occurs is unreasonable. It's like saying, "That's the way you win the lottery." Cookie crumblage is as random as the winning Megabucks number. Unless you're close personal friends with Dionne Warwick, you don't know.
#13. Life involves no fruit; it is a bowl of Jerries. Seinfeld, Springer, Garcia, Lewis, Mathers, Maguire, that mouse who Tom hated, Atrics, Underwear, etc. They make the world go 'round, pits or not.
#14. The hand that feeds you may go berserk and try to clock you ill-style, in which case a biting reaction is a wholly appropriate gesture. Just ask the NRA -- self-defense covers any and everything, no matter how grotesquely violent. Chomping down on le main is as cool as utilizing an AK-47 in your own home.
#15. You can always get what you want so long as all you want is bad talk shows, world hunger, and lots of stupid people. If you try sometimes, you just might find Carnie Wilson, the Ethiopians Carnie deprived of food, and the audience at a taping of Carnie's show. And then you've got what you want.
#16. All's well that ends well. That's probably the only true cliche in the bunch. True, of course, unless the it ends by just kind of stopping mid-sentence and
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My back pages
Mar. 12, 1997
Everyone's lives peak at some point. Jimmy Carter's life peaked when he was elected President, Paul McCartney's life peaked when he released Abbey Road, and referree Rick Hebner's life peaked when the Million Dollar Man Ted DiBiasse paid another guy to have plastic surgery and look exactly like Hebner so that Andre the Giant could unfairly pin Hulk Hogan for the belt.
My life peaked in 1980. Note that I was born in '76.
At age three, I taught myself to read.
At age four, I was quite the stud. I had a kick-ass set of Legos, my own Big Wheel, and a hottie of a girlfriend -- this gorgeous blonde named Becky Anderson. Our relationship centerred around playing on the jungle gym and planning our future marriage. It all ended sourly when I went over to her house and she was more interested in riding her bike than in choosing the caterer for our wedding. Turns out she was having trouble coping with her parents' divorce and I was the unlucky victim.
I always saw myself as the poor guy who lost his gal because of bad timing, even though I couldn't tell time yet. But what I never knew until last week was the method in which I made Becky my significant other. According to Big Mama Tobin, I stole milady from another guy. She was with somebody else, and I convinced her to dump him for me. That's right -- I was a dogg at age four. It shocked me to know that I was down with OPP at a time that I still called myself Nanny Binto (my parents thought I was dyslexic).
Now that I look back on it, I realized that the Becky Anderson incident scarred me for life. Losing my main woman ruined my self-esteem and turned me to the bottle -- I guzzled Hi-C like there was no tomorrow. Life went strictly downhill after nursery school.
In grade one, my best friend stole my lunch money. That probably sounds worse than it really was. Chris Quinn just asked me to give him my lunch money the next day, an astounding 85 cents. Since he was my best friend, I obliged willingly. Keep in mind that he was a little runt of a kid and there was no threat of physical harm. Okay, maybe he threatened to chop my head off with his expert karate skills. Whatever. Small details concern me not.
In grade two, my friends ganged up broke my arm. That probably sounds worse than it really was. We played this game where everyone would run at me and try to grab me. My job was to push them away. We called it Push-Away, but I never understood why. So Greg Connor used to be really sneaky and challenged my away-pushing abilities. I encouraged everyone to follow his lead and become more devious in their strategies.
In grade three, my whole class hated me.
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Wookin pa nub
Mar. 26, 1997
Let me just just the record straight about my biceps. They don't exist. If you didn't already know this, you could have found out on the Ft. Lauderdale beach last week where I bent to peer pressure and sported, of all things, a muscle-shirt. I guess it legally has to be called a sleeveless shirt when I wear it, what with my heinous lack of pumpitude. But you'll be happy to know that chicks really dig out-of-shape, goofy-looking dorks. Especially half-naked on the beach.
That smell -- is it sarcasm or my SPF-15 Ocean Potion?
Yeah, the Tobinator ventured to sunny ole Florida for a wild and crazy Spring Break. The kind you see on MTV, the kind the frat guy down the hall always seems to have, the kind that give parents gray hairs in places that shouldn't even have hair. I was out for fun, sun, and a couple of hons, but alas, like the Bukwheat song, I was wookin pa nub in all da mong paces. Even with my kickin' tan and my rockin' good time, the search for love in all the wrong places was not nearly as fruitful as Juicy-Juice.
