The Freshman 40 (Years, That Is)

Sooner or later I was bound to feel the need to comment on something that might actually be considered "newsworthy." Sure enough, Fox News has come to the rescue. For it was today during a masochistic perusal of that network's afternoon offerings that I first encountered the story of Roger "Rusty" Martin, the 61-year-old president of Randolph-Macon College in Virginia. It seems that he has enrolled as a freshman at St. John's College in Anapolis, Maryland, ostensibly to find out what it is like to be a college student in this day and age.

First, allow me to get all of the cards out on the table. I have recently graduated from college, and the first sensation I encountered upon entering the so-called "real world" was that I will never--never--be able to return to the college life, no matter how comforting, intriguing, or stimulating it might seem to me, say 40 years down the line. I say this despite the fact that my alma mater is heavy on the reunions gambit and there is an annual opportunity to return to the campus for a weekend of escapist amusement and nostalgia.

However, it remains brutally clear to me that no matter how much I might like to return to college, such an eventuality simply is not possible. Even to return for a graduate degree in the immediate future would likely only serve to underscore this fact. College is many things to many people, but once you are out you are an adult, for better or for worse.

Try telling that to Tom Wolfe, whose new book, I Am Charlotte Simmons, seems already to have become a sensation. In researching the current condition of the American campus, Wolfe traveled to a number of schools, including my own. In a recent interview on the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Wolfe, aged 74, mentioned with a certain prurient interest that he had met young women who kept details of their sexual encouters in a rolodex. Such entries were annotated with "A"s and "O"s, he claimed, though he also claimed to be at a loss for what such encryptions might mean. Right.

The motives for Rusty's collegiate sojourn, on the other hand, are more elusive. He is a cancer survivor, for one thing, so I am hard pressed to question his intent. It is clear, however, that like virtually every college alumnus you will ever meet, he had a hard time adjusting to college life during his freshman year, at Denison University in Ohio--so much so, in fact, that he ended up transferring to Drew University.

But the Fox interviewer, whose name escapes me, seemed especially interested to hear what awkward moments might have arisen in the dorms by virtue of having a 61-year-old man potentially in the midst of scantily clad 20-year-olds. Rusty was clearly made somewhat uncomfortable by this question, and said when pressed that he had done all he could to avoid such situations, keeping his research into the "freshman experience" purely academic in nature.

This brings me, finally, to my point. Even at a school like St. John's (not to be confused with Ron Artest's alma mater in Queens), the freshman experience cannot possibly be understood by attending seminars alone. In fact, not even Tom Wolfe's probing research could have been sufficient. It is my belief that the stuff of the college experience takes place mostly in precisely the places that neither Rusty nor Tom were able to go--in the dorms, at watering holes, behind closed doors. Whatever their motives, attempting to understand what life is like for a college freshman is something that neither a 61-year-old nor a 74-year-old could ever achieve, at least not without endangering their health by taking them well beyond the seminar rooms and the sexual rolodexes of sorority girls.

I could go on at some length about this, but mostly I would be repeating what I have already said. The main point is this: if Roger "Rusty" Martin had a bad time as a freshman 40 years ago, nothing he does now will undo that or validate his earlier experience. At the same time, no research done by Tom Wolfe could ever succeed in truly exposing the depths of depravity one encounters on college campuses these days, and even if it could, I wouldn't trust Wolfe to write about it, especially from the perspective of a female.

I'll admit that I have only read exerpts of Charlotte Simmons, but what I've read confirmed this opinion. I've been out of college for all of six months, and even I would be unable to do literary justice to the things I saw, learned, and experienced in those four years. If sexagenarian intellectuals believe that they will learn something by returning to college to have a look around, I suppose there is no harm in that. But when we begin looking to the observations of such tourists to find out about a life to which we cannot return, we are truly kidding ourselves.

Besides, as far as I'm concerned, Will Ferrell has a much better bead on things.

"Listen, I've got to go eat a burger. Thank you all."

If there was any doubt as to why George W. secured a second term, look no further. Every video of him flipping the bird or muttering nonsensically at a wedding makes me think that I might actually enjoy sharing beers and burgers with the president. Could Kerry ever be so frank with his press corps?

