The Garden State That Tried Too Hard Ú Lots Of Scots Ú Shakespeare Vs.

Einstien
Drink Outside Ú 20 Ways To Make Your Parents Pay Ú NY Fashion Freak-Out

The
Collegian
I feel as though
I’m running on a
hamster wheel in
an Arizona attic.
Volume 17 Number 2 November 2005
Manifest
4
Peter Knox
7
Features
Sweating to the Music

An English Major Tours the

Toll Science Center
Karri Bragg
8
This Halloween,
The Collegian is published monthly by and for
the students at Washington College, 300 Washing-
ton Avenue, Chestertown, Maryland 21620
Local correspondence can be sent through cam-
pus mail. E-mail collegian_editor@washcoll.edu
or visit http://collegian.washcoll.edu.
The Collegian is designed on Macintosh com-
puters using Adobe InDesign and is printed at Ches-
apeake Publishing House in Elkton, Maryland.
The Collegian does not discriminate on any
basis. We reserve the right to edit submitted mate-
rial as we deem necessary. What is this? A maga-
zine for ants? This font needs to be at least three
...on the cover

Try Wearing a Costume times that size!

Renée Farrah
November 2005
10
To Scotland, Land of Giants! Volume 17, Number 2
Photo by Kaitlin Wedge
Liam Daley
11
Looking for Henry Miller,
America, or Myself Departments
Cindy Brown Rant: Is Bigger Really Better? 3
Becky Streaker
14
City vs. Country: Comics: Theology 101 5
Fashion Time Zones Jackson Ferrell
Kim Last
Round Robin: Round 2 6
16 Johanna Schaeffer
Stop and Smell the Roses
Wes Schantz Music Review: My Music, Your Ears 9
Lindsay Bergman
17
20 Things You Don’t Know Poetry 12
About Washington College Chas LiBretto, Celeste Stanley
Peter Knox
Movie Review: Elizabethtown 19
18 Megan Walburn
Orange Fence Objections Endgame 20
Lauren Campbell Will Grofic

The Issue Photo Credits:

Collegian
Will Grofic Additional Contributors
Features Editor Renée Farrah Peter Knox, Liam Daley, Cindy Brown,
Wes Schantz Lindsay Bergman, Kaitlin Wedge, www.
Peter Knox Johanna Schaeffer Karri Bragg bluecastle.com, www.halloweenstreet.
Editor-in-Chief Copy Editor Liam Daley com, www.buycostumes.com, www.shel-
Megan Walburn Cindy Brown toweehikes.com, static.flickr.com, www.
Kate Amann Assistant Copy Editor Kim Last gatewaynmra.org, www.varley.net, www.
Layout Editor Lauren Campbell bigfoto.com, www.bo.iasf.cnr.it, www.
Lindsay Bergman Molly E. Weeks Becky Streaker synlube.com, static.flickr.com, www.
Assistant Layout Editor Business Manager Jackson Ferrell cduniverse.com, www.stereoboard.com,
Chas LiBretto www.xxlmusic.sp.ru, www.womenss-
Alicia Henry Reilly Joret Celeste Stanley portslink.com, www.ultimategiftsonline.
Photography Editor Distribution Manager com, lennthompson.typepad.com, www.
ocregister.com, www.mtholyoke.edu
Rant
Is Bigger
Really Better?
Why size matters on the WC campus...
I
t is no secret that America is fat. Our country is
dominated by fast food monarchies and jumbo-
sized junk food empires. Corporations like
Nabisco, Mars, and Frito-Lay make a killing off of
our unhealthy habits, and the American people allow
their waistlines to expand along with the profits of
these marketing giants. There comes a point when we
as a people must ask ourselves when we’ve gotten fat
enough. How far can we possibly expand?
Corporate Killers Hit WAC
Not all expansion and upsizing in America
is negative. For instance, bigger hospitals need to
be built to care for the growing population of our
country, and bigger, more up-to-date schools are
required to educate our children so that they have the
resources to battle issues like obesity and government
corruption.
On the Washington campus, “bigger” means
several things. Bigger equals a new, state-of-the-
art science center (the Toll Science Building), a
scheduled-to-be-expanded Gibson Performing Arts
Center, and a dining service with more options.
However, is bringing Starbucks into the Café
necessarily a positive change? The issue has raised
eyebrows and tempers on campus recently, so one
must wonder whether or not the upgrade was for the
better. And besides the renovations to the buildings
and grounds, not many aspects of the college are
both bigger and better. Take into consideration a
more topic more relevant to this paper, the Cove.
While the Cove offers delicious items such as this
semester’s undisputed favorite, the Tipson, there
are few selections in the Cove that are void of fried,
buttery goodness. While the Cove does offer salads,
wraps, and Slim Fast bars, the number of nutritious
foods in comparison to the quantity that is cooked in
oil and butter is unbalanced.
So is the Cove actually pushing students
toward the Freshman 15? One can only speculate,
but must observe that the candy rack is large and
always full. Some of the snacks offered in the Cove
are Mega M&M’s, king-sized candy bars, 32 ounce
fountain sodas, French fries, individual ice cream
cones, a plethora of sodas, and worst of all, pints of
Ben and Jerry’s.
Vol. 17, Issue 2
Becky Streaker
When a student enters the Cove to purchase
a snack or dinner, they are bombarded with options.
Assume that our student does not consider any
of the items on the shelves and is focused only on
the menu. The choices for this student range from
deli sandwiches, which are not terribly unhealthy
but are also slathered with whipped mayonnaise, to
appetizer-esque samplings such as French fries and
mozzarella sticks. There are undoubtedly hundreds
of fans of the fried offerings of the Cove, myself
included, but should the snack bar designed to serve
young people be so full of unhealthy selections? The
only item on the menu not cooked in grease or full of
mayonnaise and oils is the Garden Salad, which can
be purchased for $2.75. However, the question then
becomes, what if a WAC student is low on cash, which
is highly likely, and didn’t make it to the dining hall
before closing time? There are food options cheaper
than the $2.75 salad. For $2.50, one could purchase
a cheeseburger, grilled in its own greases; $1.75 will
get someone a grilled cheese sandwich
that begins with two-slices of white bread
PAINTED with melted butter and three slices
of cheese; a heaping serving of French fries
can be purchased for $1.50 with an option of
cheese for dipping that will
cost one
Why eat well when you could eat this?
only $.50 more; and a hot dog, arguably the healthiest
and cheapest grill item available, will cost a dollar.
Despite the options cheaper than the salad, if a student
is really desperate enough to use his/her ID to charge
a meal to Mom and Dad, that Sho’man is not likely
to buy only a garden salad, especially considering
The Collegian
the Cove’s recent addition of specials which offer a
calorie riddled sandwich, fries, and soda for the low
bargain price of fill-in-the-blank.
Well, what can you do...?
The intention of the Cove and WAC
Dining Services to offer foods that are appealing to
college students is commendable and, most likely,
appreciated. It is certainly an expensive undertaking
to re-vamp the Café and offer more items in the
Cove. It is probably cheaper to offer foods that can
be frozen and then deep-fried as opposed to freshly
breaded and baked chicken or lean ground beef for
every Tipson and burger made. Fresh food, low in
preservatives and chemicals, spoils faster and is less
likely to turn any real profit for the snack bar if not
enough are sold. (And c’mon, chemicals taste really
good. They’re designed to!)
But does cheaper necessarily mean better?
And shouldn’t the interests of dining services lie in
the health and well-being of the students it serves
rather than turning a profit? Well...yes. Greasy,
fattening foods do not have to be a perpetuated trend
at Washington College. The purpose of this article
is not to start a revolution of any kind against the
Cove and what it serves, but the fact of the matter
is that we as a student body could be provided with
healthier options. It may cost more to buy fresh foods
and perhaps sales will suffer if all king-sized candies
are taken off the shelves, but the student population
will not go hungry and will be less likely to gain any
weight at all. Options available now that are steps in
the right direction include Baked Lays potato chips,
half-pints of skim milk, Slim-Fast bars, and the fresh
fruit cups and salads. The solution to the problem
is to be determined by the powers that be, but a
response from the student body could only accelerate
the process.
A National Epidemic Evident in Chestertown
The obesity of Americans and the
monopolization of many Americans’ diets by the
fast food royal family is a second problem college
students are faced with. In the small community of
Chestertown, many aspects of life have managed to
stay relatively simple and easy-going. The town is full
of bookstores, antique shops, cafes, privately-owned
restaurants, and knick-knack boutiques. However,
the farther one travels from the river bank, the closer
one comes to corporate America’s encroachment.
Within two miles of the college, heading North, there
are two shopping centers, both containing at least
one fast food restaurant. The Kent Plaza strip mall
contains not only a Kentucky Fried Chicken/Taco
Bell restaurant, but also an Arby’s. And not a mile
up the road from Kent Plaza is Washington Square,
proudly accommodating the golden arches. While
these restaurants can in no way be removed from the
Chestertown landscape, they are still obstacles for the
college student on a budget to overcome. When the
Cove, Café, and dining hall are closed for the night,
late-night munchies come calling. It is the 24-hour
McDonald’s drive-thru that answers the rumblings of
tummies in the wee hours of college life. Ú
3

