Apparently, I’m the worst person to take on your road trip. In our odyssey to Washington D.C. for the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear, I didn’t touch the wheel once. Even my mix CD almost got me tossed from the vehicle (not everyone enjoys Yo Gabba Gabba soundtracks as much as me).
But I tagged along anyway, drinking machine coffee from Styrofoam cups and making fun of each state we passed through.
Here’s a secret: I’m not really that politically-minded. Until I took an Intro to Politics class this semester, the only Hobbes I knew was the stuffed tiger who hung out with Calvin. The only real piece of political ammo I retained from the campus gubernatorial debate is that Bill Brady allegedly likes to strangle puppies with his bare hands (granted, I may have embellished this memory—I tend to overreact when puppy deaths are involved.)
But, like every modern college student, I hold Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert near and dear to my liberal arts heart.
And there’s no harm in being more political. If nothing, gaining more knowledge gives me more right to complain. After all, I didn’t even know what “gubernatorial” meant until about a month ago, and it’s never a bad thing to add another five-syllable word to my vocab.
As far as political signs go, I could get behind most of the messages at the rally, but only because the references had vague political connotations.
You referenced Harry Potter on your homemade banner? You must know what you’re talking about.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Flight of the Conchords, Arrested Development… It’s like a sign company got a hold of my Facebook “likes” and pumped out every weird reference they could think of.
Does that mean I like politics now? No, it means I like obscure pop culture references. But if I need obscure pop culture references to connect on a political sphere, is that such a terrible thing?
In the 2008 elections, MTV told us to Rock the Vote. And let me tell you, I rocked it. Not just because Fall Out Boy told me to, but to be honest, it did help.
Is there something wrong with politics being “hip?” If it’s cool to be political, that just means we’ll have a lot more trendy, informed citizens. You can wear your tightest skinny jeans to the ballots if you want. You don’t need full circulation in your legs to cast a vote. You just need to show up.
So in a way, I took a stand. In fact, I stood for five—feet aching, eyes squinted, watching the broadcast on a screen a few hundred feet ahead of me.
I know there are naysayers out there who bash Stewart’s rally as pointless, or even as a dangerous mockery of American politics. In some peoples’ eyes, humor can never be paired with a serious point.
But when used correctly, humor can be a powerful tool.
We hear a joke, we laugh, and sometimes we stop to consider the truth it illuminates. Sure, this was a rally for sanity. And if we never laughed, we really would go crazy.
Every once in awhile, we all need to do something utterly ridiculous in order to remain sane in this world. Sometimes “sanity” means you have to dress up like a lumberjack and play a round of Twister. Sometimes it means that you have to hold an impassioned argument with your pet cat.
Sometimes, it means you have to drive for twenty-six hours in order to spend just five at a rally you’re not entirely sure how to define. Because sometimes you need to add yourself to a tally, to take a stand, to point to pictures or newsfeeds the next morning and say I was there, I saw it, I heard it, let me tell you about it.
If I really gained one thing from our expedition to the rally, it’s this: we need to communicate, and listen, and stop typing in all caps on internet message boards, sure. But most of all, we need to laugh.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
[headline censored] -- A brief break from my standard voice
If you read the editorial, you’ll get more information on the Leader’s recent brush with censorship. The editorial gives you a glimpse of the soul of the paper. If you were to take the newspaper out to a nice seafood dinner and flatter it with compliments, these are the opinions it would ramble about.
My column reflects solely my views.
Story by-lines reduce the writer to a line of black text, but a real person took those photographs, wrote those headlines, and reported on those lectures that were so boring that everyone else skipped out to watch Teen Mom in their dorm rooms.
When you see a member of the ed board bleary-eyed on Monday morning, it’s not because they were out partying all weekend, but because they stayed up until obscene hours laying out the latest paper. These are the most committed students I’ve ever met, and my time at Elmhurst has been defined by their friendship and encouragement.
Yes, we make mistakes. That’s what happened in a student-run paper. We try to report accurately and fairly, but sometimes we slip up. But in all my time on The Leader, we’ve always cleaned up after our mistakes. We’ll correct, rewrite, apologize, and learn from whatever messes we’ve created.
And it’s paid off. At Illinois College Press Association last year, we won second in state for our division, plus tons of other awards for individual writers and artists. Campus response to each issue shows how important The Leader is to Elmhurst—when the paper is just a few hours late, faculty and staff both wait impatiently for the new paper.