Day One: Five Indiana girls dancing in the courtyard. Train, G. Love, and I make our move, stopping first to accept pink bunny ears from a strange gentleman nearby. We dance and chat and ridicule our cardboard ears and, as good ole boy Train would say, it all good. The conversation falters, though, when a scary-looking Harley guy with lotsa tattoos starts dancing too close to the ladies. His pick-up line? "I'm a fucking German! Can you believe that?" As they escape his clutches, they inadvertantly also escape ours. No sweat -- we avoided getting disemboweled by the self-proclaimed fucking German.
The only action of the night happens when a 35 year-old woman starts hitting on the Train. He plays along, and grinds with him. Her reply: "You go, guy." At long last, I have a friend who's somebody's mid-life crisis. Unfortunately, the audience chose someone else and Chuck Woolery wouldn't pay for the date with the 35 year-old. Exit stage left, even.
Day Two: At a dance club, Underwear and I meet a pair of Michigan golfers. Later, one's trapped by the evil clutches of a big muscular wannabe grinder. Invoking Gallahad, I offer to rescue her -- after all, she's at a dance club without a golf club for portection. The damsel in distress obliges my offer, thanking me for my chivalry and even petting my horse (Camelot reference, not sexual innuendo). Five minutes later, though, Maid Michigan has her tongue down Big Muscular Grinder's throat. You go, guy. I go away, girl.
Day Three: I talk to the most beautiful girl at the club, but only for a minute. In those precious 60 seconds, I get her laughing and cooing in one hell of a Southern drawl. Of course, she has a big muscular boyfriend who's not me who she goes back with, but it's a victory in my cruel world. Of course, X gets three condoms and two kisses from a sweetie of a bartender. And he doesn't grind with anyone over age 30. And no fucking Germans intercede. For X, it all good. For me, it all should. But ain't.
Day Four: I've started to come to grips with the fact that my life is different than that of big muscular guys. I've always known this, but forgot along the way. One instance is particularly emblematic of my troubles. Tonight, X leaves the club with a honey. I leave the club with a free T-shirt. Who's the man? And who's the eighth grader?
Day Five: Girls... what are these girls you speak of? Fuggheddaboudit.
Day Six: Break is nearly at its end, and ditto for my patience. I've now adopted the "Why the hell not?" approach. "I have to use a terribly cheesy pickup line while I'm down here, and I'm going to use it on you, so when you don't like it, just say, 'Goodbye.' Ready?" The beautiful woman I've made terribly uncomfortable smiles to her friends, unsure what to expect. "Is your father the juiceman? Because you are veryfine." It's my greatest pick-up line. She laughs. "I've never heard that one before." She's smiling but clearly doesn't want to talk to me. I think that fact that she's yet to make eye contact clues me in. Unfazed courtesy of that magical alcohol ego-shield, I authorize her to use the line whenever she wants and walk away before I realize what I've done.
Day-o: What was I expecting? That the Florida hook-up scene would not be dominated by big muscular guys? That sensitivity and a good sense of humor would land me Gidget? The discrimination goes both ways I'm sure, which is part of the reason that I've never written a column vaguely related to my love life (
I guess it's just part of this whole quest to do it all in my senior year.
So when I finally realized that a good story is worth more than a cheap thrill, I went for cool stuff.
And so I leave you with my trip highlight. Day Five: I acquire a fuzzy purple ring courtesy of a whack-a-mole/tap-dancing hybrid at the local arcade. That night at the club, I look for a fine young lady to bestow the ring upon, hoping to parlay this into a conversation. No luck, so I pocket the jewelry. But then, as I make my way back to the boys, destiny approaches. The gorgeous blonde I've been eyeing all night is making her way toward me. When she's directly in my path, I tap her on the shoulder and take her hand. She pulls away, afraid and unhappy. I slip the ring on her finger, tap her hand twice, and walk away.