Sweating
to the Music
I
’m an athlete but I don’t play a varsity sport.
There’s no coach, team, or ball. I don’t play
for points, statistics, or attention. There are
no trophies, scholarships, or dinners. I’m one of
hundreds on the playing field, and without referees,
a game clock, or code of conduct there’s plenty of
blood, sweat, and tears along with a huge potential for
injuries, discomfort, and disappointment. The payoff
is a rush that gets you higher than drugs, skydiving,
or scoring that game-winning touchdown. It’s being
a part of something bigger than you – it’s going to a
concert.
The first step is getting in the game – you
need a ticket, and the cost to attend a show ensures a
sporadic schedule at best. A headlining concert tour
is as expensive as dinner at the Melting Pot, or good
seats at a professional football game or Broadway
musical. Some concerts are well over a hundred
dollars, but most are between thirty and seventy
dollars. When tickets go on sale, some sell out in
minutes. An experienced concert-goer has their
fingers on the pulse of the touring circuit and never
hesitates to put tickets on a credit card that they’ll
have to pay months before the actual event.
There are, however, plenty of cheap shows
that are just as good – it’s finding them that matters.
LIVE 8, this last July, was free, the annual Warped
Tour is always around twenty dollars, and local
smaller venues are usually only a few bucks. Paying
this cover is easy, but the Ticketmaster charges, the
4 The Collegian
Peter Knox
tank of gas, and the city parking increase your initial
investment by more than fifty dollars. It helps to
bring a few friends. Once you find the sometimes-
obscure location, the pre-game begins.
Tailgating doesn’t just happen at football
games. Concert-goers are there hours before a show,
finding the good parking and good people. The bigger
the show, the bigger the pre-party.
There are always a few attendees who
don’t even last long enough to see the
band, but that’s like spraining your ankle
during warm-ups. I’ve been in parking
lots that resembled fraternity parties
and knew right away the concert would
be amazing. Tailgating is part of the
experience. Stopping at Wawa on the
way to the show, I buy a hoagie, water,
energy drinks, and water, because the
price for everything doubles the second
you leave the parking lot. The parking
lot is full of people wanting tickets,
selling tickets, and soliciting you to
buy their dumb stickers – oblivious to the fact that
you spent your paycheck just getting there.
You need to enter the show prepared for the
endurance test inside, and that’s why my car is littered
with hoagie wraps, receipts, and piles of empty Red
Bulls. Personally, I’ve changed to RockStar, an
energy price of equal value but double the size and
caffeine quality of Red Bull (it can be purchased at the
Student Center café or local Rofo). If
you want to combine your energy drink
with alcohol, I recommend Sparks – the
same amount of caffeine as a RockStar,
but with the same amount of alcohol as
a beer.
The uniform is very important in
such a concert event. No matter how
cold it is outside, wearing more than
a t-shirt will only cause problems
later on, and anything you can’t fit in
a pocket should be left in the car (I
take only my ID, cash, and car key).
I would never let someone in my car
wearing sandals, a button down shirt,
or a t-shirt of the band we’re going to
see. If the band roadies aren’t wearing the shirt of the
band they’re working for, neither should you. It’s a
red flag singling out a concert rookie and warranting
unwanted attention – simply never do it. The key is to
wear a shirt of a band that isn’t playing that you also
like as it shows off your musical taste and experience.
Van’s skateboarding shoes and Converse All Stars
are as common at shows as piercings, tattoos, and
mohawks. Basically, everyone is trying to look as
unique as everyone else.
Forget the money you paid and the time you
spent trying to look natural, the real game starts once
the first band takes the stage. Instantly, the crowd
surges forward and it’s obvious who’s playing and
who’s sitting on the bench. I’m sure you can stand on
the sidelines calmly watching the band and the pit of
idiots in front of them and still have fun – but you go
to the concert to interact with the music and you can’t
do that holding coats backed up against the wall.
No matter how unknown and terrible the
opening band is, it’s important to establish your
position immediately, as no one appreciates the
assholes pushing through the crowd for the headlining
band at the last minute. Obviously, everyone wants
to be up close in front of the stage, and with some
perseverance you can be there too. And this is when
the action starts. I’ve heard of complaining about
fouls and missed calls during a basketball game, but
in the middle of hundreds of people there is no such
luxury.
Assuming the appropriate position is vital to
survival in the pit. The mass of people in front of the
stage is not called the pit for its polite and controlled
celebration of musical talent. Packed in by people on
all sides, usually there is just enough room to stand
up straight and breathe – actually the breathing is
pretty difficult. One must extend their arms, bent at
the elbow, directly in front of them to push off the
backs of the people closer to the stage. Keeping alive
at this point is usually the biggest priority and also
the biggest problem.
Not only are you given two square feet of
space and forced to push off for breathing rights,
but people of all sizes are dropping on your head
and expecting you to keep them moving towards the
stage. Just as you’re comfortable and enjoying the
show, someone kicks you in the back of the head to let
you know they’re coming – talk about personal space
violations. Unless you’re stepping on someone as
well, you’re completely blanketed by people. Crowd
November 2005
surfing, while obviously dangerous, is inevitable at a
concert. Hopefully you’re standing next to a taller,
stronger person, because otherwise you’re on your
own and many unannounced people plan on crashing
down on your head.
Ladies, I apologize – not only are you
being molested in the pit, but you’re unable to see
over the hulking ex-football player in front of you
and powerless to pass fat sweaty men over your
head. And I mean sweaty. As the crowd moves,
there is pushing, falling, and jumping for hours on
end, resulting in a collective pool of perspiration.
I’ve wrung my shirt out on a hot summer parking
lot several times and even though a lot of the sweat
isn’t mine, I feel as though I’m running on a hamster
wheel in an Arizona attic. You’re receiving a full
body workout just keeping on your feet, pushing for
space, and lifting people over your head – experience
people pay for in a gym membership.
And the greatest phenomenon would
have to be the moshpit. Out of nowhere a circle
is hammered out of the crowded mass only to be
filled with punching, kicking guys that appear to be
having a seizure instead of fun. Immediately, people
on the outside fight to remain so, pushing everyone
away from themselves and into the mosh pit, where
Vol. 17, Issue 2
those pushed are likely to be in the same situation.
Personally, I come to see the band, but I have dabbled
in short spurt mosh pitting and no longer feel that a
rugby game is risky. For those few seconds in the pit,
I was more concerned about being hit from behind
than letting the music move me to violence. The
fact that many of these people are operating under
the influence of drugs and alcohol is beyond me – a
handicap like that would be too much to handle for
myself.
Why would I spend nine hours standing
in July heat, completely surrounded by all types
of humankind, screaming, jumping, and dancing,
surviving on a half a bottle of water? Simple: to be
ten feet from Metallica playing to sixty thousand
people. I’ve driven eight hours one way to see a
band play six songs before they had to quit (the lead
singer had laryngitis). I’d drive five hours a night for
a chance to see Weezer play in Atlantic City. Each
summer sends me to the Warped Tour only to get
lost on Camden on the way home (every time). The
Nintendo Fusion Tour meant I was seeing the same
show on Thursday and Monday – and it never gets
old. I constantly wonder what the shirtless guy with
“White Trash” tattooed on his back does for a living
and where these beautiful band groupies are during
The Collegian
the week (the answer is middle school).
What really does it is the band itself. I would
never waste the time, money, and energy to see a
politician, celebrity, or football game (save the Super
Bowl) that I commit myself to the second I see that
Fall Out Boy and the Starting Line are on the same
tour. Rock stars are easily the most powerful people
alive. Many people have no idea what happens in
Congress, but can tell you just how big Tommy Lee’s
penis actually is. The band tells you to put your
middle fingers in the air and everyone does it without
hesitation. The moment someone in the entertainment
industry does something unique, it becomes a trend.
Fans of bands can be the most passionate
people I know and simply being at a concert where
you have the opportunity to sing every word with
the band (and everyone else at the show) is an
undeniable experience. If my church was more like
the 9:30 Club, I’d be there every Sunday – seeing
your favorite band play that one song can be more
amazing than any religious experience. The Muslims
have their Mecca, but I’d follow a band around the
world. The trick will be getting someone to pay me
Ú
for it next year.
5
 I
n an instant, Travis and Jules had me surrounded
Round 2
in a three-man bear hug. It vaguely occurred to
me, as my face pressed scratchy against Travis’
wool coat, that this had been my first physical contact
with other human beings in weeks.
“Good to see you, man,” Travis exclaimed. I
Johanna Schaeffer desperately tried to get out of my head. These were
my friends. Once we had much in common; why not
Round Robin now?
“Where will we be dining this evening, oh
my brothers?” Jules had developed an obsession
with A Clockwork Orange in high school, to the point
of adopting the language in the book as his own. It
was annoying, pretentious, but familiar. In spite of