But even without the awards or the praise, The Leader has heart. And that heart comes from the writers and photographers and artists who commit to The Leader even though they have classes, social lives, and the occasional desire to sleep.
In the end, whether you study physics or history or literature or exercise science, your time at Elmhurst should be defined by one thing: passion. The Leader is our passion. We’re students, but we’re also reporters and artists and storytellers. When we’re threatened, that passion is what holds us together.
We’re always talking about “The Elmhurst Experience” and “what college ought to be,” but how many people have seriously considered either of those statements? Lately, I have. My Elmhurst Experience is about finding my voice and the confidence to use it. My college ought to be a place where I am never scared of self-expression. Until two weeks ago, Elmhurst never faltered on encouraging these precise things. And if I were to stay silent now, when every molecule in my body is telling me to speak up, I’d be self-censoring.
And I promise, next week I’ll go back to writing about burritos or puppies or how to survive college without showering. Because those things are important, too.
My column reflects solely my views.
Story by-lines reduce the writer to a line of black text, but a real person took those photographs, wrote those headlines, and reported on those lectures that were so boring that everyone else skipped out to watch Teen Mom in their dorm rooms.
When you see a member of the ed board bleary-eyed on Monday morning, it’s not because they were out partying all weekend, but because they stayed up until obscene hours laying out the latest paper. These are the most committed students I’ve ever met, and my time at Elmhurst has been defined by their friendship and encouragement.
Yes, we make mistakes. That’s what happened in a student-run paper. We try to report accurately and fairly, but sometimes we slip up. But in all my time on The Leader, we’ve always cleaned up after our mistakes. We’ll correct, rewrite, apologize, and learn from whatever messes we’ve created.
And it’s paid off. At Illinois College Press Association last year, we won second in state for our division, plus tons of other awards for individual writers and artists. Campus response to each issue shows how important The Leader is to Elmhurst—when the paper is just a few hours late, faculty and staff both wait impatiently for the new paper.
But even without the awards or the praise, The Leader has heart. And that heart comes from the writers and photographers and artists who commit to The Leader even though they have classes, social lives, and the occasional desire to sleep.
In the end, whether you study physics or history or literature or exercise science, your time at Elmhurst should be defined by one thing: passion. The Leader is our passion. We’re students, but we’re also reporters and artists and storytellers. When we’re threatened, that passion is what holds us together.
We’re always talking about “The Elmhurst Experience” and “what college ought to be,” but how many people have seriously considered either of those statements? Lately, I have. My Elmhurst Experience is about finding my voice and the confidence to use it. My college ought to be a place where I am never scared of self-expression. Until two weeks ago, Elmhurst never faltered on encouraging these precise things. And if I were to stay silent now, when every molecule in my body is telling me to speak up, I’d be self-censoring.
And I promise, next week I’ll go back to writing about burritos or puppies or how to survive college without showering. Because those things are important, too.
Food Flings and Food Fights
I’m entering the third year of my latest relationship. And like any long-term relationship, it’s been full of laughter and tears, passion and strife, cheeseburgers and mac-and-cheese.
Since freshman year, I’ve been dating Chartwell’s. And I think that now, as I enter my junior year, I might be ready to call the whole thing off.
Three years is a long time to dedicate to one entity. At first, we were tangled in the bliss of new love like a Caesar chicken wrap is swathed in a tortilla. I was a naïve college freshman, eager to fall for the first person who offered me tater tots and milkshakes. But the more I see of the world, the more I realize that there are more options than just plastic cutlery that bends or shatters when you try to spear a baby carrot.
To be honest, our relationship has taken on the feel of a bowl of day-old oatmeal. We both have our downfalls. He gets cold and distant on the weekends. I nag and complain, especially when he’s out of ketchup.
Lately, he’s been trying to win me back. He woos me with fresh ranch chips and assorted baked goods as varied and delicious as a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He’s even started giving me free two-ounce cups of soft-serve ice cream, which seemed like a cute token until I realized his game. Two ounces is just enough to keep me craving for my next fix—he’s trying to keep me trapped and dependent.
On top of all this, he’s moved to Facebook stalking. Whenever I log on, I have seventeen new event invitations from Chartwell’s. His date ideas are charming, I’ll admit. Sushi in the Roost. October tea tasting. Still, it feels like a last desperate move. He’s become increasingly needy, and I’ve been considering my other options.
