I hate sitting here listening to Esquivel with my mind ablaze as a result of the blazing that occurred last night. I can only think of mirthless, dull words to use such as "drone" and "maudlin." Well, I kind of like the word maudlin, but I hate hearing the atonal and dreary "maud."
I feel sorry for anyone around. Esquivel's "space age bachelor pad" (according to the iTunes' genre label) music takes some getting used to. And, I don't know anyone who would play this in their bachelor pad (Microsoft Word informs me that I should place "his or her" instead of "their" before bachelor pad. Ha! Learn your genders, fool!). Well, I take that back. Quagmire probably listens to Esquivel.
Inordinate numbers of people (one) have asked me what I'm writing my final column on. To be honest, I have no idea, even as I'm typing this. So, I'm deciding to begin my column by answering those acquainted cats that requested a shout out.
For those that enjoy dabbling in the snuff, YouTube "Snuffasaurus Rex." It's an ignominious GU senior doing 72 inches of brown nose candy (Go Zags!), and it will make you want to quit the snuff game while you're ahead (or behind) . . . Moving on.
I've been informed by an inside source (as in I was dropping some eaves) that the PAD will be nonexistent next year. Why? On what grounds? Every time they throw some after-dark program, a significant number of people show up. Heck, even my habitually drinking self enjoyed a sober Friday night at one of their Mario Kart 64 tournaments. Side note: For you Kart nerds/enthusiasts out there, the inhabitants of DeSmet have a Mario Kart RPI system set up. Mark my words, those kids have a bright future ahead of them. Mario Kart teaches discipline, and if your character is Peach, it instills a sense of gender equality. I'm surprised feminists haven't advocated some sort of Mario Kart indoctrination via the Princess (Ha, I can sense that the majority of English majors have already noticed the flaw in my argument. Well, I consider Peach to be the Danica Patrick of Mario Kart. Well, sort of. The only difference between the two being Peach is actually a contender and she refuses to pose semi-nude for FHM. When she isn't racing, Princess Peach is a high-class lady).
Back to the PAD. I think I'm beginning to see the logic behind the elimination of the PAD. Instead of promoting non-drinking activities, just let them loose into the alcoholic wilderness. The sink or swim approach, right? Well, the drinking culture welcomes the unknowing potential binge drinking, ex-PAD attendees with hangover-sweat-stenched arms. Better pre-order a liver.
On a shameless, self-promoting note, this Gonzaga student blog promises not to help you "Find your Missing Piece"; it will do you one better by never insinuating that you're missing one. So don't change, the Derelicts like you just the way you are. That is, unless you come under the category of one of the hilarious rants diatribed by either Derelict Mozart or Derelict Butch Cassidy, then you might catch some flak. For full body stimulation, check them out at thederelicts.blogspot.com. Alrighty, nepotistic episode over. Now on to something a little more edifying.
Just to purge myself upon this metaphorical therapist couch that is my column, I'd like to elucidate the reader (which is probably only my mom by now) to the state under which I write all my columns. I write under the duress of severe dehydration and glucose deficiency, known colloquially as "having a hangover." For some reason, in my (supposedly) impaired state, I make all these odd connections in my mind that carry no merit and are essentially baseless. Yet, my meshing of concept with absurdity intrigues me to the extent that I let my alcohol-addled brain spill onto the pages in front of you, gifting you with my sub-par insight and non-beneficial observation. To be honest, I wouldn't wish upon you anything less (as if that was possible) or more (definitely possible, but hey, I'm not Kurt Vonnegut) because that wouldn't be my style.
At the beginning of the academic year I emphasized my Luhrmiann theory, that I will bestow "my own meandering experience," and hope that my personal observation had enough credence to make for, at least ostensibly/superficially, an informative read. Have I succeeded? Well, that's not for me to decide. I'm satisfied with most of my columns, but I've always been able to attain satisfaction through one medium or another, so that's not saying much.
Considering I only have approximately 250 words, 238 now, left until I reach the word count threshold that my editor has imposed upon me, I'll briefly impart some advice that could be helpful, but only if applied prudently. Don't take anything I say as a universal truth, doing so will most likely result in your expulsion, arrest and/or death,
Own a pair of Chuck Taylors. Cultivate links to the non-Gonzaga Spokane; you'll never know when high social capital will play to your advantage. Run in Bloomsday. Make it your goal to be seductive in your demeanor and approachable in your countenance. Show concern toward the problems of others, but realize that sometimes there is nothing you can do. Don't contrive, facilitate or perpetuate drama. Find a good barber and stick with them. Have a unique laugh. Never belittle another person's musical inclinations. Develop unique habits (I have an obsession with chocolate milk). Realize how inconsequential Facebook is. Engage in celebration, never pass up the chance to socialize, school can wait (your memories from college shouldn't consist of GPA acclaim). Exercise whenever possible. It gets oxygen moving to your brain, which, I am told, is a good thing. Note how trivial them talking pictures can be. Read books, read lyrics, read poetry and note the sentences and phrases that awe you. Then recall them in order to appear knowledgeable or to impress some fair maiden. Drink and go bowling, rarely does life get more amusing. Become a Viking patron, work at a restaurant so you can learn how to tip. Most importantly, devoid yourself of your preconceptions.
My time has come to an end here, so I'll end this with an ode to Travis Rice: That's it, that's all.
"What now?" Tyler wonders with bated breath.
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