myself, I smiled to hear him.
“Someplace where we can smoke cigarettes and
carry on obnoxiously,” I said, knowing the rest of
them knew exactly the place I was talking about: the
Dirty Hen Diner.
The thing I’d liked about the Dirty Hen
was the way it was so, well, dirty. The linoleum
was stained like the bottom of an old thermos. The
chrome tables left your elbows greasy. The floor
was liberally sprinkled with sawdust. The place was
open 24 hours, mainly for worn-out truckers seeking
coffee and pie. The three of us used to go there in
the middle of the night, talk over cups of coffee in
uncontainable tones. Sometimes, in high school, I’d
go by myself, drive there in the early morning on my
way to school, and wish I was as grizzled as some
of the truckers who’d come
in. The Greek cooks and
limp-haired waitresses always
seemed to welcome us. It was
probably our generous middle-
class tipping, but who cared.
We could carry on obnoxiously
and smoke cigarettes.
Our waitress was
typically limp-haired and
lipsticked- and about thirteen
months pregnant. She looked about our age; the
badge on her smock said her name was Kimmi. The
circles around her eyes were darker than my own. I
rubbed my eyes self-consciously and looked down at
the smoke spinning off my cigarette as I listened to
my friends order.
Travis had a chicken-fried steak with
seasoned fries.
I knew I was a stranger here, a middle class
kid wishing he was James Dean, trying to slum but
sticking out like a sore thumb. I felt sorry for Kimmi,
realized sorry was the wrong way to feel but couldn’t
be different.
Jules, still a vegetarian, ordered what he
always had when we came to the Hen, a Caesar
salad.
“You know there’s anchovies in that
dressing?” Travis asked him.
“It’s okay to eat fish, they don’t have any
feelings,” quoted Jules. Travis laughed. It was a
facile justification. I couldn’t muster a laugh. Neither
could Kimmi, who probably didn’t get the Cobain
reference.
“So I’m at the Millions More March, right?”
6 The Collegian
Travis was beginning a story. But I was distracted
when a midget walked into the Hen. And I realized
how much of a bad joke the night was turning into.
“So three white boys and a midget walk into a
diner…” I caught myself staring, more into space
than at the midget, and told myself to snap out of
it. Travis and Jules were laughing hysterically at
something. I prayed they weren’t laughing at the
poor midget, who was trying awkwardly to hoist his
squat little body onto the barstool at the far corner of
the counter.
“The name of the company was what?”
Jules creeched with laughter. I was aware of Travis
lowering his voice to respond as the people in the
diner began to glare in our direction. I couldn’t
focus. I looked at Kimmi, waddling down to her last
table with coffee. She was tired, so much more than
I was. The midget was still trying to get comfortable.
He had a club foot in a giant orthopedic shoe, and it
was stuck on one of the lower rungs of the barstool.
“Apparently it was a clothing company of
some kind.” Travis replied. I wasn’t listening. It
didn’t matter. Jules and Travis were engrossed in
their own conversation. I had nothing to contribute,
even if I wanted to.
Our waitress was lumbering to our table,
balancing her huge belly and a tray piled with
food. I saw her round the corner of the bar. It was
one of those slow-motion moments when you see
everything as it happens, as the perfect observer. A
bedraggled couple was across from us, having a tiff
with their coffee. Three truckers in flannel shirts
slumped on the barstools next to the midget. The
cook was sliding a plate of eggs across the counter.
And Travis and Jules were unaware of the impending
disaster. It was typical physical comedy: the waitress
tripped over the midget’s giant orthopedic shoe, the
tray clattered to the floor. Dishes broke. Steak, eggs,
anchovy dressing went everywhere, including all
over Kimmi and the midget.
There was complete silence. For a moment
we were all frozen in time. Then Jules and Travis
began to laugh, hysterically. They hooted and
slapped the table. Spittle flew from their gaping,
awful mouths. I hated them.
And then Kimmi began to cry. Covered
in anchovy dressing, she sobbed until she couldn’t
breathe, choked on her breath, and sobbed some
more.
I would always be an interloper. I would
always be on the outside of the window looking in.
I would never be like these people in the Dirty Hen,
would never be like my friends. But in that moment,
I saw everything clearly. Some things transcend
manmade boundaries like class, race, and even
depression.
I grabbed some napkins, got up, and helped
Kimmi wipe off her smock. I was filled with
compassion. I wanted to take her someplace where
someone could serve her coffee, where she could rest
her feet, lie down and sleep for a while.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I asked
her.
“I can’t. That’s my husband.” She pointed
at the midget.Ú
November 2005
A
s I walked down the Cater Walk the other day,
I happened to overhear a student discussing
a production on campus called “Picasso
and Einstein.” The title of this play highlights the
classic debate over science versus art. On our tiny
liberal arts campus, the juxtaposition of these studies
is apparent.
When I visited this campus a few years
ago as a high school student, WC offered a cozy
and colonial atmosphere. We even had a few small
colonial houses standing on the outskirts of campus
as offices and locations for student activities (i.e.
the Lit House). Now, the John Toll Science Center
stands as the paradigm of science, towering over the
Math House in all its glory.
As an English major, I’ve heard many
professors complaining about the hideous structure
and gargantuan size of the building. At the same
time, I’ve heard plenty of biology majors tell me how
much they love its wonderful technology and modern
structure. In order not to let down my liberal arts
professors, I have decided to form my own opinions
about the Toll Center.
(A warning to all of you cynics: The
following perspective may seem jaded, but let me
assure you, I’m not completely uneducated when it
comes to science. I took a few AP science courses in
high school and I got an A in General Bio freshman
year. Still not convinced? I’ve caught reruns of Bill
Nye the Science Guy and I’ve seen Weird Science.)
One fine morning, I make my way past the
construction of Dunning/Decker
and stand before the Toll Science
Center, a fellow English major
in tow. I stand outside for a
moment, staring up at the brick
structure. It’s huge, I think, but
not pretty. I enter the ground floor
and take a look-see at the lobby.
My friend immediately speaks up,
“Don’t you feel like you’re in a
doctor’s office? Wow, I’m getting
nervous like I’m about to have
teeth pulled.” Come to think of
it, the furniture in the sitting area
is sterile. There aren’t even any
trashy, celebrity gossip magazines
to look at before the nurse comes
out to retrieve you.
As I make my way down
the halls, I peer into a professor’s
office and notice scanty furnishings
and few photos or decorations. I
can think of at least 3 English profs
who have great offices, complete
with posters and a huge collection
of novels and poetry. Lest I forget,
these science professors probably
have little time for reading, they are too busy probing
the human mind and dissecting small animals. I shed
a quick tear for them and continue on.
I reach the masterpiece of the Toll Center’s
design- the atrium. Holy cow. I must say, this room
is beautiful, if you are into glass and minimalist
furniture. Oh! I’ve hit a gold mine! There is one
Vol. 17, Issue 2
An English Major
Tours the Toll
Science Center
piece of artwork- finally, something that doesn’t
remind me of a hospital cafeteria. It’s a shame it’s
only a painting of a college dignitary. They could use
a little of Blake’s artwork in here- maybe a painting
of the “tyger, tyger burning bright”? No? Okay,
maybe that idea is better meant for Gillin’s office.
There is a sign directing students and visitors
to the appropriate rooms and locations they may
be searching for. Even T.S. Eliot throws foreign
language into his poetry, but this sign is Greek to me.
“Aquaculture Tank Room”? “Gel Documentation
Room”? I can define each of those words individually
and I would have won with these words in the
elementary school spelling bee, but honestly, what
does all that mean?
Before I head upstairs, I have to sneak a
peek in the fridge which stands in the kitchen area
of the atrium. Mmmm, condiments and trail mix.
These science people just become more and more
The Collegian
Karri Bragg
interesting to me. I’m fairly certain Kiplin Hall
students enjoy better food than this. I run underneath
the glass sheets hanging as “decoration”, imagining
that I’m narrowly escaping the guillotine, and hit the
stairs.
I begin to feel disoriented. Isn’t this floor
identical to the first? It’s quickly pointed out to me
by my observant friend that alas, the couches in the
second floor lobby are covered in blue-striped fabric,
not red like those on the first floor. Duh. I notice
that the memo boards are plastered with charts and
graphs. The lines and dots mean nothing to me, and
for a minute I feel like spouting
Wordsworth at the next student
in a lab coat who passes me
just to see their reaction.
Ever the observer, my friend
notices that the posters on the
bulletin boards are held up by
push pins. Four push pins,
one in every corner. This
might seem trivial, but who
has time for that? Uh oh, I
see someone’s a deviant. On
one poster, two of the pins are
clear, but two others are red.
What do you scientists call
this? Entropy?
The walls start to close in.
This place is too sterile! Do
these people have any sort of
fun? I run to the top floor of
the building and revel at the
view offered at the top of the
stairs. I start to breathe at the
sight of trees and skyline. I
have a Blake-ian moment as
I stare at nature, and I say a
silent thank you to Coleridge
for helping me not to collapse in the grips of mad
science. I make a mad dash for the exit, vowing
never to return.
Okay, so maybe I’m being dramatic, but I
think I speak for all English scholars and students
when I say that bigger (and more sterile) isn’t
necessarily better. Now off to the Lit House. Ú
7
 next Halloween.

