Those who stand on the cusp of change, empathize with me tonight. 13 more stops, gentle reader, and college ends for me. Now, don’t get me wrong. Although I’ve a serviceable memory, nostalgia was never one of my fancies. A few weeks, a month down the road, I will have moved on; no tear-stained yearbook, no sonorous Muzak in the background, just business–evil, media conglomerate business, natch–as usual.
For an evening, though, let us exorcise the CEO’s within and talk mom-and-pop store business. And I want to ask you this question: If you were allowed only ten characters to describe the past four years, what would they be? This resonates with the collegiate crowd, obviously, but it should hold some significance for everyone.
Your answer, dear reader? “Fulfilling.” “Broken,” but “good.” “Wasted.” “Nonpareil.”
When pressed for the reason behind your answer, you might reply, “People.” I know this to be true, in fact, simply from listening. So people, conundrums terrible and striking, dull and sublime, will partly shape your answer.
My own answer? Part of it would consist of that haunting r-word, sure, but part of it would also consist of that warm, inviting h-word. You didn’t think I’d spell it out for you, did you? Where would the fun be? Besides, it’s no doozy, let me assure you.
Nope, no dice today, gentle reader. The fire’s out, my Muse got stuck in the stairwell, and I need a vacation, but I’m not sure why. Some Ibuprofen would hit the spot as well.
Tonight was busy, gentle reader, as the Dining Crew (Tim, Esther, Brand-o, Gabi, and I) had a night on the town. On the docket were dinner at Russian Tea Time and an evening with the CSO. Good cuisine and company flowed like bullets from a Kalashnikov and 168.00 later, we left the restaurant for the symphony.
Our terrace seats made it seem as if we were in the orchestra–not close enough for Tim, however, who expressed a fervent interest in sitting right next to an Asian violist–and the acoustics were just right. Some Haydn, some Beethoven, and some too-modern Tippett made appearances, and a chorus of bubonic-like hacking punctuated the silences between movements.
And then, the centerpiece of the evening: As we drove back to campus, a nutcase on a Harley suddenly clipped the front of Esther’s car and pealed away, effectively detaching the fender from the car. A moment of silence for “Nash,” her car; okay, that’s enough. Thankfully, hit-and-runs apparently don’t increase insurance premiums, and there’s also a new fender in the stars for Nash.
As for me, dear reader, I was thoroughly traumatized by the affair. You see, the sheer size of the fender necessitated putting half of it in the trunk, half of it in the backseat. While Tim got to sit under the crushing weight of the fender, I had to share space with Brand-o–space on my lap, that is. What was disturbing was the clear disparity of enjoyment derived by different parties from the experience. I’ll spare you the details, but if you’re out there, Ms. Oda, you need to REMIND BRAND-O OF WHAT TEAM HE PLAYS FOR. Oh, the humanity! I’m compelled to curl up into fetal position once again, so please excuse me.