A few seconds later I look over my shoulder. She's laughing with a friend and showing off the ring. She looks up at me. I summon all the coolness in me, smile, nod, and exit her life forever. Later on, I see her grinding with a big muscular guy, but it doesn't matter. Without giving her a chance to reject me, I made myself known. I'll be the mysterious dude she'll tell her friends when she finds the purple fuzzie in her jeans pocket next week. We never talked, but now I'm in her head.
Pathetic? You go, guy.
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Greatest Hits, Vol I
Apr. 2, 1997
"Friends, Romans, undergraduates, people who think the Tufts bookstore is an evil empire that must be overthrown -- lend me your ears. Or your eyes. Or whichever part of your body you might use to read the Gospel according to Dan. Because that's what this is, and you're going to read it.
"I hope."
Welcome to the first of three retrospective romps through the world of Dentistry over the last three years. The above paragraph was how it all began back in Sept. '94, and what follows are other excerpts from the early days. If you think it's arrogant and self-indulgent to take a look back -- hell, after 67 columns, I think I've earned it. I'm the longest running columnist in the last four years, and this is almost certainly the longest running humor column in Daily history. It's been a long, hard road, and I want to share with you.
Today, we look at sophomore year. The highlights, chronologically:
* My point in these columns is basically to spiritually enlighten you or at least make you laugh so hard you vomit.
* I've got about three different dance moves and they're all basically the same and they all basically suck and they all basically make me look goofy. But there are few things in this world that don't make me look goofy. Actually, the whole concept of dancing at a club seems a little strange to me. Dance is a performance art, so who exactly are you performing for here? The deejay?
* My professors do not seem to speak English. Funny. I thought that language skills were an integral part of teaching. I guess I still have much to learn. I suppose that the administrators decided that it would, maybe, stimulate our brains to not be able to communicate with our professors.
Here's what I think. It's not unreasonable for Ballou to require us to take two math classes at Tufts. But it really is unreasonable to require us to be taught by incompetent dolts that wouldn't last a second in the public school system.
* My middle name: Leopold.
Okay, that’s a lie. It’s really Lawrence (as in Joey), but for some reason that even I don’t understand, I always tell people that it’s Leopold. I wish it were Leopold. Not that Lawrence is a boring name, but that Leopold is just so much better. To put it in SAT terms:
Lawrence : Leopold :: Chocolate : Heavenly Hash. 'Nuff said.
* Fame does have its perks. I've heard rumors that I'm being nominated for Supreme Ruler of the Galaxy, and I got over 40 dinosaur stickers in the mail once -- FREE.
* I think everyone's goal should be to become unscented. Perfume does not accomplish this. If you take a shower and then put on cologne, you will be clean and stinky. But it's a fashionable stinky, so it becomes socially acceptable. And who decides that certain odors are good? Like Brut -- "it smells like a man." Not only would I never buy this item, but I would go to great lengths to avoid being within a ten-mile radius of it.
* Basically, Valentine's Day is just a holiday devised by FTD, Hallmark, Hershey's, Republicans, and your mother. Really. The companies want you to give them money. The G.O.P. thinks that V-Day stimulates the economy and then finds a way to use this as an example of trickle-down economics. I, of course, only mention this because I wanted to use the term "trickle-down," not because I pretend to understand anything about what Republicans do. And your mother just wants candy and flowers. Unlike your "honey pie," Mom cannot threaten to withhold sexual favors from you to get a good present (unless you're family is a lot different than mine).
* Prognosis: It's okay if I suck now and just write about middle names and cologne and equally mindless topics, because someday I'll have good things to write about and everyone will feel bad for mocking my lack of substance.
* Think of Bob Dole, a man who honestly believes that his own diarreah is because of Clinton and the Democrats. Dole always looks so serious and angry and in dire need of a cookie. A real sour-puss. Now picture him with pig-tails. Aha -- a new image entirely. Suddenly the mean Senate Majority Leader looks a whole lot like Pippi Longstocking, a much more fun and lovable character. New haircut = new person. Hell, he might even crack a smile for the first time since he had gas as a baby.