This Halloween,
If spending a lot of money
on a Halloween costume is
not an option, there’s always
homemade. You can make a
prety interesting costume

Try Wearing
by going to a thrift store
to gather costume pieces,
or by attaining cardboard
beer boxes and other random
items. There are no limitations

a Costume
in creativity with the traditional
homemade costumes. These
can prove to be more original
and hilarious than the store-
bought frocks.
Renée Farrah There are plenty of helpful
tips and amusing articles
online to provide a starting-off point. I stumbled

H
alloween season has come and gone, and the
online costume industry has racked in
plenty of hard earned cash from
diehard Halloween fans. Costumes are
needed for little trick or treaters,
enthusiastic door answerers, the pets
of the enthusiastic door answerers,
and of course, partygoers. According
to the National Retail Federation (NRF),
$1.09 billion was spent on costumes in
2004, making Halloween the “sixth largest
spending holiday of the year.” One of
the best parts of attending a Halloween
party is seeing which costumes
the guests have chosen. It’s similar to
attending an awards show red carpet to see
which costumes have made the cut. Some
choose to make their own while others take
the store-bought approach. Most people
today like their costumes like their food:
made by someone else, prepackaged, and
ready to be enjoyed at a moment’s notice.
The most difficult part is choosing one
from the menu.
Cady said it right in the movie Mean Girls
when she said, “Halloween is the one night a year
a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls
can say anything about it.” There are variety of
“Sexy Costumes,” from the “Naughty Nun” and
“Nurse” to the “Sexy Ladybug.” There’s also a
twist on everyone’s favorite fairy
tale characters thanks to minimal
fabric, and thigh high stockings.
This category is a favorite among
college girls, and is
probably a favorite of
college guys as well.
However, the desire to be
dressed in a costume in this
category may backfire in
the horrifying phenomenon
of The Same. As in, one
girl has the same costume
as another, thus making it
impossible for her to look her
best due to nearby competition.
There is a way to avoid this embarrassment,
and that is to have a costume that no one
else will have, even if that means
sacrificing some dignity.
People are getting less
tasteful but more creative and
hilarious every year. My personal
favorites are costumes that are
a play on words. “Talk
to the Hand” is a giant
hand with a face hole
cut out; “Blow Me” is a
tissue box; “Holy S#*t” is a
brown, oval costume with a
halo and wings, “No S#*t
Sherlock” is a brown oval
with a pipe, hat and cape and the “don’t”
signal; and the “Deviled Egg” is an egg
costume with devil horns and tail. There are
equally classy couple costumes
such as the “Plug and Socket,”
“Nut and Bolt,” and “Lock and
Key.” The corniness oozes out of
these innuendoes and brings
a smirk to everyone’s face. There’s
no better way to declare your love
for someone on Halloween than
to be dressed as a giant heart
with the words “I’ve Got A
Heart On” (say it out loud
to get the joke). Then there
is the individually strange,
such as “The Man-Eating
Shark,” various food items,
and an “Adult Baby
in a Highchair.” You
could also be a “Slot
Machine,” or what’s
sure to be a hit on a college
campus, a “Working Beer Keg.” At
times, just looking at the pictures online
of a very excited person dressed as Jesus
is entertaining enough to make that costume a good
idea. The possibilities are endless, and for an average
of $28 being spent on costumes in the US, any one of
these gems could be yours to adorn yourself with for
upon an article in which a mother did not approve of
the costume her child wanted her to purchase for the
trick-or-treating season and requested help in making
a more acceptable one herself. I do believe, however,
that plenty of offensive costumes can also be made
in the home.
The Pet Costume category amused me for
longer than it probably should have. The idea of
having fake limbs dangling from a costume in order
to simulate an upright standing position is incredibly
entertaining. Dogs and cats can now resemble your
favorite superhero, Star Wars character, and fairy
tale princess. Some may see this as animal cruelty,
but you must remember what humans are putting
on themselves; they are just as ridiculous. An owner
could even match his or her pet and establish a
theme with this new option for their four legged
friend. Naturally there are more than just Halloween
costumes out there. Your pet could be “Santa’s Little
Helper” with fake limbs or “Pup Shalom” which
includes its very own blue Tallith
and matching Yarmulke. If you
have a birthday or graduation
coming up, you can get your
pet the proper outfit to blend
right in with the festivities
as well.
The defining term
of Halloween costumes
seems to be “options”. You
can find practically anything
to be for Halloween nowadays,
and with the internet and
online shopping, it has never
been easier to purchase them.
Costumes were once worn to
trick drifting spirits into rejecting
a body to possess. Now it’s a great
excuse for everyone to look sexy,
scary, cute, and hysterical on All
Hallows Eve. Ú

8 The Collegian November 2005


Danger Doom
The Mouse and the
Mask
Do I really have to say
more than “The Mouse
and the Mask is a
collaboration inspired
by Adult Swim” to make a bunch of college kids
interested? Let’s list some more positive aspects, then,
shall we? Danger Doom is a collaboration between
DJ Danger Mouse and MF Doom. DJ Danger Mouse
worked with the Gorillaz on Demon Days, on which
MF Doom made an appearance. DJ Danger Mouse
is also behind The Grey Album. Bigger names,
such as Talib Kweli, Ghostface Killah and Cee-Lo
appear on The Mouse and the Mask as well. So, as
confusing as all this who-appears-where business can
be, it seems to assure a good mix of styles. Even
if you know nothing about hip hop (I’m from rural
Pennsylvania, give me a break), this album is totally
accessible. Also, the references to Adult Swim shows
and appearances by Adult Swim characters make The
Mouse and the Mask something totally fun. Master
Shake’s answering machine messages and Meatwad
rapping provide enough reasons to purchase this
album. As mentioned, I’m not really qualified in
the department of hip hop, but I seriously cannot get
enough of this album.
Franz Ferdinand
You Could Have It So
Much Better
Franz Ferdinand’s
sophomore album,
You Could Have it So
Much Better, really
isn’t lying. It’s by no
means a bad album, but it’s nothing that great, either.
The band has officially become that sophomore
cliché. The first track, “The Fallen” is upbeat and
catchy as hell. It sounds very good at very loud
volumes. After that, it just starts going downhill.
Essentially, You Could Have It So Much Better is just
a better-produced version of their debut. They think
that similar hooks will work again and not bore you.
They underestimate your taste. This album has no
songs that could sell you a Sony PSP. Unless you are
a dedicated Franz Ferdinand fan, skip it.
Vol. 17, Issue 2
Review
My Music,
Your Ears
Ashlee Simpson
I Am Me
I wasn’t expecting
much from this
album, so I wasn’t
disappointed. Aside
from applying too much
eyeliner and going
back to blonde (thus achieving the look of a cracked-
out version of her older sister), Ashlee followed the
same formula for her sophomore effort I Am Me. Her
previous album, Autobiography, included the “I’m
me – deal with it!” and “My life is not so perfect, I
swear!” tracks, and those are present on this album
as well. There is a new addition, though, rearing
its catchy yet annoying head, and that would be the
“Gwen Stefani’s ‘Hollaback Girl’ is an inspiration
to us all!” track. This new trend is most notable in
the song “L.O.V.E.,” a track about how important
your female friends are when your boyfriend is a
manwhore, which I’m sure is a meaningful anthem
for all 8th grade girls. Furthermore, I started noticing
that the songs followed pretty much the same kind
of order as her previous album, but I had to ignore
this conspiracy theory or risk being even bitchier
than I am now. The sad part is that I encouraged the
creation of this album by purchasing her first one.
Even worse, I’ll probably listen to this album, too.
I’ll enjoy it like a six pack of Bacardi Razz and a bad
chick flick with MaH gUrLz (HoLlA!) on a Friday
night.
INXS
Pretty Vegas
INXS released its first
single on iTunes with J.D.
Fortune as lead singer.
This new version of J.D.’s
The Collegian
Lindsay Bergman
song “Pretty Vegas” is excellent. The band fleshed it
out and gave it the middle it needed but didn’t have
time to have on Rock Star: INXS. By next month,
the band will have a new album. Buck up people, I’ll
try to contain myself. Maybe I can restrain myself
from writing about INXS anymore until I see them in
February. It’s possible, but doubtful.
Depeche Mode
Playing the Angel
Playing the Angel is
the return of Depeche
Mode in more than
one way. Four years
ago, the release of
Exciter had many
die-hard fans scrunching their noses and scratching
their heads. Playing the Angel goes back to the more
traditional Depeche Mode sound, actually falls in the
same ballpark as Violator. Let’s put a really big aside
in here for everyone who looks at me funny when
I talk about Depeche Mode and INXS: These are
bands that have been around since the 1980’s; they
have survived the tests of time, they definitely do not
suck, and—if you think hard—you could probably
name a few of their songs. In the case of Depeche
Mode, the album Violator featured the songs “Enjoy
the Silence” and “Personal Jesus” (recently covered
by Marilyn Manson and the late Johnny Cash). END
LESSON. Playing the Angel is dark, but has echoes
of the sound that made the melancholy so appealing
back in the day. It’s a solid, beautiful album that says,
“Hey, remember us? We’re definitely not dead.”
Playing the Angel is worth checking out if you a)
know who Depeche Mode is, b) don’t know who they
are, but feel adventurous, c) think I’m a bitch with no
taste and want to prove me wrong.
9
 LOCAL CULTURE

As you can see from the photograph below, I

have already seamlessly integrated myself into the native
To Scotland,
culture. I am the figure in the upper right-hand corner with
the hat. A Japanese couple on their honeymoon took this
photograph. When travelling abroad, always have your
Land of Giants!
picture taken by Japanese tourists, if you can possibly Liam Daley

F
manage it. They’re friendly, polite, and invariably know or the past month I have been living in a great and wondrous country
how to work your camera. known as Scotland. Radical journalist and fellow malcontent John Wilkes
said in 1763 that “Scotland is a treeless, flowerless land, formed out of
the refuse of the universe, and inhabited by the very bastards of creation.” And
of course, his words are just as true today.

As you can see, kilts are indeed a compulsory

garment if one is to be accepted into society. They are
worn by both men and women, and anyone without one is
instantly identified as a tourist. And that big guy walking
down the middle of the road with the kilt, the jack boots,
the camouflage jacket, and the shaved head? Yeah, you
don’t want to screw with that guy.