He must know my eyes have been wandering. He’s seen me with more exotic suitors, like Elmhurst Chop Suey and Chipotle. I’m only twenty, I can’t be tied down. But Chartwell’s-induced guilt makes my culinary exploits seem like the adventures of a cheap slut. Soon, I’ll be whoring myself out for the Taco Bell value menu. And as I sprawl on the curb with congealing nacho cheese spilling down my shirt, Chartwell’s will tell everyone I had it coming all along.
The thing is, we both knew our relationship would be temporary from the start. I can’t live in the dorms forever. I’ll move off campus, and he’ll find some impressionable freshman to regale with Alfredo sauce and chicken strips.
I’ve considered our long-distance options, but I’m not sure if tater tot casserole holds a strong enough siren call to pull me back day after day.
Besides, it might be fun to explore single life. Buy a few sauce pans and a bottle of vegetable oil and embark on my newly independent culinary life.
The problem is that after I end it, we’re bound to run into each other. It’s a small campus, and he’s involved in a lot. I’ll swing by to grab a bagel or a Diet Coke, and things will just be awkward. I’ll tell him I miss his apple cheesecake. I’ll admit I was rash and cruel in ending our fling, and that I’ve been surviving on Saltines and canned peas since I left the safe realm of the cafeteria.
He’ll smile understandably, nod in his most knowing way, and hand me a coupon for a free two-ounce ice cream cup.
Since freshman year, I’ve been dating Chartwell’s. And I think that now, as I enter my junior year, I might be ready to call the whole thing off.
Three years is a long time to dedicate to one entity. At first, we were tangled in the bliss of new love like a Caesar chicken wrap is swathed in a tortilla. I was a naïve college freshman, eager to fall for the first person who offered me tater tots and milkshakes. But the more I see of the world, the more I realize that there are more options than just plastic cutlery that bends or shatters when you try to spear a baby carrot.
To be honest, our relationship has taken on the feel of a bowl of day-old oatmeal. We both have our downfalls. He gets cold and distant on the weekends. I nag and complain, especially when he’s out of ketchup.
Lately, he’s been trying to win me back. He woos me with fresh ranch chips and assorted baked goods as varied and delicious as a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He’s even started giving me free two-ounce cups of soft-serve ice cream, which seemed like a cute token until I realized his game. Two ounces is just enough to keep me craving for my next fix—he’s trying to keep me trapped and dependent.
On top of all this, he’s moved to Facebook stalking. Whenever I log on, I have seventeen new event invitations from Chartwell’s. His date ideas are charming, I’ll admit. Sushi in the Roost. October tea tasting. Still, it feels like a last desperate move. He’s become increasingly needy, and I’ve been considering my other options.
He must know my eyes have been wandering. He’s seen me with more exotic suitors, like Elmhurst Chop Suey and Chipotle. I’m only twenty, I can’t be tied down. But Chartwell’s-induced guilt makes my culinary exploits seem like the adventures of a cheap slut. Soon, I’ll be whoring myself out for the Taco Bell value menu. And as I sprawl on the curb with congealing nacho cheese spilling down my shirt, Chartwell’s will tell everyone I had it coming all along.
The thing is, we both knew our relationship would be temporary from the start. I can’t live in the dorms forever. I’ll move off campus, and he’ll find some impressionable freshman to regale with Alfredo sauce and chicken strips.
I’ve considered our long-distance options, but I’m not sure if tater tot casserole holds a strong enough siren call to pull me back day after day.
Besides, it might be fun to explore single life. Buy a few sauce pans and a bottle of vegetable oil and embark on my newly independent culinary life.
The problem is that after I end it, we’re bound to run into each other. It’s a small campus, and he’s involved in a lot. I’ll swing by to grab a bagel or a Diet Coke, and things will just be awkward. I’ll tell him I miss his apple cheesecake. I’ll admit I was rash and cruel in ending our fling, and that I’ve been surviving on Saltines and canned peas since I left the safe realm of the cafeteria.
He’ll smile understandably, nod in his most knowing way, and hand me a coupon for a free two-ounce ice cream cup.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
We've got to get off this island
This is my last column of the year. I wanted to write something witty about Bieber Fever, or make fun of Chartwell’s some more, or at least make a really solid fart joke.
But I don’t have time to be funny. I don’t have time to do anything.
My ideal life plan (thinking of jokes, eating graham crackers and not wearing pants) has been replaced with the academic semester from hell. Right now, I have roughly 97 papers due. Some of those papers are for classes I’m not even registered for.