In other weekend news, robot soldiers are on the horizon:

Are there too few soldiers to secure the farthest reaches of Iraq? Lockheed is creating robot soldiers and neural software - "intelligent agents" - to do their work. "We've now created policy options where you can elect to put a human in or you can elect to put an intelligent agent in place," Mr. Stevens said. [Tim Wiener, NYT]

Now that's exciting. (And not only because the Times reporter is named "Weiner"...)

Finally, an injury sustained while attempting a swan dive accross a parked BMW on Friday evening threatened to ruin (or at least delay) the Lions' season. (I promise that this will be the final citation of fictional sports statistics--I recognize that this information can be thrilling to few individuals other than myself.)

First, as for the injury. It seems all of that delicious wine (and soon after, the other spirits that follwed) went straight to my head. Perhaps riled up by all of this late-November football, I tried to leap over the hood of a parked car. The subsequent fall onto the pavement left me with badly bloodied palms, in a pattern not dissimilar from stigmata. Great pain, humiliation, and hangover ensued.

The Lions came into the weekend at 12-0 and, hand injuries notwithstanding, seemed ready for the playoffs. After continuing to dominate through 15 games, they lost improbably to the Titans in Tennessee in Week 17. The loss did little to slow the team down, however. As my hands began slowly to heal this afternoon, Detroit was able to defeat Green Bay and St. Louis, advancing to a Super Bowl against the Kansas City Chiefs.

Lions win, 30-0. The Lions rookie running back Kevin Jones emerged the clear MVP, compiling 108 rushing yards on 12 carries, with most of that total coming on a 73-yard touchdown run early in the third quarter. Harrington was 9-18 passing for 159 yards and one touchdown.

In their three postseason games the Lions outscored opponents 97-14 and rookie wide receiver Roy Williams caught 13 passes for 284 yards and one touchdown. Jones rushed for 384 yards on 55 carries and scored 4 touchdowns during that time. Harrington, for his part, saw backup QB Mike McMahon replace him for the first time on the year. After throwing an early interception against Green Bay, Harrington was replaced for the remainder of the first half. Though he would throw 3 touchdown passes during the postseason, he threw the same number of interceptions.

So, as much as I like it, NFL 2K5 can't really be very realistic after all.

Meanwhile (i.e. right now), WNYC's Terry Gross interviews a playful, strangely untrustworthy Paul Reubens, aka Pee-Wee Herman.

"I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel."

Buffaloes 26, Cornhuskers 20

Today is, of course, Black Friday. As unremarkable as this bit of American trivia seems to me, it was the lead story on Drudge all day long. I must admit that for my money I find my family's post-Turkey Day ritual a bit more enjoyable than awaking at 3 AM to wait in line at Wal-mart. I refer to the annual Colorado-Nebraska football game, which is principally of interest to my father, an alumnus of the former school. This year brought victory for the Buffs, an unranked team now virtually assured of an invitation to a second tier bowl game come late December. The hated Huskers, for their part, looked a little flat today, perhaps explaining their first losing record since the 1961 season. Black Friday thus takes on a new meaning--even if the Buffs (7-4 overall) were wearing white today, we all know their true color.

My father knows, too. When he was a young undergraduate at Boulder in the late 1960s, he was witness--litterally--to the first live buffalo mascot, a creature named Ralphie I. (I have lost count of the lineage, but I imagine that we are well past Ralphie V by now...) For those of you who have never seen the American bison in person, these are enormous animals, scarcely capable of complete domestication. My father, who actually volunteered to be one of Ralphie's handlers for his innaugural pre-game romp around the field, learned this the hard way. As the poor animal realized that he had been transplanted from his native habitat for the amusment of 100,000 drunken college football fans, he promptly lost control of his bowels. As a result, the half-dozen young men charged with controlling the beast found themselves sliding (again, litterally) in a continuous stream of bison feces, making their 300-yard trip around the perimeter of the field something of an adventure.

By now, the buffaloes tapped to enter the traditions of Colorado football seem markedly more relaxed. But at any rate, a live bison is a far more interesting mascot than a sophomore from Lincoln, Nebraska, wearing a foam Cowboy costume. While Ralphie and his sires don't travel outside of Colorado during the season, we're sure that the current edition would be pleased to hear today's result.