NOTABLE EVENTS
Because it was invented here, golf is quite
popular in St. Andrews. The ancient and noble
sport has attracted many celebrities from around
the globe to this tiny hamlet. One girl remarked
that she caddied for Michael Douglas, another
claimed to have bumped into Hugh Grant on the
way out of a bookshop. I
myself saw Boy George,
Monica Lewinsky, and Sir
Ian McKellen (Gandalf in
the Lord of the Rings films)
at a pub one night. Both Miss
Lewinsky and Mr. George
seemed a bit uppity, but Sir
Ian was very gracious, and
sang his famous rendition of “Somewhere My
Love Lies Sleeping” with a random old Scottish
man on the piano, to the great delight of all those
present.
Other than golf, the main draw (for
celebrities and commonfolk alike) is the ruins.
The Cathedral of St. Andrews was ruined, I
believe, by lightning sometime in the seventeenth
century, and has enjoyed greater popularity in the
three hundred years since than it ever did while
it was intact. The Tower, however, remains fully
erect to this day, and the picture you see (in the
background) was taken from the top of it. It is
of course, the famous Tower in which Richard
III was reported to have murdered his two young
nephews, the “Princes in the Tower” as they have
become popularly known, in order to become
king.
By far, the most notable event has not
been the golf, nor encounters with celebrities, nor
my visit to the ruins, but the Socs Fayre. The Socs
Fayre is an annually event greatly anticipated
by the students here. In the Scottish language,
it literally means “Societies
Fayre” or as we would say “Club
Fair.” It is a gathering of all the
various Clubs at the University
of St. Andrews into a single
place, where they recruit new
members in a ritualistic two-day
baccenalia of beer-and-whiskey-
soaked pagan frenzy. Much like
Christmas and Halloween, our own modern Club
Fair held in Martha Washington Square has its
roots in this sacred and ancient festival.
The variety of clubs available to join
is quite staggering. They have the usual ones:
Music Society, Scouting and Guiding Society,
College Newspaper and so on. But there is also
a Juggling Society, Historical Re-Enactment
Society, Knitting Society, LGBT (which, if you’ve
never had an LGBT, I definitely recommend it;
for me, it’s the grapefruit that really completes
the sandwich), Gilbert and Sullivan Society,
Christian Music and Drama Society, Gourmet
Food Society, Real Ale Society (free pint with
your membership fees), Whisky Society (free
dram with your membership fees), Tea Drinking
Society, (no free tea, oddly enough), Skydiving,
Dr. Who Fan Club, and Canadian, Islamic, and
Scandinavian Societies, to name only a small
fraction.
But the truly amazing thing about the Socs
Fayre is not the variety of available Socs, though
of course the available selection at our own dear
Alma Mater pales in comparison. Rather it is the
intensity with which each and every one of the
Socs wants you to join. Everywhere one turned,
it was “You! Join the Fly Fishing Society!” (Or
whatever) “But I’ve never fly fished in my life.”
“It’s alright, we’ll teach you. Come along, it’s a
party!”
The remarkable thing is that this attitude
has much broader applications than simply this
festival. Every time I have mentioned to one of the
natives that I am studying here for the year they
reply, “Well you ought to come here next year as
well. Finish it out in St. Andrews.” In both cases,
I have the same reply. “Well that’s very kind of
you, but really isn’t that a little premature on your
part? After all, for all you know I might be a total
asshole. And then think how sorry you’d be that I
came.” At this point, they usually laugh.
Well, we’ll see who’s laughing in the
end.Ú

10 The Collegian November 2005

 I
found heartache and disappointment around I needed the Left Bank. I began to rack
every turn. In Paris, the streets are signed my brain in hopes of remembering
with little blue squares nailed to the second enough of directional French to get me
floors of buildings where, at high speeds, it out of the park and onto the left bank.
is easy to miss the Rue St. Michel and end Police Officers. Of course.
up in a part of Paris that isn’t so welcoming. They laughed at me as they spoke no
The unfamiliar, unsigned path - this was part English either and pointed left with
of looking for Henry Miller and looking for an à droite de (right) and the forward
America in myself. I tossed the map. with a derrière (behind). I got the
The first wrong turn took me into the joke. Thanks. Pissed, I took of on the
wriggling mess of a highway in the Grande scooter again and headed towards the
Arch (the business district) just outside the highway. Death be damned. Though
city limits. In an attempt to (modernize and) Miller didn’t believe in signs, I
experience a bicycle ride from Miller’s followed quite a few back over the
“Saturday Afternoon,” I rented a motor scooter Seine and through a rather boring
and ventured off into the heat of a mid-July industrial neighborhood that reminded
afternoon. Every turn led me right back to me of my home in the outskirts of
where I had started; I eventually had a near-collision with a motorcycle Baltimore. I stopped the bike and could have sworn I was standing outside
that left me sprawled on the side of the road with a work truck squealing to of the graphic design firm I worked for years ago. There were no trees, no
a halt inches from my scooter. signs of life - hopelessness. I recognized it and it felt like home. I heard
I found myself growing angry as I lay face down in the pavement that the sound of an elevated train and followed it with the reminiscence a
was once a single lane road with a bicycle path that Miller himself had once neighborhood in Queens were I used to live. I felt safe and silently said,
ridden down. People were screaming at me in French and my elementary “Thank you, Henry.”
understanding of it was enough for me to know they were concerned, not Suddenly the Latin Quarter, where Miller spent his time and which he
angry. The man in the truck lifted the scooter off my leg and I discovered wrote about extensively, came out of nowhere. The streets were bustling and
my foot had been badly injured; I will bear the scar for the rest of my life. served me no purpose other than disappointment. One-way streets turning
I waved them into one-way streets and circles were an endless Washington, D.C.
off with a cycle. Home? D.C. was never home. The public toilets Miller once
“C’est Bien. favored and wrote enthusiastically about were now replaced with
Allez.” They telephone booths. Oddly, one of those booths was right outside of
roared away, a school for the deaf. I sat in front of it and sipped a Coke with
their engines one ice cube,
echoing under sweating in the
the overpass, and sun. Where were
I found myself you Miller, when
completely alone I was looking for
and close to tears. you there? Every
“I could have died,” I thought to myself. What would I have found then? memory of you had been
I found my way and crossed the Pont Neuilly, over the Seine, and stripped and preserved in
back into Paris. The Champs-Elysses quivered in the afternoon light and your books.
exhaust of cars. I bore right on the first street after the bridge and ventured I didn’t need
into the park. Here, everything seemed simple. I slowed the scooter and signs or tour guides or
took notice of everything around me. For a moment, I almost felt as though companionship to find
I were pedaling through Paris in the 1950’s. How much of nature can change my way back to America.
in fifty years when it is left untouched by man? Gardens, everywhere – they There were times in Paris
were beautiful, in bloom. The smell of summer rose over the exhaust of when my Americanism
my bike, blocking out the memory that I was an American in Paris. I was stuck out like an overused
simply a person riding through the City of Love. I was lost, again but not cliché. Bad driving, bad
from a wrong turn. I could see St. Cloud, the highway ahead of me…the directions, bad taste in
highway? I had gone too far. Again. I guess I did make a wrong turn. clothes. And there were
I stopped the bike and in a kind voice asked everyone that passed, times, riding that scooter,
“Do you speak English?” All anyone gave me was a nod of the head. when I didn’t feel so out of place. Paris was home to Miller and he saw
Directions. Directions. How do I ask for directions? I needed Pont de Bercy. Brooklyn everywhere he went, much like I had a few feelings of home.
I guess home is everywhere in

Looking for Henry Miller,

the world as long as we know where to
look.Ú

America, or Myself
Cindy Brown

Vol. 17, Issue 2 The Collegian 11

 Musings on Ed Wood’s
Chas Plan 9 from Outer Space

LiBretto
An auteur with surplus of vision
compromising to the last
at the mercy of porn kings
dope fiends, and Baptist Priests.

a glutton for disappointment

blind and optimistic
like Reagan and enthusiastic
like the Tin Man.

You wore women’s clothing

And died in obscurity.

At night my father is alone

and anxious
Poetry
I was seventeen mildly drunk
on a Friday night and dad was awake
when I stumbled in. Like a gambler
I settled for a face
that would not betray my state.

My father wanted to talk;

he had stayed awake just for me
His eyes darted away. There were things
that needed to be said that night.

“The Mets started well” he said.

“The strangest thing at the office…,”
he continued. “I have to go to DC this weekend…”

“I’m pretty tired,” I told him.

“I won’t sleep late tomorrow, promise.”

I lie in bed later and wonder when the Mets will fix their fielding.

12 The Collegian November 2005

 Poetry
Middle Grounds
In the middle
We reach for riches sweetly,
Quarter-mouthed. Muster together treasures
Discreetly.
Copper things remain brief,
Hold presidents until dawn,
So the delicate fibers lay within
Our heavy grips. Strengthened. Warm.

Here in the middle

We wait until diamond dollars come true,
Want dreams to grow
But the human lottery is vast
And, oh we know
That our money never does what
Our minds tell it to do.

So in the middle
We kiss poverty. Drink affluence.
We are strange.
Revamped pirates – seek treasures we’ve planted
And look for outcomes to change.
Throw ourselves in the ocean, ignite the tide.
Then stand there
Open-palmed and wishful-eyed.

Half-Mast Refugees
Orphans of thirsty hours, soiled
paseos, and novel despair
Mother and child blow away
together in exile air.

As Paradise is Seen in
the Morning
We can make walls,
Take walls,
And when we’re ready
We can break walls,
And the let the sun shine in.
We can drop hate,

Celeste
Top hate,
And when we’re ready
We can stop hate,
And break walls all over again.