We all need to find a way to de-stress. Some people turn to cigarettes, or beer pong, or heroin. My new hobby is more dangerous than all three: I started watching Lost.
Like all addictions, it began meekly enough. You could call me a casual Lostee. I watched an episode every few days and dropped occasional references into conversations. Within a few weeks, I was locking myself in a dim dorm room to watch eight hour Lost marathons. Any conversation I had ended up with me quaking in the fetal position, whispering “The numbers… What do the numbers mean?”
I get obsessive about things a lot. I currently own enough Harry Potter t-shirts to go over a full week without wearing one twice. What did I expect of myself when I found an epic TV show with every single episode free over Hulu?
The difference is that I followed Potter Mania from the beginning, while I’ve packed 6 seasons of Lost into a little over two months. If Lost is my main addiction, I’m about to OD. The Lost fans who have been there since the beginning scoff at me. Apparently I’m not a real fan if I didn’t catch on until now. But I just laugh right back—I can watch every episode in a gluttonous spree and still enjoy the end result of 6 years’ hard work. I didn’t win the marathon, but I did win the pie eating contest.
In all my hours immersed in Lost, I realized something important. Elmhurst College is basically the Lost island. You’re stuck in this place, and a lot of the time you’re not sure how we got here or how to escape. Day-to-day, you mostly just worry about survival. Some people are cool, but some just want to shoot flaming arrows at you. Terrible things happen pretty often (polar bears, smoke monsters, Michelle Rodriguez) but sometimes things can be really fun (the beach, solving mysterious plots). And if by some twist of fate you manage to escape, something always pulls you back to the island.
I’m conflicted right now. If I do nothing but watch Lost for the next week, I can catch up in time to watch the final episode on the actual TV. But if I don’t study for finals, I’m going to be voted off the Elmhurst island via failing grades.
Honestly, I’m eager to find out how it ends. What will I choose—the instant happiness or the academic success? It’s quite a cliffhanger, and I can’t wait for the final episode of my Sophomore year to find out how things end up. Tune in next year. If I’m around campus, I probably studied. If not, at least I found out the secrets to the island.
Either way, I hope there are polar bears.
But I don’t have time to be funny. I don’t have time to do anything.
My ideal life plan (thinking of jokes, eating graham crackers and not wearing pants) has been replaced with the academic semester from hell. Right now, I have roughly 97 papers due. Some of those papers are for classes I’m not even registered for.
We all need to find a way to de-stress. Some people turn to cigarettes, or beer pong, or heroin. My new hobby is more dangerous than all three: I started watching Lost.
Like all addictions, it began meekly enough. You could call me a casual Lostee. I watched an episode every few days and dropped occasional references into conversations. Within a few weeks, I was locking myself in a dim dorm room to watch eight hour Lost marathons. Any conversation I had ended up with me quaking in the fetal position, whispering “The numbers… What do the numbers mean?”
I get obsessive about things a lot. I currently own enough Harry Potter t-shirts to go over a full week without wearing one twice. What did I expect of myself when I found an epic TV show with every single episode free over Hulu?
The difference is that I followed Potter Mania from the beginning, while I’ve packed 6 seasons of Lost into a little over two months. If Lost is my main addiction, I’m about to OD. The Lost fans who have been there since the beginning scoff at me. Apparently I’m not a real fan if I didn’t catch on until now. But I just laugh right back—I can watch every episode in a gluttonous spree and still enjoy the end result of 6 years’ hard work. I didn’t win the marathon, but I did win the pie eating contest.
In all my hours immersed in Lost, I realized something important. Elmhurst College is basically the Lost island. You’re stuck in this place, and a lot of the time you’re not sure how we got here or how to escape. Day-to-day, you mostly just worry about survival. Some people are cool, but some just want to shoot flaming arrows at you. Terrible things happen pretty often (polar bears, smoke monsters, Michelle Rodriguez) but sometimes things can be really fun (the beach, solving mysterious plots). And if by some twist of fate you manage to escape, something always pulls you back to the island.
I’m conflicted right now. If I do nothing but watch Lost for the next week, I can catch up in time to watch the final episode on the actual TV. But if I don’t study for finals, I’m going to be voted off the Elmhurst island via failing grades.
Honestly, I’m eager to find out how it ends. What will I choose—the instant happiness or the academic success? It’s quite a cliffhanger, and I can’t wait for the final episode of my Sophomore year to find out how things end up. Tune in next year. If I’m around campus, I probably studied. If not, at least I found out the secrets to the island.