* The high-five basically takes the handshake and injects it full of testosterone; this is shaking hands but with a greater possibility of causing pain and breaking stuff. As a male, I think this is a good thing. Adding danger to simple tasks equals fun. Still, you have to watch out about becoming a chronic hand slapper -- a Fiver. A Fiver will slap you high-five for just about anything. A funny joke you make, a commercial he likes on TV, croutons at the Carmichael salad bar -- he's there to give you some skin for anything. How to know if you're a Fiver? If you ever catch yourself saying something like, "Hey, you just sneezed. Slap me five!" SEEK HELP.
* Traditional cool people believe that sporting a well-balanced, well-matched wardrobe is the only true path to coolness. You must always look like you walked out of an issue of GQ and have better clothes than everyone else. The unmatching theory requires a bit more skill. The basic premise is that you wear anything you feel like and then tell people that what you're wearing is cool They will immediately feel silly that they didn't recognize this in the first place and will wish they were you.
* All I have to say is that I'm not as messed up as you might think. I occasionally like to play Holden Caulfield and get depressed about everything, but I'm mostly content. If I wrote about all the warm fuzzies and wondeful, special, happy little things in my life... well, either you'd shoot me or I'd do it myself. The last thing this world needs is another Ziggy. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not completely happy if I don't have something to complain about. Luckily, I'm an English major with no future so I have plenty to complain about. Then it follows that I'm happy?
This circular logic thing sucks.
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Greatest Hits, Vol II
Apr. 9, 1997
Welcome to the second of three installments celebrating the Dentistry legacy over the past six semesters. Courtesy of a little research, I discovered that this is the longest-running consecutive humor column in Daily history. And as far as the Society of Professional Journalists' Mark of Excellence Awards are concerned, I just found out that I captured first place in the column-writing category for the Northeast region. Nationals take place over the summer; wish me luck. Or wish me duck.
Today we look at highlights from junior year, in chronological order:
* When our parents look at us, they're not just seeing us how we are at this very moment; they're seeing every stage of our lives all at once. From that drooling baby up through that vomitting frat boy -- if it involves projectiles erupting from your mouth, they see it. And someday I'm gonna be on the other end of this equation (not yakking up a storm, per se, but probably doing the Bill Cosby child-birth cheerleading: "Push 'em out, shove 'em out, wayyyy out!"). Eventually I'll be the parent with children of my own.
(cue up "Circle of Life" and get my animated family of lions to start singing)
* The biggest game, of course, is the highly sanitary bobbing for apples, which isn't much more than glorified gargling with fruit. You could get the same effect from, say, rinsing with somebody's saliva and eating a banana.
* And who can forget my internationally acclaimed condiment collection? Not condoms, not mints, and no disgusting hybrid of the two, but condiments -- those flavor enhancers that come in convenient packets. It started with ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise, but rapidly moved onto the harder stuff like parmesan cheese, sugar, and heroin. The recipient of six Emmies, a Pulitzer Prize, and the Wendell Philips Award, this collection has given my life new meaning and direction, and that direction is southeast.
* The guy removing things from my mouth had gone to Tufts undergrad, Tufts Dental, Tufts Oral Surgery, and Tufts Hand-To-Hand Combat Against Cavity Creeps. Needless to say, the collective Jumbo spirit in that tiny room would have been enough to make even PT Barnum floss and rinse. We even sang a rousing version of "Tuftonia's Day," though my harmony part came out a bit jumbled, what with the novacain and all.
* these pessimistic temper-tantrums tend to not so mysteriously coincide with course selection periods when we're forced to pretend to map out our futures a little more than usual but instead of accepting a molehill like which world civ class to take i choose the mountain of how these courses will affect my future employment to the point that if i take the wrong english class today then i'll fail at everything i ever do in my life so why not end all the stress and just join the french foreign legion and get one of those cool hats to boot and there are only two weeks yes two scary scary weeks until we have to figure out which five-digit codes to bubble in with a #2 pencil which is kind of a silly request since you have to try really hard to find a pencil of a different number but i worked at it and found one and it helped me get a 2200 on my sat and even that won't help me on job interviews when i have hair that makes me look like a werewolf
* The site of our "Suite Retreat '95," as we oh-so-suavely named it, was that great state where you can't tell the difference between the gas station attendents and the patrons, where beer bellies are a state of mind, where the maple syrup comes out of the faucets: Vermont. And so, my posse and I headed north this past weekend to assert our maleness in hopes of counteracting the embarassment of using Wildberry Knoll-scented air freshener in our bathrooms. Sure the toilets smells flowery fresh now, but it just isn't as rugged as, say, a bear.