In other football news, albeit of the simulated variety, Harrington's Lions have continued to dominate despite his difficulty finding his own receivers. After a tough two weeks against the Vikings and the Colts, during which our boy Joey threw no less than 6 interceptions, the Lions remain undefeated at 11-0 and are currently leading the Cardinals 14-3 in the fourth quarter. Aside from being an excellent receiver, Roy Williams has proven quite effective as a punt returner, with 4 touchdowns in that capacity. Given the unprecedented realism of NFL 2K5, Steve Mariucci would be well advised to consider inserting young Roy into his punt return squad.

Finally, spurred on by last night's viewing of Sideways, I have elected to uncork a bottle of the old vino for myself this evening. I have gone with a 1998 Sella & Mosca Cannonau, the last survivor among a mixed case of Italian wines I received from my God Mother for my birthday in 2002. I was unable to abide the label's instructions to uncork the bottle an hour before serving, but twenty minutes seems to have been plenty. I am pleased to report that the wine is excellent, distinctly fruity with a serene dryness to it. It would pair extremely well, as its bottler asserts, with red meats and seasoned cheeses.

Neither of which I currently possess... And another thing I don't currently possess: a photograph of an MLB player smoking in the dugout. I was shocked to find out that no such photographs are readily available on the internet, and am now regrettably forced to reconsider the visual content of this page. Suggestions (or donations of illicit Keith Hernandez photos) will be greatly appreciated.

What Does Mister Turkey Say?

"Gobble, gobble, gobble."

Throughout my middle and high school years, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving was always marked by a special assembly at 10 AM. An English teacher would appear wearing a paper mache turkey head, a pilgrim fat suit, and buckle shoes. Mr Turkey, as this middle aged man's alter ego was known, would then sing the following song:

What does Mr. Turkey Say?
Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day!
Gobble, gobble, gobble.

The song was sung in unison by the entire student body and teaching staff and concluded with great whoops and cheers. It was generally followed by a brief skit written by Mr. Turkey himself and performed by an ever-changing array of other faculty who were given brown ponchos with red waddles sewn onto the hoods. Finally, Mr. Turkey would reprise his theme song, don his turkey head, and return to the English department via elevator. The song was then sung in Latin, French, and (hilariously) Chinese, by groups of students studying those languages. After the whole thing had ended, the Thanksgiving break had officially begun and giddy children flooded into the streets for an afternoon of pre-holiday mischief.

The event was, in other words, a tremendously silly and self-indulgent affair. The skits drew heavily from either English litterature, popular culture, or both, yielding rap operas based on Shakespearean plays and the like. In all, however, I must say that I enjoyed those assemblies greatly, and more to the point, I find such silliness and self-indulgence worthwhile. This is why I have decided to start writing this blog.

(It should be noted here that mister skethee! is by no means a reference to Mr. Turkey. The English teacher in question could often be found at a local OTB franchise, putting his salary on the line for the ponies, and though he was an excellent teacher and an upstanding man, I never considered him worthy of emulation.)

I intend to comment on the following things, in no particular order: architecture, graphic design, politics, media, urbanism. Those who find little interest in these subjects needn't fret; there will be ample time for edifying digressions of the sort found above, as well as miscellany and sundry items I feel the need to publicize.

That being said, I would also note that this Thanksgiving turned out to be a pleasant one for my family. We dined at the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street in lower Manhattan, a former haunt of GW himself (George Washington, not George W., although a letter from Colin Powell's secretary was prominently displayed among other, much older documents of historical import.) Though turkey was available, I opted for the pork loin as it came with roasted potatoes in place of chestnut brussel sprouts. Having recently seen National Treasure, I was all too eager to eat and drink where our founding fathers had done when in New York. The Blue Point Blueberry Ale was also excellent.

After the meal, my parents were kind enough to take me along with them to Sideways, which proved to be a great deal more entertaining than I had anticipated and, though it pains me to admit it, a far better film than National Treasure. The evening finds me in good spirits, well-supped and deeply engrossed in a season of ESPN NFL 2K5 (Harrington's Lions stand at 5-0).

More to come soon.