THE FLYERS are up. The chalk is down. The writing is on the wall. The Honor Committee has one of the longest "lame duck" periods of any organization on Grounds: nearly a month.
GO FIGURE. The Honor Committee passes one of the most important reforms of its investigation processes in -- well, a long time -- and we do it after the Cavalier Daily has gone on vacation. Maybe if the "Transformation Proposal" had been called Tremendous Reform of Monumental Proportions, we could have better publicized the debate last semester.
WE SWING the doors open every Sunday night. And noone comes. About five minutes before every Honor Committee meeting, I get the feeling that someone is going to walk in and sit down.
THIS YEAR, the Honor Committee finds itself in a tough spot. Again it must consider the effects of increasing distance between faculty and the Committee; between students and Committee; and between the community as a whole and the idea of honor once again. The Committee has to address concerns about diversity, lengthy and burdensome case processing, and concerns about a lack of professionalism once again. And it must face the imposing dilemma of the Single Sanction.
With a bang or a whimper? A year earlier than expected, I find myself writing my last column for The Cavalier Daily. That's right.
Roughly four years ago, I promised my parents I would be a millionaire by the time I was 18 years old. That was a silly, silly promise to make. Consider the cases of two of my best friends from high school in comparison to my own. One went on the syndicated version of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire," won $60,000 and was subsequently recruited by an Abercrombie & Fitch model scout who "happened to be watching." Another bought Google stock at $125, which, at its well-published high, traded at $475.11. In a hyphenated word: Cha-ching. I, on the other hand, bought Sirius Radio at $7.20 per share, assuming that all the skeevozies of America would come out of the woodwork to buy chic little Sirius radios and tune into three-way deaf midget wooden-leg porn. Instead, it turns out that those same skeevozies figured out how to record Howie and get their midget porn for free. And, instead of winning money on a game show or being recruited by modeling agencies, I worked for a measly two weeks last summer and then spent all of my money on paella and French wine. In any case, according to my mom, I can forget about the modeling career altogether. "You think you're a catch?
This is for anyone who happens to have the blahs right now. Because let me tell you, I'm there with you. I've been in a slump for a few days. You know, one of those inexplicable declines in self-confidence where the world just seems to be one step ahead. You seem incapable of having a normal conversation with anyone. You realize you forgot to button your fly about 25 minutes after walking out of the bathroom in Alderman. You find yourself telling friends a lot of stories that end with, "Well, I guess you had to be there." You go for a walk around our beautiful Grounds to clear your head only to find that Mad Bowl looks like the Verdun, circa 1916. You spend hours reading the Drudge Report's updates on a whale that wandered up the River Thames. And subsequently died. That poor little guy didn't stand a chance.
It's crunch time. The foreboding cloud of black doom hangs perilously on the horizon as before an impending thunderstorm of dismay on a hot and humid August day of deadly hellish heat. Skies will clear in the afternoon, with gentle winds freshening out of the north, sunny skies, and a 90 percent chance of PAIN. There's nothing like returning from a relaxing week of tryptophan-induced Thanksgiving slumber to discover the next week will be the single most horrendous of my academic career. That's a record 17 years in the making. Not to mention the fact that the Lighting of the Lawn is Thursday, and I have a giant ridiculous snowman costume to make and lots of drinking to do between now and then. But after that, I'll pop in my Charlie Brown Christmas CD and then pop about forty Adderrall, pack a duffel bag and move into Clemons for however long it takes. The time between Thanksgiving and Winter Break should be a time of rejoicing, celebration, cheer, family, friends, dancing and wine. Instead, I'll get a nose-full of "Clemons-Smell" at 4 o'clock in the morning for a week straight. What IS that smell?
It takes six hours to drive home to New York from Charlottesville.My father left Sunday morning. He had come down with our cocker spaniel Skylar for the weekend to watch his alma mater Temple University get slammed by the Wahoos. He was going to stop in Washington on the way home to buy my sister a fish for her dorm room and take her out to lunch. He drove down the street around the Corner, and I wondered how long it would be until he cranked up the Temptations, the Supremes or the Four Seasons and rolled down the windows. "Give mom a hug for me when you get home," I had told him.
"The best part is definitely the end result." These are the words of Frank Hostetter, a fourth-year College student majoring in biology who has converted part of his University Circle apartment into his own home brewery. Charlottesville is home to several more prominent breweries, among them South Street and Starr Hill, which are at different stages in the evolution of their brands. Hostetter, who plans to attend medical school, took up home brewing as a hobby. "I started earlier this year, and have bottled three batches," he said. His fourth batch, a German Weizenbock brew, sits underneath a makeshift air circulator: a cardboard shaft leading from an air conditioning unit to the floor, where another cardboard box protects the beer from sunlight. According to Hostetter, sunlight and high temperatures most jeopardize the quality of his beer, as they can interrupt fermentation. With a growing knowledge of the brewing process, Hostetter says he enjoys having control over making his own beer, experimenting with different recipes and sharing the fruits of his labor with a select group of friends. "I usually give away about a third of what I make," Hostetter said. Federal regulations limit a household's annual production to 100 gallons per of-age resident and 200 gallons total. Hostetter produces anywhere from 30 to 50 12-oz.