* It is wise to note, while perusing through the Misadventures, that not everything contained within its borders is a big, fat lie; some are small, fat lies, and some are big, skinny lies. But everything is very, very false and very, very silly. Even this appendix is not true. Thus, it is wise to note that if this column says that white is really black, it is safe to assume that white is actually a small dog living in Kentucky. This is how tricky the column is.
* 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.)
* 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.
* 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.
* 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.
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Greatest Hits III
Apr. 16, 1997
Well, we're almost done, kids. It's the third and final installment of our look back through the hallowed halls of teeth and I have nothing new to say in terms of preamble. Well, maybe I could remind everyone that with graduation about a month away, time is running out to seduce me... nah. How pathetic would I be then? Don't answer that, because the truth hurts like William.
Here's senior year, chronologically. It should look familiar:
* This is a call to trick or treat when it isn't Halloween, to seize that day, call that love interest, go to that party, do that dance, write that manifesto, follow that cab, Martin that Van Buren, floss that tooth, live that life...
Welcome back, suckah. The dentist will see you now.
* 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 suitemate 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.
* 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.
* 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.
* 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.
* "Why bother calling Gunther?," thought a mentally scarred Tobinator. "I'm on his distribution list." And so e-mail had ruined my attitude toward communication because it was so easy and appealling -- instant gratification, computer nerdery, and the chance to use the verb "finger" in polite conversation.
* 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.
* But that doesn't mean that the aging 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.
* To compare: When Luke was avoiding tie-fighters in his X-wing, I was avoiding the science requirement at Tufts. When Luke was fighting one of the most evil men in the galaxy, I was fighting for my right to party. When Luke was learning the ways of the force from Yoda, I was learning all the words to "It Takes Two." When Luke was constructing his own light saber, I was constructing columns about my butt.
Luke is a Jedi, I am a dork. It is my destiny. The emporer has foreseen it.
* My personal style is casual-preppy with a pony-tail for that added bohemian twist. The earring works in that wimpy-hip kind of way, but an unconventional piercing would just make me look like a big old wannabe. And when it comes to wannabes, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want: not to be one. Although I wouldn't mind being a Spice Boy...
* Now the reason I bring this all before you today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is not to brag about my past episodes of my inelegant inebriation. Nor is it to own up to the sin of binge drinking. Nor is it a subliminal message to seduce all the women of Tufts. It would be if I knew how, of course, (sleep with me) but I don't think it works (tobin is sexy) and who'd believe it anyway? (come to butthead)
* At age four, I was quite the stud. I had a kick-ass set of Legos, my own Big Wheel, and a hottie of a girlfriend -- this gorgeous blonde named Becky Anderson. Our relationship centerred around playing on the jungle gym and planning our future marriage. It all ended sourly when I went over to her house and she was more interested in riding her bike than in choosing the caterer for our wedding.
* Welcome to the first of three retrospective romps through the world of Dentistry over the last three years.
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Let it be
Apr. 23, 1997
I've been writing my farewell column forever. Obsessed with finding the perfect ending, I started in July, mulling over thank-yous and my final thoughts on life, love, and the pursuit of cheap laughs. Ideas ranged from Dentistry factoids (I originally called it Horses Will Come based on a misheard Paul McCartney lyric, then decided on Absolutely on Fire, but changed it back to Dentistry when a hottie said so) to a Harper's Index-like collection of trivia (Butt references: 24; Letters to the editor inspired: 5).
But here we are at the end of the proverbial line, and I hate every draft of episode 71 in which Doris gets her oats and the Tobinator exits stage left, even. I think part of the reason my column works is that I'm so picky about comedy -- I have one file full of ideas, beginning, and finished columns but none of the 13 pages are up to par, even with help from Tiger himself. You can pick your friends and you can pick your jokes, but you can't pick a tiger by the toe without. Mmmm, two consecutive sentences with the word tiger in it.
Mmmm, three.