Either way, I hope there are polar bears.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Chickening Out
Even as we pulled up to the KFC parking lot, I thought it all had to be a joke— some demented April Fool’s Day prank delivered a few weeks late. But the first line on the official website description put any rumors to rest—“The new KFC Double Down sandwich is real!” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Double Down exists. And I stove forth, like Lewis and Clark mapping unchartered territory, to bravely devour this deep fried monster of a “sandwich.”
First, some background on the Double Down. Basically, take everything your doctor doesn’t want you to eat and multiply it by 2— 2 slices of bacon and 2 slices of cheese contained in 2 pieces of fried chicken— and top it with a “special sauce” that’s probably just mayonnaise with orange food coloring. If you’re watching your figure, you can opt for the grilled version, though if you’re really health-concerned you should probably set fire to the KFC and run as fast as you can. Then add a large coke and a side of potato wedges.
The Double Down goes against every nutrition lesson I’ve ever learned in my life. With each bite, I felt a food pyramid crumble. Twenty years of sporadic dieting and food-related guilt meant that I couldn’t casually chomp down on every artery’s worst nightmare. I wasn’t raised catholic, but I now understand their sense of religious guilt—I felt it twist in my gut with every bite of greasy, cheesy chicken. And I opted for the grilled version (or as my brother puts it, I wimped out). If I’d eaten an entire fried sandwich, I think I would have imploded into a vortex of shame on the spot.
This is truly a travesty that could only be born in America: home of freedom, equality and the pursuit of gluttony. In what culinary dungeon did the Colonel’s insane alter-ego dream up this Frankenstein pile of meat and cheese?
My first problem came with the actual holding of a sandwich. They wrap it in a thin layer of paper, but that doesn’t stop oil and melting cheese to scald your fingers. Wrestling with two hot, oil-soaked chicken patties is much more difficult than containing all the fixings between a couple slices of carbs.
All sandwiches have one thing in common (bread) and that’s the one thing the Double Down rudely ignores. KFC should realize that they can’t just change the essential rules of sandwiches. These rules have been long established and respected, and a snappy ad campaign won’t make the American masses forget the definition of a sandwich. Then again, the “Double Down Pile of Meat” doesn’t sound quite as poetic.
What’s next for the restaurant world? Will Panera replace their bread bowls with hollow chicken carcasses?
Then again, it’s refreshing for a fast food joint to stop pretending they’re not killing you with every gloriously greasy bite. For awhile, KFC tried to change their name to “Kitchen Fresh Chicken,” which didn’t change the fact that 90% of their menu items are fried. Now, it looks like the charade’s up. They’re not only going back to their deep-fried roots, they’re publicly consummating their relationship with the birth of this meaty monstrosity.
To be honest, the sandwich tasted pretty good. The grilled chicken was spicy and tender, and the mayonnaise-cheese-bacon glob in the middle tasted like slow albeit happy heart failure. The sample of a fried version I tried was almost unbearably salty. The first few bites were fairly pleasant, but soon finishing the sandwich became a challenge rather than a meal. Even after I finished every gloppy bite, I was left with a souvenir—a three day heartburn spree that reminded me of just how lovely it is to a fast food-fueled American consumer.
First, some background on the Double Down. Basically, take everything your doctor doesn’t want you to eat and multiply it by 2— 2 slices of bacon and 2 slices of cheese contained in 2 pieces of fried chicken— and top it with a “special sauce” that’s probably just mayonnaise with orange food coloring. If you’re watching your figure, you can opt for the grilled version, though if you’re really health-concerned you should probably set fire to the KFC and run as fast as you can. Then add a large coke and a side of potato wedges.
The Double Down goes against every nutrition lesson I’ve ever learned in my life. With each bite, I felt a food pyramid crumble. Twenty years of sporadic dieting and food-related guilt meant that I couldn’t casually chomp down on every artery’s worst nightmare. I wasn’t raised catholic, but I now understand their sense of religious guilt—I felt it twist in my gut with every bite of greasy, cheesy chicken. And I opted for the grilled version (or as my brother puts it, I wimped out). If I’d eaten an entire fried sandwich, I think I would have imploded into a vortex of shame on the spot.
This is truly a travesty that could only be born in America: home of freedom, equality and the pursuit of gluttony. In what culinary dungeon did the Colonel’s insane alter-ego dream up this Frankenstein pile of meat and cheese?
