Everybody does have to say goodbye to old friend AU
Dear American University,
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Dear American University,
What exactly is the role of a magician's assistant? I was troubled to find that added to one of my friend's favorite activities today, because all I think this entails is wearing a revealing costume, smiling a lot, waving your arms around, allowing the magician to saw you in half and finally, perhaps most importantly, making you disappear. Now, we all know the secret of the standard "disappearing" act. There are mirrors, trap doors, or extra curtains. But wouldn't it be great if we really could disappear, even for just a few seconds?
To say I grew up in a superstitious home might be a bit of an overstatement. No, my mother didn't pray before a shrine to the Virgin Mary, construct altars to deceased relatives, bless new household items with holy water, or adhere to any number of customs that are associated with Catholics. She did, however, disapprove of taking the Lord's name in vain and found rosary beads to be suitable presents, and when we were trying to sell our house, she buried a statue of St. Joseph in the yard. Upside down and facing the street, of course.
I got my first digital camera when I was in high school. I was 16, and like early cell phones, it seemed to weigh 47 pounds. Often it was easier to carry disposable cameras around than to worry about losing or breaking my camera, which in hindsight seems as old as it was heavy. I couldn't recall the last time I really used a disposable camera, until I forgot to pack my now lightweight, travel-sized digital camera when I left for spring break.
There's an old saying that goes, "Two's company, three's a crowd." In fact, the television show "Three's Company" was playing off this old clich? by trying to show how it was possible for three people to live happily together. But this sitcom showed the pitfalls of this arrangement. When we were little we had to ride a tricycle before we could attempt a "big kid's bike." Since childhood, we have been raised to understand that you must transition from three to two.
A mirage is a visual phenomenon that occurs most often in the desert or at sea: the wavering sight of something illusory, without substance or reality. What is it about these locales that lend themselves to fantastic visions, sometimes intangible or unexplainable? Perhaps the extreme isolation of the Pacific or the heat of the Sahara can explain these optical illusions. Like the exotic desert resorts, cruises and roach motels on beachfront property, at which many of us chose to spend our vacations, the blurry haze curling steadily from the ground has the ability to distort our ability to see and pulls us like an undertow away from reality.
I have a confession to make. I hate doing laundry.
A mid-week fire alarm resulted in an early evening visit to the Eagle's Nest. When a friend couldn't find the Velveeta shells and cheese she so desired, I convinced her that the organic brand would be just as good. For those of you who consume organic food regularly, this is not meant to be critical, but the substitution was a far cry from the "cheesy" richness everyone remembers from childhood.
When my oldest sister left for college in 1993, she took an electronic word processor. It was more advanced than a standard typewriter, but still lacked the spelling or grammar checks now standard on any word processing program. When my second sister departed for college in '99, she took a small desktop computer with her. Equipped with a dial-up modem and the latest Windows operating system, it was the height of technology at the time. Fast forward to my freshman year, and I had my large-screen, high-speed wireless laptop tucked beneath my arm as I checked into my residence hall.
When I was a freshman, I indulged in as many friends and lovers that came my way. Every weekend it seemed like there was someone new to go out on a date with and a new group of friends inviting me to party. It was an endless smorgasbord of social interaction. The irony of my inaugural year was that as my appetite for meeting new people and going new places increased, my desire to actually consume food declined. No, it wasn't chemical dependency that brought about my gradual weight loss-just a standard-issue eating disorder.
My sophomore-year roommate loved to play "Something to Talk About" by Bonnie Raitt. We joked that it was our theme song. I was known to be well-acquainted with the boys of D.C. He was known to cavalierly fling empty liquor bottles down our Honors floor hallway. We were both known for having underwear dance parties with the lights on in our L.A. Quad-facing dorm room. We were always giving people plenty to talk about. Nevertheless, I always preferred Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me," though my roommate never seemed to understand why.
In the summer of 1996, my family moved halfway across the country, from the northwest Chicago suburbs to Bucks County, Pa. I didn't yet know how terrible starting middle school would be, but having to leave behind my lifelong friends made the move the worst day of my life.
When I first began writing this column, a few people commented I was like Dan Savage, the nationally renowned sex columnist. At the time, I had no idea whom they were talking about. I thought they were comparing me to a third brother or second cousin of the lads from "The Wonder Years" and "Boys Meet World," but I would always nod and smile until I finally just asked who the hell he was. After I found out that the comparison wasn't completely out of left field, I made it a point to read Savage's work at any opportunity.
Someone once told me that the way you spend your New Year's Eve is the way you will spend the rest of your year. For someone who goes out as frequently as I do, travels far and wide, and is constantly meeting new people, I find this concept more difficult to swallow than that $4 bottle of champagne your friend brought to the party. If this anonymous prophecy is correct, then 2007 will be filled with a couple good friends in a city I'm just getting to know better, a few random girls who wish I were straight and a whole gaggle of guys who are glad that I'm not. Yep, sounds about right.
Two years ago around this time, my roommate, my best friend, my boyfriend and I all made one of the gayest pilgrimages of all: We went to see Cher's "Farewell Tour." We continued the evening by attending a holiday party, aptly named "All I Want for Christmas is BOOZE," wearing only jeans, scarves and Santa hats. After we made our grand entrance into the house, filled our cups from the keg and mounted the coffee table at the front of the room, we demanded that the DJ play Mariah Carey's smash hit of the season from which the party begat its name.
When we're very small, our parents do everything for us. If we're lucky, they cook our food, pick our clothes and make sure all our needs are met. As we grow older, we begin to do these things for ourselves. By the time we embark for college we can clothe and feed ourselves, perhaps even without the financial support of family. But even if we don't rely on our parents to fulfill our every need and want, there are times when it is nice to return home to their tireless care. Thanksgiving is certainly one of these times.
Best friends have the ability of bringing out the best and the worst in us. Sometimes they encourage us to change our ways, clean up our act and really live up to our potential. Other times they expose us to new addictive habits, or facilitate our shopping sprees or bed-hopping binges, but we never think less of them for it. Fortunately for me, the only thing one of my best friends has recently introduced me to is crossword puzzles.
If studying literary theory has taught me anything this semester, it is that language has the power to draw both negative and positive things into presence and that it is inherently contradictory. I'm sure many of you are familiar with saying one thing while meaning another and regretting what you might have said or perhaps that you didn't say more. This is as true in theory as it is in our relationships and sex lives.
Dear Blair Bryant,
I'm sure by now all of you are as sick as I am of hearing that Halloween is just an excuse for girls to dress like sluts and guys to dress like complete idiots. Though I agree that the holiday does provide a welcome opportunity to put our sexuality on display, it doesn't necessarily mean that this is the character we desire to portray the rest of the 364 days.