I remember my senior friends on the verge of graduation saying that they were ready to move on. And I was more than a smidgeon confused as to how they could ever bear to leave this semi-charmed kind of life. But now, as I too approach judgement day, I understand what they were doing: they were lying. If you still have time here, make like a sponge and soak it up. I hate to be the self-riteous, day-seizing senior, but you'll never have it this good again.
Of course, college hasn't been all wine and roses. I saw the thorny underbelly of this university when I hauled off on the dumbass math department and referred to a math teacher as Professor Stupid Face. "Because she's Chinese, this is a racial slur," went the PC propaganda. As my close, personal friend Alf would say, Hah! So with a ridiculous charge of "racial harassment," a complaint was filed with the the Media Advisory Board and with the Dean of Students' Office. Luckily, these arbitrators were not as half-witted as my detracted detractors who attracted no tractors and justice prevailed.
Incidentally, I scored a 740 on my math SAT and the prof's face was not especially stupid. The witch-hunt that ensued was.
I always promised I wouldn't do thank-yous at the end of my last column, but hell, last columns are all about self-indulgence, and I have to recognize those who've helped me put pen to paper with the paper to pen, for the times I'm rockin' the mike in front of women and men. 'Nuff respect to Ruzz, who believed in me before she had good reason; to Sheinkin, who taught me how to lead without leading; to Meyers, who taught me how to lead by leading; to Ullman, who taught me how to write like man; to Mrs. Robinson who taught me how to work like a dog; to my family, who've been more supportive than a Wonderbra and more loving than Cupid; to anyone honest enough to tell it to me straight; and to good old Mary, who made me write a humorous essay on cafeteria chairs my sophomore year of high school and then pointed me towards Dave Barry. Little did she know...
A big shout out to my boys in the Dojo, where friendship never ends and neither do our bad jokes; to my Wonder-Rock Twin who keeps my sane by keeping me crazy; to my nerdy roommate, best friend, and spin doctor extraordinaire, who's kept me on target no matter how gruesome the situation; to the Tilton-4 Crime Family, where it all began; to all the girls I've loved before and to those I never got around to loving, but no respect to those who only paid attention to me after finding out my name -- when you learn that d a n and Dan are not the same person, gimme a call.
But if Dentistry itself is dedicated to anyone, it's dedicated to the readers, the fans, the loyal people who've sometimes scared me with just how loyal they are. This goes out to all those who've cut out a column and taped it to the wall; who've mailed a column home to parents or away to friends; who've read a column over the phone to their mom; who've randomly e-mailed me or talk-requested me with kind words; who've impersonated me for whatever reason; who've branded me a soul-mate without meeting me; who've asked me to lunch based on my writings; who've sent me a secret admirer letter based on same; who've sent me a personal ad based on same; who've randomly embraced me and told me they loved me within two minutes of meeting me based on same; who've tried to kiss me on the mouth at Senior Gala based on same; who have kissed me based on same; who've asked me to sign a birthday card for a friend based on same; who've ever given an unsolicited kind word on a column, even if I didn't know you; who've ever laughed out loud at a Misadventure, ever thought I was a good writer, ever enjoyed a column, or ever just read one all the way through -- I dedicate this to you.
I wish I could tell you where I'll be next year, but your guess is as good as mine. Maybe in ten years, you'll brag that you knew me way back when. More likely, you'll let me get you fries with that.
So after 71 Misadventures, 71 pun-filled 1000-word essays, 71 attempts to "spiritually enlighten you or at least make you laugh so hard you vomit," I leave you in peace and in pieces. Be good, don't forget to floss, and please please please don't forget about the only trip to the Dentist that always left you smiling. I'll see you once more at Commencement for a final thought and a few more butt references. Until then, thank you very much and I hope we passed the audition. Too Beatlesque? I guess I'll just end it same as it ever was.
My name's dan tobin, thanks for indulging me.