My first problem came with the actual holding of a sandwich. They wrap it in a thin layer of paper, but that doesn’t stop oil and melting cheese to scald your fingers. Wrestling with two hot, oil-soaked chicken patties is much more difficult than containing all the fixings between a couple slices of carbs.
All sandwiches have one thing in common (bread) and that’s the one thing the Double Down rudely ignores. KFC should realize that they can’t just change the essential rules of sandwiches. These rules have been long established and respected, and a snappy ad campaign won’t make the American masses forget the definition of a sandwich. Then again, the “Double Down Pile of Meat” doesn’t sound quite as poetic.
What’s next for the restaurant world? Will Panera replace their bread bowls with hollow chicken carcasses?
Then again, it’s refreshing for a fast food joint to stop pretending they’re not killing you with every gloriously greasy bite. For awhile, KFC tried to change their name to “Kitchen Fresh Chicken,” which didn’t change the fact that 90% of their menu items are fried. Now, it looks like the charade’s up. They’re not only going back to their deep-fried roots, they’re publicly consummating their relationship with the birth of this meaty monstrosity.
To be honest, the sandwich tasted pretty good. The grilled chicken was spicy and tender, and the mayonnaise-cheese-bacon glob in the middle tasted like slow albeit happy heart failure. The sample of a fried version I tried was almost unbearably salty. The first few bites were fairly pleasant, but soon finishing the sandwich became a challenge rather than a meal. Even after I finished every gloppy bite, I was left with a souvenir—a three day heartburn spree that reminded me of just how lovely it is to a fast food-fueled American consumer.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Bluenet: Belle of the Ball
All semester long, Bluenet waits like a homely girl at a junior high sock hop. It nurses its cup of Hawaiian Punch and frowns at its cousin Blackboard, who everyone courts all year long. Bluenet thinks Blackboard is a total slut, giving away all of those Powerpoint presentations for free.
But now, with class registration looming in the near future, everyone’s asking Bluenet to dance.
The next week brings nothing but panic. Late at night, students huddle over glowing computer screens and hyperventilate when they realize they will never graduate. They crowd Goebel hall and confusedly bump into each other, because they’ve never had a reason to enter Goebel until now. And all because it’s time to pick classes.
The main panic centers on the fact that if you sign up for the wrong class, you will fail horribly and get expelled from Elmhurst. So to make sure you don’t disappoint your parents, lose all your friend and throw your life away, you better be prepared.
This time of year brings out two species of students: the last-minute sloth and the aggressive over-planner. The sloth saunters to their advisor’s office the day before their registration date, then asks in a slow voice what their major is again. The over-planner mapped out every second of college during first semester freshman year, but still indulges in a panic attack once in awhile. Either way, the advisor loses.
Following are the three methods that guarantee you’ll enroll in some class, even if they have nothing to do with your major.
Rate-my-Professor method:
This method revolves around ratemyprofessor.com, which grades on professors using a complex system of smiley or frown-y faces. This kindergarten scale comes in handy since most people using this site are opting for the easiest class. Assigns a lot of homework? How dare she. Tough end-of semester test? No thank you. Might as well find the most effortless courses and use your excess energy for flirting in Founders.
Sleeping Beauty method:
This style of taking classes involves signing up for the latest classes possible. Ideally, no class will begin before 1 p.m. Extra points are rewarded if Fridays can also be kept class-free. This plan works best for late night partiers, insomniacs, and nocturnal animals.
Follow the Flock method:
Nobody wants to be the loser crying softly at the back of the classroom. This method completely solves that problem— you just sign up for every class your friends are taking. Leave your interests and passions behind. Popularity is more important anyway. You can always change your major to Conformity.
So get ready to woo Bluenet as best as you can. It’s your once-a-semester date, and Bluenet’s sole time to shine. So on that registration day, play some soft music, lay a single rose against your keyboard, and get ready for the exhausted site to crash from emotional exhaustion. Then you can run to your advisor and cry some more.
But now, with class registration looming in the near future, everyone’s asking Bluenet to dance.
The next week brings nothing but panic. Late at night, students huddle over glowing computer screens and hyperventilate when they realize they will never graduate. They crowd Goebel hall and confusedly bump into each other, because they’ve never had a reason to enter Goebel until now. And all because it’s time to pick classes.