Stanley
Vol. 17, Issue 2 The Collegian 13
Fashion
City vs. Country:
Fashion Time Zones
C
hange was the one thing that I craved when
I decided to leave New York City and attend
Washington College three years ago. Sure,
I knew that I would be in for a culture shock. New
York City had always been my home, and I had
grown quite accustomed to a Starbucks on every
other block, taxicabs that could take me anywhere
at anytime, real New York pizza and bagels, the
breathtaking skyline at night and most importantly,
the flagship Bloomingdales store only three blocks
away from my high school.
Yes, anyone who knows or at least sees
me on campus on a regular basis can figure out that
shopping is one of the many passions that I hold. To
me, there is nothing like the rush of walking into a
store, seeing that perfect outfit that’s all the rage and
then trying it on to find that it hugs you in all the right
places and you look hotter than Scarlett Johansen.
Ok, so maybe I take this whole shopping
and fashion thing way too far, but what do you expect
from a girl who spent her mornings thumbing through
Vogue and Glamour while riding the subway and her
afternoons perusing the contemporary fashion floor
of one of the most renowned department stores in the
world?
In a city where image really is everything,
I knew I had to bring part of my image-conscience
along for the college ride. Dressing
up is not only what I know; it has
become a part of who I am,
a medium for me to express
myself. In my twenty years as
a true-blue New Yorker, I have
not once left the house in my
pajamas (my mother would kill me) and
have always taken my sweatpants and sports bra to
the gym in a bag. I can tell you this was not because
my school had a dress code, but because the idea of
looking presentable really is a state of mind.
Don’t understand where I’m coming from?
Think about New York City fashion icons like Carrie
Bradshaw and the Sex and the City gang, Jackie O,
Donna Karan, and even Madonna. They are women
who have epitomized what it is to look fabulous and
knew how to express themselves with what they
wear, most of the time without overdoing it. There
14
Kim Last
are also the chic and stylish
men and women that you
spot on the street, who know
how to accessorize or wear
the right amount of black. I
cannot tell you the number
of times I have stolen great
fashion ideas from someone I
have spotted on the street.
On top of that,
New York City is the city
of possibilities; you never
know who you are going
to meet. I’ve had celebrity encounters with Diddy,
Madonna, Robbie Williams and Carson Daly in high
school alone, and can thankfully look back on them
with no embarrassment because at the least, I looked
appropriate.
Although I would be 200 miles away and in
a much, much smaller environment, I did not expect
all of these ideals to be thrown out the window and
forgotten in Chestertown. I was raised with the idea
of taking pride in and spending time on your look.
Compared to New York, the Washington College
appears to me not only different, but sometimes a bit
lazy.
Flip-flops are something that I will never
understand. Sure, I love them and have some really
cute pairs, but there is a
time and place for them:
warm weather and casual
agenda. Most people
on campus wear them year-
round, which in New York is insane
considering the amount of snow there is.
Flip flops are casual, which is perfectly acceptable
for class or Sunday brunch but nothing more formal
than that. I can tell you for a fact that this is how
the student body at NYU and Hunter College rolls.
For example, at a proper campus function this year,
I could not believe what I was seeing when I spotted
several young men in button-down shirts, ties and
flip-flops! If you can take the effort to put on a tie,
then at least you can lace up some dress shoes at the
same time.
Color is another thing that threw me
The Collegian
off about Washington College. I came down to
Chestertown with a love and appreciation of black.
It’s sleek, slimming, and has flair. I still revel in
this glory when my friends tell me that they knew I
was from New York when I walked into class with
dark sunglasses, a black t-shirt, dark jeans and black
boots. Yes, the stereotype really is true; most New
Yorkers (even guys) own and actually like to wear
black. The only time I’ve seen black on this campus
is during some type of formal occasion. Rarely do I
see people on campus wear black pants on a regular
basis, which is a staple of New York City fashion
for both men and women. Instead, Nantucket red or
khaki-colored pants and jeans are popular for guys
with any color shirt, while I’ve seen girls in every
single color other than black, some more flattering
than others. In my three years here, I’ve come to the
conclusion that Marylanders think that black must
be for funerals and formals only because I never see
students or professors wear it at
free will. Something to keep in
mind for the season, according to
last Thursday’s New York Times
Style Section, is that “Black is
the new black.” For me, that will
always be the mantra to live by.
Who cannot forget that famous
“Sex and the City” episode where
Carrie tells Berger that a New
York City girl would never be
caught dead in a scrunchie? Well,
the same phrase holds true for a
popular fashion trend at WC: hair ribbons. Sure, I
will be the first to say that I wear the occasional bow
in my hair (I’ve definitely added a splash of color to
my all-black duds a la the hair ribbon). However, the
trend stops once I leave Chestertown perimeters. In
all my time in New York, I’ve seen more scrunchies
than hair ribbons, and even those are hard to find
amidst the sleek hair dos that mimic John Frieda
advertisements. Just a word of advice: if you plan on
visiting New York City and want to hit up a swank
lounge, ditch the ribbon; otherwise, you are begging
to be carded.
I’ll admit it – when I came down to WC, I
had no idea who John Deere was. To be completely
sincere, I thought he was a country singer, not a
fashion brand. I will never understand how John
Deere (which, as I soon found out, was really a
farming equipment company), could actually make a
November 2005
profit by selling clothes. Especially clothing in that
green, which, I hate to say, does not look good on
everybody. Better yet, the bigger question is, why do
people want to wear clothes that have deer on them?
BOOKPLATE
Now featuring a new and improved shop!
The only deer that I have ever been acquainted with
have been the dead kind that Tom Green would hump
on his MTV Show or that have been mounted to a
wall. Quite frankly, both scare me, a lot.
The same idea applies to Vera Bradley. At
first, Vera bags were targeted to the post-menopausal
age group; at least that was the case in New York
City. I would occasionally see them on the street
and it seemed that the criteria for ownership included
grey hair, the complete Sag Harbor wardrobe and
shoes with Velcro straps. Then I came to Washington
College to find that they come in bright colors
besides the plain red, navy blue and brown and were
the ultimate fashion staple for class. I soon learned
that if you wanted to tie your outfit together in WC
style, Vera was the missing link and my versatile
black Bloomingdale’s tote bag simply would not cut
it. Just like hair ribbons, I got suckered into the trend 112 S. Cross Street
and own not one, but three Vera Bradley bags which
I promise you will be hiding in the back of my closet 410-778-4167
upon my return to the Big Apple. The last thing I
ever want to do is to look completely out of date in a
city that’s two fashion seasons ahead. Fine Used Books
Washington College, when you think 1st Editions, Signed Volumes
about it, is really a unique place. There’s a culture
that surrounds this campus that roughly 1350
individuals have created. Let’s face it, deep down
inside we all may slightly alter what we wear while
Imported Tiles & Ceramics
on campus, absorbing the style of those around us,
being what I like to call a true chameleon. However,
when it comes down to just being at home and being
Enter through the door under the tile sign.
you, it’s a different frame of mind. I may wear less
black and more colored clothing nine months out of
the year, but I can tell you that in the morning, when
Book searches are welcome! We mail worldwide!
it comes down to decide what to wear, my gut tells
me to reach for the black. So, when you see me on
campus wearing black, most likely it’s the case that
my colorful clothes need to be washed, but let’s just
assume that I’m following my gut that day and being
a loyal “New Yawker.” Ú

MAKE YOUR MOVE

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Reserve Your Apartment for January Now
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Cozy Remodeled Building • Close to Campus • 1- and 2-Bedroom • Laundry • Internet Ready • Big Backyard

Call 410.708.3654
Or email margroberts@comcast.net
Vol. 17, Issue 2 The Collegian 15

Stop and Smell
the Roses
O
ne of my favorite things about this school is
being able to walk places. I liked walking
when the weather was so warm for that
long stretch, with days passing between clouds, and
I like it now that the drizzle and wind have cooled
things down. And it isn’t just the school’s smallness
that makes walking easy (though it probably helps).
What I mean by “being able to
walk places” is that because we
are so close to the neighborhoods
around us, not apart or aloof, it is
no great effort to pass between
the school and the town.
The advantages of going
out on foot are many. If you are
with someone, there is plenty of
time for talking between when
you set out and when you arrive
wherever it is you are headed;
if you are on your own, it is
that much easier to admire the
scenery and to greet passers-
by. You can do a good amount
of thinking, or you can avoid
thinking for a while. If you
miss not having your pets with
you, there is always a chance of
seeing a dog being walked, or a
cat out for a stroll.
But there is something
even beyond all that- the
mentality of walking. It says
something about you when you
are making your way down the sidewalk while car
after car goes by in the street. Perhaps it says you
don’t have a car. Granted, for some people walking
is basic transportation. Most likely, though, if you
are attending school here, you could drive if you
really wanted to. Instead, you’re walking.
Partly, there is something leisurely about
it. If you have the luxury of walking, you can’t be
in any great hurry; it implies that whatever your
business is, it isn’t very important. And by walking
you seem to flaunt that indolence. Driving, a person
is obscured by the car, discreetly tucked away behind
the windshield and doors, the paint and the license
16
Wes Schantz
plate; a walker seems arrogant in contrast, strutting
along for all to see, making a spectacle of himself.
Then again, some drivers take pains to have their cars
draw attention to themselves, making an expensive
vehicle a status symbol or accentuating a plain one
with tasteful, pirated Calvin decals and clever bumper
stickers. Beside that, a pedestrian is unadorned,
hardly noticeable when passed at 40 mph, quickly
diminishing in the rear-view mirror.
With practice, this mentality, an understated
kind of relaxation and confidence, may begin to stick
with you even when you’re not actually walking.
Personally, I am sometimes reminded of it when I
might otherwise get stressed over writing a paper,
and then the words begin to fall into place. It is not
only an interior state, then, because it influences how
you act. In fact, walk around enough and eventually
you even start talking to people.
As the college is right within the town, so
its students and faculty and the locals are invited to
The Collegian
interact. Doing service projects and volunteering is
very noble and no doubt appreciated, but it really
rings hollow, doesn’t it, if you don’t get acquainted
with some local people and keep in touch, or if you
drive home every other weekend? Likewise, it isn’t
very neighborly of those locals to cat-call from their
pick-up trucks. (And when was the last time the
drives of those trucks actually picked up anyone?)
Do you see the pattern there? “Driving
home,” “pick-up trucks”… Walking might do a little
to save the natural environment (I would be remiss in
not mentioning that) but it might also restore a little
of that natural element, respect, to our relations with
each other. In both cases there are forces outside our
immediate control—industrial pollutants, the residue
of old prejudices, racial and class divisions—but,
acknowledging these, there are still those things we
can do, at least on an individual scale.
Like saying “hi” to the woman at the
customer-service counter at Roses. Her name is
Danielle, and she took the job in July and plans to
drop it in January to return to college where she will
work toward a degree in business administration.
She grew up in Chestertown and is raising her four
kids here; the oldest just started kindergarten, and the
youngest are twins, seven months old. She knows
her co-workers, knows the sorts
of jobs they do, stocking or
working at the cash-register, but
her friends are people she knows
in nearby Pondtown. Her parents
now live in Florida, and she visits
them on her breaks.
Her shift is from 8:45 to
5:00, Monday to Friday. She
spends her free time taking care
of her kids, or reading, or writing
poetry. Danielle’s favorite books
are novels and mysteries, and she
listens to R&B, rap, and gospel.
She smiles when she talks about
her poetry and her kids. There
are about thirty people who work
at Roses, and she is just one of
them.
Admittedly, I cheated in
talking to Danielle because I was
expressly interviewing her. I
know quite a few facts about her,
sure, but we couldn’t be called
friends the way she is friends with
the folks in Pondtown, nor are we
really even acquainted as closely as she is acquainted
with the people she works with every day at Roses.
Still, doesn’t this portrait make her more real, more
than some person standing behind a counter? The
first step in getting along with someone is realizing
how little you know about her.
I hope Danielle illustrates something for us,
then; at the same time, presenting her as an example
like this does a disservice to the reality of her person.
She’s really there, remember—she is much more
than something to invoke vaguely as a symbol and to
write articles about. Do say “hi” to her if you stop by
Roses or happen to pass her on the street. Ú
November 2005