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veni vidi vici
May 18, 1997
i'm a senior i'm a senior i'm a senior and the reason i say it three times is to not so subtly emphasize that woohoo i'm a senior but more importantly that i've been reminded of this simple fact every freakin' day of my whole senior year and actually it's not that simple a fact at all because this whole being a senior thing is stickier than an exploded ketchup packet and i'm not so keen on condiments detonating if you know what i mean vern they're very delicate and precious in my world and i try to avoid stickiness where i can
ladies and gentleman welcome to one final ride on the tobin express
so here we are on my last day as a college student and the one saving grace of the day is that i get neatariffic gown and a slightly less nifty square hat which they call a mortar-board even though it's neither mortar nor board and you can discuss that amongst yourselves if you so choose to pilfer a line from a lame-ass sketch from a show that isn't funny any more but even as i take this final pot-shot at lorne michaels it can't forestall the inevitable and still know that i have to venture forth onto that academic quad in alphabetical formation to receive a blank diploma and then as i turn and face the audience i realize i'm screwed like orange juice and vodka because here and now i am officially an alum and i must finally set off to face the bitter reality of the american work force and all our lazy unproductivity and infrastructure and bad bad bad bad bad stuff
but oh wait i don't have a job which means i have no job at all and i have to face that even bitterer reality of sitting on my tush in front of the television while my mom brags to half-interested relatives about my college accomplishments and how utterly wonderful a son i've been and how i'll be rich and famous someday and yadda yadda yadda thanks ma but please don't interrupt the price is right or my wallowing in despair at the fact that being as happy in the real world as i was at tufts in the next couple of years are slightly better than that of winning at plinko which is only slightly more risky than letting bam bam bigelow spin the wheel for the showcase showdown because he'd rip that off the ball bearings that beast from the east
see if you've read my words in the past then you know i'm wont to adopt the persona of the complaining peter pan type who doesn't want to grow up and who wants to stay in college forever and who can fit 27 grapes in his mouth and who equates adulthood with hari-kari and who considers the one thing in the world scarier than strom thurmond naked to be that big ole real world thing but not the one with puck and pedro or any other pseudo-hip gen x losers with fake problems and inflated egos and aspirations to host alternative nation and sleep with jenny mccarthy although i do have plenty of aspirations to sleep with jenny mccarthy but i'm thinking that as clint eastwood said to john malkovich that's not gonna happen
breathe
the one thing i have going in my favor is what so many have going in their favors and it does not relate to party favors or leg-shavers or tax waivers or even chuck yeager but to the fact that i evolved in high school like a fine baboon into an upright human being with stock options and likewise in college started out as the equivalent of gerbil food yet ran through my gerbil wheel fast enough to climb up the side of the cage and create a sort of non-gerbil-like legacy and granted it's a really flippin' idiotic legacy but a legacy nonetheless and it shows that if i've risen twice then i can rise again because i put yeast in my underwear every day which explains the infection and wait that's for girls and this train of thought needs to stop quick fast and in a hurry
veni vidi vici as caesar said or was that the caesar-cutted george clooney who'll be an awful batman or at least a terrible bruce wayne but no it was certainly that royal dead dude who coined the phrase and it almost applies to my life in that i'm coming into the real world this afternoon and i'll begin seeing it in rather short order i suppose but the conquering part now is not quite as simple since vici is the hardest to pronounce of all that unpronounceable latin lingo and that's why it's a dead language pardner
the problem is conquering the real world in not like conquering college in that more time and more opportunities and more sausage and more everything and that makes it more harder because i'm a moron and at tufts there were a finite number of possibilities and learning the system was easy within a couple of years so we mastered it like a padlock by year number four and cool beans go us but if you translate this into life it means that our freshman year will last about 15 years and that doesn't include transferring but either way that means i won't be an upperclassman until i'm 50 which is a bad age to move off campus and even worse to start a frat
but one professor smacked me around and said at least you've mastered this playing field because some people don't ever do that and he's right because we're the best and brightest and smartest and best smelling and we've got the tufts name working for us and if we just keep our heads held high through the storm we can navigate the path to greatness and wonderfulness and eliot ness
i'm a senior i'm a senior i'm a senior and i'm about to become a freshman again but this time there's no core curriculum and no easy choices or faculty advisors and even though that scares the pudding out of me i guess i'm ready or i just have to become that way because i don't have much of a choice any more but any way the wind blows i'm ready to take this world by storm and knuckle under for a five to ten years of veni and vidi and before you know it we'll all be vici-ing all over the place and this world won't know what hit them
see you at the top
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