The main panic centers on the fact that if you sign up for the wrong class, you will fail horribly and get expelled from Elmhurst. So to make sure you don’t disappoint your parents, lose all your friend and throw your life away, you better be prepared.
This time of year brings out two species of students: the last-minute sloth and the aggressive over-planner. The sloth saunters to their advisor’s office the day before their registration date, then asks in a slow voice what their major is again. The over-planner mapped out every second of college during first semester freshman year, but still indulges in a panic attack once in awhile. Either way, the advisor loses.
Following are the three methods that guarantee you’ll enroll in some class, even if they have nothing to do with your major.
Rate-my-Professor method:
This method revolves around ratemyprofessor.com, which grades on professors using a complex system of smiley or frown-y faces. This kindergarten scale comes in handy since most people using this site are opting for the easiest class. Assigns a lot of homework? How dare she. Tough end-of semester test? No thank you. Might as well find the most effortless courses and use your excess energy for flirting in Founders.
Sleeping Beauty method:
This style of taking classes involves signing up for the latest classes possible. Ideally, no class will begin before 1 p.m. Extra points are rewarded if Fridays can also be kept class-free. This plan works best for late night partiers, insomniacs, and nocturnal animals.
Follow the Flock method:
Nobody wants to be the loser crying softly at the back of the classroom. This method completely solves that problem— you just sign up for every class your friends are taking. Leave your interests and passions behind. Popularity is more important anyway. You can always change your major to Conformity.
So get ready to woo Bluenet as best as you can. It’s your once-a-semester date, and Bluenet’s sole time to shine. So on that registration day, play some soft music, lay a single rose against your keyboard, and get ready for the exhausted site to crash from emotional exhaustion. Then you can run to your advisor and cry some more.
Friday, March 19, 2010
eggcellent, eggceptional, eggcetera.
Some people reserve their true passions for a certain sports team. Others live for showing you awkward portraits of their kids that they keep stuffed in their wallets. My personal deepest obsession is reserved for Easter-themed candy.
Some people claim perfection is unobtainable. Still, certain things might come close—a particularly vivid sunset, an innocent child’s laugh. Of course, there is one thing comprised solely of beauty and truth and purity. I’m talking about Cadbury Crème Eggs.
I’m going to fill my wallet with snapshots of Cadbury Crème Eggs, and you’ll have to politely tell me how delicious they looked each time we bumped into each other. I’m going to paint my body the colors of a Cadbury foil wrapper and go running across Langhorst field to prove my devotion.
The smooth chocolate shell, the creamy faux-yolk filling, the ensuing sugar rush that hypes you up like a kindergartner on Speed and Lucky Charms… All other human experiences pale in comparison to the ingestion of a Cadbury Egg. They’re basically just balls of frosting dipped in chocolate, and if there’s one thing I love more than friendship and puppies and Mel Brooks combined it’s frosting. My original grand plan for college was to immediately ingest an entire tub of frosting. Relative independence from my parents? Time for a sugar high! That’s how you know you’re really grown up—when you’re hiding out in your dorm room scooping vanilla frosting from a plastic tub with your finger.
I’ve never actually done this. The shame involved in secretly devouring an entire tub of frosting would probably cause me to spontaneously combust. Last week, however, I ate two Cadburys for breakfast. The shame from that activity still makes me wince, but it was the best I’ve ever felt heading to class. Much more effective than a cup of coffee.
Maybe I love Cadbury Eggs so much because they’re only available once a year. Holidays always put us in an obsessive frenzy. My friends hoovered so many Shamrock Shakes leading up to St. Patrick’s Day that Shamrock-colored foam began forming around their mouths, and they began demanding their latest fix in high-pitched leprechaun squeals.
But would we overdose on these things so much if we could get them all the time? If Santa Claus sat in your living room all year, would he just become the fat guy who ate all your cookies?
I might just love what Cadbury Eggs remind me of—the return of warmth and springtime. Among the many rituals of the changing of the season (spring cleaning, shaving a winter’s worth of leg hair) unwrapping the first Cadbury holds a special joy.
My advisor thinks I’m desperate to study in Oxford to complete my English degree, but there’s another secret reason. I’ve heard grand rumors from overseas. The United Kingdom, the motherland of Cadbury, offers Cadbury Crème McFlurries year-round. Basically, their geese lay foil-wrapped Cadburys each morning, and the rivers run thick with sweet yellow Cadbury Crème.
I think it’s time to forge ahead with my study abroad plans.
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