You can charge anything you want at the Bookstore
(on your Student ID) and it only appears on the
monthly bill as “BOOKSTORE” as a lump sum.
Every meal, on the mandatory 14 or 19 Washington
College Meal Plan costs the same whether
you eat the lobster or a salad. So eat as
much as you can and work it off in the
gym, you’re paying for that too.
Yesterday’s burgers are
today’s Salisbury Steaks.
At least we don’t waste
everything.
You’re paying on average $1,360
to be a student at Washington
College each week. A large portion of this goes to
paying your professors. A full class schedule of four
MWF class periods breaks down to over $80 dollars
for a fifty-minute class whether you go or not. Of
course this original basic total pays for everything–
speakers, Public Safety, publications, administration,
buildings expenses, sports, staff, events, and clubs,
(and everything this college does) but it’s certainly
incentive to get out of bed and go to class (the snooze
button doesn’t get you a refund).
I’ve learned more from drinking with a
professor than sitting through one of
their lectures. Take advantage of these
opportunities.
The average case of Milwaukee’s Best
Light is around $10.99 in Chestertown,
making each can $0.37. Don’t pay
more than what you think you should
at a party.
The rules change completely from drinking
indoors and outdoors. No matter how old you are an
open container is still an open container, and a peeing
on a tree is still public urination
If you don’t pay your Public Safety ticket, it gets
billed eventually. But you can appeal every single
Public Safety ticket (no matter what, just ask for a
ticket appeal form), and if nothing else, delay the
process for a while longer.
Fall Break is not actually a break. It’s just one
or two days off from class. We used to have
advising days off, but we didn’t call them
breaks. Just extended drinking binges.
Anyone can register a party, even in their
own dorm room. Finally you can play music
and not worry about being shut down. Just
talk to Student Affairs.
Public Safety can ticket a car, but if it’s
not registered at the college there’s nothing
they can do about it. On the other hand, it’s
only $30 dollars to register for an entire year
(compared to $500 plus per semester at a big school)
Vol. 17, Issue 2
20 Things
and even freshmen can have cars. Public Safety will
The
pick you up and drive you back to your dorm anytime
– don’t feel unsafe.
Collegian’s
You have very few
guaranteed rights as a
student. There isn’t
20 Things
even a Student Rights
Handbook if you did.
You Don’t
The school can change your Housing
Contract as many times as they deem
necessary; so be nice to them and follow
the rules.
This is a small school. If you find yourself in
special circumstances, there is nothing to lose by
Know About
going directly to administration and asking the right
people. Unless you’re asking for a football team. Washington
Condoms and other forms of birth control methods
are free. Take advantage while it lasts. And if you
don’t want the useless flavored condoms left in the
College
bag your RA passes around, visit Health Services. Peter Knox
Credits are easy to come by. Unless you’re being a
waiter or a janitor for the summer, you might be able
to get credit for what you consider work.
You even get credit for being in a play
and that’s fun. This school is a small
experiment in politics – it’s who
you know that might get you into
that class, that trip, or that job. Write
thank you notes.
The Career Center is a resource
students pay for. After graduating
everyone is looking to go into Graduate
School or the Working World. That’s a lot to
do on your own. Get free career advice and help in
the process before you’re trying to swing it on top
of working a job you don’t want. Its still “who you
know” and you should know the Career Center.
You’re already paying for the services, staff, and
facilities. Use them and demand satisfaction, but
just remember that nothing is perfect. Speakers and
campus programs cost a bundle of money and are
usually free to go to. Leave your dorm and do things
you wouldn’t get to do anywhere else.
Take advantage and get involved. Play
sports, do drama, and start a club. Get a
scholarship or a research grant. Travel, eat,
and sleep on the school’s dime while you
still can. Remember that anyone can take
out a sailboat or kayak at the waterfront.
Pass the swim test (we can use the pool too),
go down, and have an adventure.
If you haven’t had a slice of Proc’s pizza (and
garlic knots) or a Boston Milkshake from
Downey’s, you’re missing out. Ú
The Collegian 17

