This column is dedicated to the memory of the Chang House. Imagine yourself on a saki bomb river with tangerine sauce and flying shrimp skies.
Four years, $100,000 later, and at last, my dissertation: "The Existential Ephemeral Essence of the Quintessential Epitome of the University Experience."
Today I woke up and acknowledged the reality of the world we live in -- a world where I must face a relentless stream of e-mails trying to sell me male enhancement drugs.
Sprayed on my new scent, "Smoky Haze." It clung to hair and jeans and created the aromatic façade of social sophistication, of nights gallivanting among certain Southern gentlemen who chose their words so carefully, they often had nothing to say. Everyone was wearing Smoky Haze. It was unisex, like that CK1, or those androgynous blue and pink people pegs in the game of LIFE that jet around in boxy cars.
Typical scene on Rugby Road. Girls walked their search dogs that were trying to sniff out lost Coach bags, earrings, minds. Guys were playing cat's cradle with their croakies, discussing the defining moments in videogame evolution like when Foes of Ali replaced Mike Tyson's Punch Out.
We all flashed smiles. Crest White Strips were doing marvels on everyone's enamel.
But life's not all comprised of pursuit of the trivial. First I paid respect to The Crab, placing a coozie full of hushpuppies and daffodils and a copy of "Risky Business," at its old entrance
Take-It-Away-but-You-Can-Stay-Here, was swinging and I ran into a few fourth-year girls who'd been hitting the Diet Coke a little too hard. They wondered how I felt about our waning youth, our own mortality and sweetheart Tiki as the valedictory speaker. When they pulled out the modge-podge scrapbooks from their duffels and started harmonizing Sarah McLaughlin's, "I Will Remember You," I took the director's cue and exited.
Then this first-year boy in line kept trying to order lettuce and tomato on his sandwich. The workers in the back started throwing cucumbers and sprouts in his face. So, I handed the poor thing a napkin with an encrypted message scrawled in house dressing, that he'd best go to Bellaire, where all sandwiches are created equal. Bellaire was more liberal, sold gas, advocated for the workingman. It had a sandwich called the Jefferson, which tasted like democracy.
Considered going to SOC 101 but that defeated the purpose of the whole pass/fail option. Instead, watched first years emerge from Wilson proclaiming Shakespeare's, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." Then they went into New Cabell and fell down the stairs. I coddled them and explained that the execution of their role was correct, yet the timing was wrong. I whipped out the script:
ACT 1, Scene 4: First year slips down fraternity stairs at 3 a.m.
Went running for the sole reason that all girls go running -- to be spotted by every brother's-mother's-sister's-illegitimate-son, while sucking wind while attempting to book it up the hill near Casteen's house. I also adored getting hollers from balding construction workers and indulging in the ego boost.
My mix tape was playing some interesting stuff today: Pink Floyd's "We Don't need no Education."
Things got wild. Tubed in a rubber Cheerio down the James River, noodled next to the granola and trail mix bins at Whole Foods and topped off the day by riding around Teeter's parking lot in a mini cart.
Back home, I searched under the couch cushions for coins, but only came out with $1.15 and Neosporin. So I hung a sign around my next, "Will flirt for beer."
The Buddhist scene: all the future Goldman Sachs guys were cashing in their signing bonuses, buying Red Headed Sluts (shots) for the entire bar.
My jar of B.S. was getting low, so I caught a bus to the Down Under, so I could marinate my hair in sludge. Everyone had remembered to bring skates this time. Albert was in the corner drinking mind erasers with Tonya Harding. After he stopped flipping burgers at Coupes, I was suspicious that he'd been tied up in the back room with ribbon belts.
Halleluiah, miracles do happen -- I ended up at "Late Night" where all these Snoop Doogie Howser types who were wearing iguana green shag rug Patagonias, were exuding major mojo. And, they upped their cool factor by packing bowls of golden grahams, and making their pledges rub against each other to create fire. Personally, I was only at "Late Night" because A) I wanted to find the entrance to the "totally awesome secret room," and B) I wanted to come clean and admit that I when I was a first year I really liked that song "Gin and Juice."
So where does this take me? How will it all end? At Foxfield of course -- the land of beer and honey, where throngs of students with bourbon wishes and seersucker dreams drink from the Solo cups of knowledge. And despite the fact the guy I was talking to couldn't concentrate because his friend had snorted all his Ritalin, there was blue sky, fried chicken and flatbeds -- what a wonderful life.
And, inevitably, many young souls asked what I was going to do next year. Such a boggling question I took off my sunglasses so that I could gesture with them. Look at it is this way, I never knew how I'd get home from Foxfield, but something always worked out. Not once have I been left with the horses. Honestly.
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