We're back.
School is ready to start. Gone are the blissfully long summer days and nights, filled with nothing but pure and unbridled glee. It's time to stop having fun with our mentally inferior non-University friends. It's back to reality.
We have come back to Charlottesville from all over the country, but mostly Northern Virginia. President Casteen of course has come home from one of his houses in the Hamptons. We have come back from the beach, traveling abroad, and our obligatorily crappy summer jobs.
Well, not me. Mine was the single greatest summer job in the history of recorded civilization. That's right -- I was an intern in Washington, D.C. I'm afraid I can't say who I worked for or exactly what I did. I can give a few snippets of my standard day, though.
On average, I'd get to work five to 10 minutes late. Every day. I'd then proceed to read the entire Washington Post, work for an hour, eat lunch, work for another hour, nap for two more, and go home. My job was about as useful as protesting against unfair labor wages outside Madison Hall.
... Too soon?
But enough Living Wage jokes. I am sure the Campaign will rear its equality-minded, shower-avoiding head many times this year. In any case, little was accomplished at my job this summer. My only handiwork of note happened three weeks ago:
Freshman Illinois senator and Democratic golden boy Barack Obama was parked in a tight spot. Awoken from a snooze in the Senate garage, I politely offered to help him back out. I appropriately dubbed this encounter "Operation Barack-i Freedom." We exchanged high-fives, and we both parted ways as better men. Mission accomplished.
It was my third summer as an intern, so other run-ins with the Washington elite have occurred. For instance, I've urinated next to Ted Kennedy and taken candy from Bill Frist's office. My ID badge got me into every building in the city, and I was exploring the Capitol one day when I accidentally found myself in House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi's office. Two irritable ex-Navy Seals greeted me with automatic weapons pointed at my face. The situation was quickly diffused when I flexed my biceps.
I'll sorely miss working on the Hill. But it's no use crying over spilled mini-celebrity encounters. Now, it's game time. College, baby. Time for epic games of "Assassins" in first-year dorms. Time for awkward flirting with your hot TA. Time for experiencing the state of collegiate nirvana that can only come from being turned away from the Saturday night party at the frat full of d-bags.
University students have a lot to look forward to this year: Kathy, the kindly Newcomb card swiper; the new John Paul Jones Arena, home to our unbelievably good shuffleboard team; and of course, yet another first-year class that has yet to discover the wonderful stalking potential with Facebook.
There are first years reading this column who have never had the privilege of streaking the Lawn or being let down by Al Groh. My message to them: Your time will come. Your first year at the University is a special time, so treasure every dorm-wide Halo tournament or 2 a.m. in-suite dance party.
Also: learning = overrated. Even more overrated? Actually going to class. I haven't gone to a single class since the second grade, and look how I'm doing. Sure, I may not be able to read or write or dial a phone, but I get by just fine.
Just kidding -- classes are relatively sweet. So young first years, it's worth it to go to that 9 a.m. discussion. Trust me. You'll have to brave the hangovers and sleep deprivation-induced hallucinations for at least the first semester. You will have plenty of time to skip classes once rush starts in January.
It is doubtful that a better place exists in the contiguous 48 states than the University of Virginia. It is a place of mystery, enchantment, and the occasional crunkfest. It's no surprise that students are offensively eager to return to the 'Ville come late August. The only things that the University doesn't have, much to our collective chagrin, are snakes on a plane.
Brendan's column runs bi-weekly on Mondays. He can be reached at collins@cavalierdaily.com.
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