Page 2 The Clarion November 5, 1986
The editor^s opinion
Dorm residents in hot water
Costanza’s World
by Chris Costanza
by Bonnie Davis
Beginning last summer, Green and Taylor dorms have undergone
some renovation and construction projects, supposedly to improve the
conditions of the two dorms. .
Yes the dorms do look pretty spiffy with their new coats of paint m
spirit^ blue and white Tornado colors. Other such assets like phone
booths, new beds, and refinished furniture are greatly appreciated too.
And what about that patio connecting the two dorms together? It’s sup
posed to be a place for students and dorm residents to socially interact,
but has only just been finished in time to enjoy it for the approaching
cold weather.
The board of trustees allocated a whopping $250,000 for the im
provements of Green and Taylor dorms, and they certainly needed it.
However, it’s incomprehensible why some of this money was used to
replace doors on the outside of the dorms instead of putting up new
doors on the bathroom stalls that had none to begin with.
The bathrooms of these dorms have been sorely neglected and are in
desperate need of repairs and improvements. Complaints from dorm
residents include poor drainage, mildewed ceilings, and inconsistent
water temperatures of the showers ranging from hot to scalding. When
a toilet is flushed in basement Green, those in the showers on the third
floor feel the effects.
Granted that the money allocated by the trustees was used for some
badly needed internal changes, but before a patio for social interaction
was built, shouldn’t something have been done about the bathroom pro
blems? It’s been realized that these problems have not gone unnoticed
by the college, but the big question is: “When is something going to be
done about it?”
Residents of Green and Taylor should enjoy the scalding water now,
because when the temperature soon drops below thirty degrees
something will probably go wrong with the water heater. Then they’ll
be taking cold showers while wishing for the good ol’ days when they
were getting burned.
The Mellon Patch
^RAG RACING
The final score: Glass Door -1, Pat Mellon - 0
by Pat Mellon
My name is Pat Mellon. I’m 19 years old
and I’m a freshman this year at Brevard.
I like Brevard and I’m having fun. I like
the majority of my teachers, and with a
couple of exceptions the babes are doing
me right, and I’ve made a lot of friends.
But something happened last week that
ruined my near-perfect record. I’m going
to tell you about it. Don’t laugh.
One Tuesday night around 11; 15,1 was in
the lobby watching television. I looked at
my watch and noticed that it was well into
biscuit-time at Hardee’s. I was hungry,
and since I do have a weekly biscuit quota,
I decided to go.
I walked to the door and extended my leg
to open it (primarily for efficiency pur
poses—my leg is longer than my arm and I
knew the door would be open a good. 17 of a
second quicker if I used my foot.) The
door shattered and the falling glass engulf
ed my defenseless leg.
I stared down at the rattling pile, and
then up at the crowd, unaware that blood
was pouring out of my leg. I walked back
into the lobby in a daze, and several of the
Lobbyists helped me to the couch.
One girl, upon viewing my leg, screamed
something about a Ginsu commercial and
fled frantically, but the others gathered by
my side. For a moment, I was touched,
just to know that all of these people cared
about my well-being. But, then they all
Bonnie Davis
Business Manager and Advertising
Sales Director Lynn Heater
Arts Editor David Moody
Photographer Erij. Klingensmith
Staff Reporters Cathey Haynie, Sandy Rogers
Mark Weekley, Kerry Wells, Mitsy Phillips. Kimberly
Belanger. Melissa Miles. April Woods. Chris Harris.
Rebecca Russ, Kirsten Reed. Julie Thompson
Faculty Advisor jock Lauterer
started talking about my leg and passing
money.
Then someone wheeled a chalkboard in
with my odds of living written on the top.
They all started making bets, while keep
ing a close eye on me for any signs of life-
decrease.
I wasn’t pleased.
The blackboard showed 70/30 odds, and
the crowd’s enthusiasm grew with passing
seconds. I began to worry. All I could
think about was this commercial I had
seen a few days earlier about cememtery
plots. Someone suggested I go to the
hospital, and I blessed him. The bookie
heard this and changed the odds.
The crowd roared and I started to get up
from the couch to go out to my car, when
suddenly, like a bullet slicing crisp air,
Sarah exploded onto the lawn in her car.
Then, with dignity and authority, she in
structed four of the male gamblers to pick
me up and put me in the car. She didn’t
have to tell them twice. She then roared
onto the pavement in a manner paralled
only by Superheroes.
We arrived at the doc’s in a heartbeat,
and a babe in white met us at the door with
a wheelchair. She wheeled me inside and I
was placed on a table and told to wait. My
eyes scanned the room, and I wasn’t pleas
ed. I saw needles, I saw medicine, and
there on the desk was this month’s issue of
“Amputation Illustrated,” opened to an
article UUed “101 Ways to Chop Off Pat
Mellon’s leg.”
Several minutes passed before a man
entered the room. He walked past the
table, looked at my leg, introduced
himself, and then ask^ me what happen
ed. “Well Doc,” I started, “It’s like
this...” He stopped me and told me that he
wasn’t the doctor, he was the nurse. I look
ed at him. “Fine,” I responded. “It’s like
this, Nurse,” I emphasized, “I was in my
dorm a little while ago and I got up to leave
and...” I told him the whole gruesome tale.
He paused, scratched his head and said,
“Well, we’re gonna have to stitch it up.”
He continued. “I’ll have to shave it.”
He fumbled through a couple of drawers
and after about 5 minutes, produced a
razor. I refrained from applauding. He
shaved the area around the wound and
cleaned it. I requested some aftershave,
but was refused. He got up to leave and on
the way out, he said, “The doctor will be
here shortly.” Sure enough, a minute or so
later the door opened again and in walked
the doc.
He asked me the routine-questions—how
old are you? where do you live? what’s
your blood-type? what did you have for
lunch? if you had a turtle, what would you
name it? His list seemed endless. Finally,
after I confessed to shoplifting when I was
13, he got down to business.
“Are you allergic to anthying, son?” I
squinted. “Dad, is that you?” He wasn’t
amused.
“Uh, yes sir. Penicillin...” I paused,
“...and pain.” He didn’t hear me.
He walked across the room to a drawer
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