Orange Fence
Objections
W
hat disease is plaguing social life at
Washington College that we are reduced
to congregating like herds of sheep with-
in the confines of a fence? In what’s referred to as
an “Orange Fence” party, hundreds of students pack
themselves into a corral-like, fenced-in area, with
Public Safety lurking nearby to wrangle rowdy stu-
dents back inside. WAC collegians gather awkward-
ly to drink themselves into comas,
stare at one another pointlessly, and
be groped by people they would nor-
mally turn their noses up at. What’s
next, will we be hog-tied and lassoed
while in drunken stupors?
It is a number of freshmen
and sophomores, who, unable to buy
alcohol on their own and apparently
desperate to obtain it through any
means, tend to frequent these Orange
Fence “parties.” They accumulate
around bottles of beer like flies on
garbage, clinging to anyone who will
give them anything alcoholic.
Freshmen have often asked
how students are able to carry alco-
hol to and from the fence party with-
out being given citations from Public
Safety. Upperclassmen say that Public
Safety won’t “bother” anyone unless
alcohol is in plain view, or if there is
some sort of irrational behavior. But what is rational
about Public Safety officers, who are supposed to up-
hold laws pertaining to underage drinking, standing
by and doing nothing?
I often wonder what Public Safety must be
thinking; what they do in situations such as these.
The officers gawk at us from the other side of the
fence, literally two feet away from where we stand,
watching us make asses of ourselves and remaining
completely powerless as long as students are inside
the orange tape.
Director of Student Activities Bob Hooey
claims that orange fence parties are meant to provide
students with a safe place to have fun, not to control
students or to go against school policy; and really,
as far as the alcoholic beverage policy, there is no
control. Dean of Students Bryan Matthews says that
18
Lauren Campbell
the goal of Orange Fence parties is to “give students
a reason to stay on campus.” But has the administra-
tion gone too far, doing almost anything within their
power to keep students on campus? What else will
be tolerated within the boundaries of the fence, which
seems to grant amnesty to anyone inside it? What are
to be the limits within these orangey limits, which
now seem limitless?
Campus authorities claim that all-campus
parties are “just not feasible” indoors. They say it is
unfair to bring loud parties involving alcohol indoors,
for fear of disturbing someone who may want to sleep
or study. Because, of course, obnoxiously loud music
rattling the ground and hundreds of insanely drunk
college students parading around outside certainly
won’t prevent non-partiers from rest or relaxation.
Perhaps it is not a matter of disturbance, a
matter of keeping students on campus for the week-
ends, or even a matter of providing a healthy social
life for students living on campus. Perhaps it is sim-
ply a matter of keeping animalistic behavior where it
belongs.
It’s quite peculiar that we can’t have all-cam-
pus parties indoors, yet raging parties with obvious
alcohol consumption can be held in plain sight of the
The Collegian
community. The infamous Hill Dorms used to be the
site for the college’s best-attended parties, but be-
cause of recent amendments to the college’s alcohol
policies, all-campus parties may no longer be held
indoors. But what happens when it’s too cold to party
outside? Are we suddenly supposed to be sober for
six months out of twelve?
The question that rises, however, is whether
or not Orange Fence parties could be improved upon,
possibly even recognized as socially acceptable.
Bryan Matthews urges that “in the absence of such
an on-campus event, [we believe that] our students
will continue to seek off-campus social opportuni-
ties where the risks are even higher.” In truth, then,
OF parties are ultimately for the benefit of students,
but what can be done to prevent them from becom-
ing socially retarded and make them something that’s
regarded as a legitimate social event? Students have
suggested moving the party indoors (which is appar-
ently improbable), getting better bands, changing the
location each time, losing the alcohol, having the
school provide the alcohol, or just getting rid of the
OF parties all together.
The word fence offends me with its very
nature. Perusing countless dictionaries, it’s been de-
scribed as a “coop,” “cage,” “pen,” “jail,” “confine,”
“sty,” or even “a place where stolen goods can be
bought” – all obviously negative
connotations. Public Safety is fence-
sitting three hundred ridiculous chil-
dren in an ugly orange playpen, im-
partial to the underage drinking and
awaiting riotous behavior. And the
fact that school administrators feel
that we, as college students, are in-
capable of making mature decisions
offends me even more. Citizens of
the United States as a whole do not
always make the best decisions when
it comes to their personal lives, but
the government does not grant am-
nesty to users of illegal narcotics
for one night each month, or allow
young alcoholics to reign free every
few weeks under their careful su-
pervision. That’s what we would
call Big Brother. Personal decisions
should be left as just that.
No one is in perfect accord when it
comes to opinions about the fence parties, but every-
one does have an opportunity to voice their opinions.
If anyone is insulted by the idea of being encouraged
to “party” in a pen of drunken deviants, then perhaps
you should avoid the next orange fence party, talk to
the SGA, or submit your opinion formally to Bryan
Matthews or Bob Hooey. If you would rather howl at
the moon, a bottle in each hand, with Public Safety
looking over your shoulder, then I wish you all the
happiness in the world. As for me, I follow what Bing
Crosby once sang, “don’t fence me in.” Ú
November 2005
Review Elizabethtown:
The Garden State
That Tried Too Hard
W
himsical,” Drew Baylor says with a bitter
smile as he gazes upon the waxy facial
expression of his dead father laid out in an
Elizabethtown, Kentucky funeral home. The camera
angle cuts to a close-up of the corpse, whose lips
wriggle into a garish sort of half-grin in response. It
seems that “whimsical” is putting it kindly.
In Cameron Crowe’s Elizabethtown, Baylor
(Orlando Bloom) is a dark and brooding young man
who trades in his family roots for a famous career,
until a parent’s death brings him back to his abandoned
family. Love unexpectedly finds him along the way,
in the form of an unconventional girl (Kirsten Dunst)
with a childlike positive outlook on life…
“But wait!” you may protest. “You are
confused! The plot and characters you just described
are those of Garden State, Zach Braff’s 2004 love
story nominated for two Independent Spirit Awards.”
And that statement would be correct. Elizabethtown is
strikingly similar to last year’s film in many regards.
In fact, Elizabethtown may be more “Garden State”
than Garden State itself. While Elizabethtown adopts
many of Garden State’s most favorable aspects, like
its eclectic soundtrack and artistic camera shots,
the film on the whole brings one word to my mind:
contrived.
Let us compare and contrast: the main
characters of both films have left home to pursue
glamorous careers and must return without the
success that they sought. Zach Braff’s character,
“Large,” is a C-list actor in Hollywood, most famous
for his role as a mentally disabled man. The cynicism
in his unfulfilled life provides a perfect opportunity
for transformation by Natalie Portman’s free-spirit
character. While Elizabethtown operates under the
same premise, Drew Baylor’s career crisis almost
lacks effectiveness because it is so exaggerated.
Baylor is employed by a multibillion-dollar global
corporation that manufactures athletic shoes. He
personally has designed a concept “shoe to end all
shoes,” revolutionizing the entire industry. Our story
opens with the recall of every shoe produced, making
Vol. 17, Issue 2
Next month...
A Happier Issue!
(...maybe)
Thanksgiving
Where They Don’t
20 Presents
Celebrate
Megan Walburn You Should Want
Drew Baylor the biggest failure in business since the
Enron scandal. He is fired and charged with “sending
Peppermint Condoms?
an entire generation back to bare feet.” Baylor is in Candy Canes
the process of committing suicide with a steak knife Are All The Rage
and an exercise bike when he receives the call from
home: his father is dead, and as the eldest child, he
must make all of the family’s arrangements. Having A Very
Leaving behind his suicidal notions, Baylor Jewish Christmas
must comfort his mother and sister and hop a plane
from their home in Oregon to Elizabethtown,
Kentucky, where his father’s Southern roots and all of Every Actress
his military buddies stand vigil over the body. Most of
I Fantasized About
Drew’s story takes place during this grieving period.
He grapples with the astronomical failure of his shoe, Is Pregnant
the side of his father he never knew, and Claire, the
persistent blonde stewardess who challenges his
cynical attitude. Their “falling-in-love” period is
Jesus Christ Finds A
intriguing, and their all-night phone conversation Present Under His Tree
brings great romantic tension. But when the director
brings the two characters face to face, the tension
between Claire and Drew falls flat. Crowe must have
seen my point, because in the movie’s conclusion he
makes a last-ditch effort to restore the excitement of
Drew and Claire’s separation: Claire sends Drew on a
beautiful road trip across the Southern United States,
* * *
complete with a mix CD for each stop. The CD inspires
not one but two soundtracks to Elizabethtown. Claire
skillfully mixes big names like Tom Petty and Elton
John with less obvious choices like The Hombres and Not Impressed?
Eastmountainsouth.
After the film’s promising setup and sinking
Then WRITE FOR US!
middle, the road trip does save Elizabethtown in
the end. This film is a definite rental, though it may
not be $9 theater ticket material. My advice: buy The Collegian
the soundtrack while you wait for the movie to be Monthly Interest Meeting
released to DVD. While Elizabethtown fails to
convince me of the simple beauty of love that Garden
State conveys with such subtlety, it does serve as Wednesday, November 2nd
the second installment to an emerging genre in love
stories: the non-cliché, independent romantic comedy. 7:00 PM
Goodbye Hugh Grant cookie-cutter romance, hello
whimsical. Ú Reid Basement
The Collegian 19
Ú
Endgame Will Grofic

I
for sure didn’t know how deep the wound went. It was a dark violet rip from his t-shirt below the ribcage in the
middle of his chest, the length of a thumb. I knew somewhere not too much deeper were organs worth saving.
The idiot didn’t even think about ruining a good tee. He had slits on his neck where the skin he’d cut through
dangled slightly. It was a thin cut, there, at least.
When he came out of the apartment, it almost brought me to tears to be so apprehensive. I had to ask if he
had anything on him. I never want to feel that feeling again, to think someone I’ve known so well can be someone
else (dangerous). The knife, or anything, of course for my safety, but also the upstairs neighbors had called the
police. I don’t want to think if he hadn’t heard my voice outside and put it down. He looked at me with a detached
sincerity. “I screwed up; we need to go to the hospital.”
I couldn’t. The closest hospital was in Salisbury and we were in Ocean City. Suppose he hadn’t received
proper medical attention, suppose he went to the place he was before, I couldn’t take that risk. So we waited for the
police to show up.
He said, “I’m short of breath. I think I punctured a lung.” He sat down in my car on the passenger’s side,
and we and the neighbor who had called waited for the police.
When he said he punctured a lung, his words were in actuality a chant in a whisper. I’d called on my way
down not 2 hours ago; he was watching Wimbledon on the couch, chilling. Now I get here… and here comes the
cop car. I don’t think this cop needed to shave a day in his life. I tell him to call an ambulance; he calls another squad
car. The next cop is older; he’s seen this before. He saunters up to my friend and asks who did this, thinking it’s a
robbery gone awry. Pure shock hits his face when my friend answers. And my bud keeps telling anyone, everyone,
he’s punctured a lung after he tells the officer, plainly, “Oh it wasn’t anyone else. I did it.”
I’m calling his roommates frantically. One answers. I just say to get back. He wigged out, again. But worse.
Get back. The ambulance arrives. People are on the street, a sideshow between beach visits. A lady stops and asks
me if everyone’s okay, she knows a guy in that apartment complex. I tell her she’s got the wrong guy. They are
getting him on a stretcher. The cops start asking me questions. I’m just trying to figure out where this hospital is, a
cop ushers me to go inside the apartment with him. I refuse to. I can’t help him there, I point to the neighbor who
called the cops, and the cop senses my uncooperative refrain: “Your friend is dying!” Fuck him. Fuck this.
This fucking cop thinks he’s hooked me. It took every blood cell not to tell him to fuck off. What does he
want me to say? We were doing PCP on the back porch and he thought the bay inlet was a lava lamp in Satan’s
bedroom? What? I told him to talk to the person that was here before me, the one that called the cops. Thankfully
he did. And as I walked away from that, the roommate who answered his phone pulled up as the ambulance drove
away. I stepped in the car and we headed to Salisbury Hospital.
The ambulance turned left, but Salisbury was to the right. We turned right. Farther in the drive, we would
see a helicopter crossing our paths.
A funny thing happened on the way to the hospital. My friend who was driving said, “Man you write, at least
this will be something worth jotting down.” At that moment I felt like every cold blooded hospital chasing lawyer.
Write? Who wants to fucking write when our friend runs into a wall with the biggest blade from Cutco pointing
toward his chest. It was the size of a thumb and the blackness of an abyss. Plus organs and shortness of breath.
The nurse seemed nervous, and we received the dark side of the Hippocratic oath. Not family? No news. We
sat there for hours. His family wouldn’t talk to us. The hospital wouldn’t talk to us, and then a pre-med scrub slipped
up: “I talked to him, he seems conscious.” The older woman to her left glared at her. I said thank you, and sat down.
I picked up the first magazine, a New Yorker, and read a debut fiction piece that I hadn’t finished from last week.
It was about a sister who dies and the two brothers feel responsible because they left her at the beach. I can’t
write about this. They travel around the island where she never washed up ashore. I can’t write about this. They
explore at night for her ghost, using a map of the island she had drawn in crayon. When I look at him now he’s so
medicated and a ghost of who he was. They never find her, I don’t think. I think how precious and precarious life is.
But I can’t see the end, and its not longer than a thumb but deeper than anything I have ever seen.