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On Campus
_by pat millgr.
Win Minter said it might be better if certain people didn't know it,
but the truth is, he's been taking it easy this summer, and not
overworking himself at all. Summer school is no problem for him, and
is in fact rather enjoyable. Win is the Journal's Arts Editor, and a
student of theatre in the BCA. Win also admits that the BCA has made
him "apolitical".
Summer school may have made some others of us, notably this
writer, "aproductive". On some summer days, it seems too hot to do
anything but sleep, and eight o'clock in the morning is simply too early
for any class. Ten o'clock Is not much better especially if its Is a second
class, because if one skips the eight o'clock, then what the hell?
There is a serious problem, however, with the pace and content of
summer school. It appears that most structured courses have to be
pared down, chopped up, and then ground Into concentrate to prepare
them for high-speed summer school consumption. Heavy-reading
courses become especially difficult, because too much food for
thought inevitably leads to indigestion and a bad taste in the
intellectual mouth. Final exams feel like dessert rushed into the main
course. (The analogy weakens).
Things can be even worse for the summer resident. Living on campus
affords the time to produce all the work necessary to survive in summer
school, and of course it also presents the opportunity to watch that
time slip away. Staying on campus and trying to study during a warm
summer day seems like treason unto oneself, and that feeling of
self-pity can oe mused about for hours. Other time-wasters are feeling
lonely, because so few people are around, and feeling cheated, because
the fall session of schooling will start about a week after the summer
session ends. (Thus no vacation!)
This summer many residents have surely often felt like strangers in a
strange land, because of the preponderance and variety of temporary
fellow residents. These have included diminutive basketball players,
secondary school cheerleaders, and various-seminars attenders. On one
particular quiet day I was standing on the gravel trait between Dorm '73
and the Infirmity, watching a black snake watching me. A fellow
student happened by and we both watched and talked softly for a
while. Then about a baker's dozen of high school cheerleaders bounced
down the trail complete with patriotic cries, and when the thirteenth
happened to turn around in passing and saw the snake, the whole group
erupted in screams and expressions of astonishment. The snake went
away.
When the cheerleaders had also gone away, I remarked to my fellow
observer that I would be glad when all the camps were over. "Yeah," he
replied, "Sometimes I feel like I'm in camp." He may have made a more
(continued on page two - first column)
O
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This is really a drag. Here I am stuck in this town miles from
civilization of no more magnitude than an occasional drive-in and five
and dime. i
The topic, for lack of anything else, shall be the time-honored art of
bullshitting. As those of you already experienced In this field know,
bullshitting Is the practice of saying so much about that which you
know nothing that everyone thinks you're an expert on the subject but
you're really not. Bullshitting can also be used to so thoroughly confuse
those listening/reading that they fall to see that you have said nothing
at all during the period of persiflage.
And for those of you farruliar with persiflage, you will be quick to
notice that I have done nothing but bullshit my way through this thing
so far. The reason being that I have nothing in particular to say.
To further described and exemplify my topic, let me describe my
hometown, using a fictitious name, of course.
Zorpholton is, to put it simply, a small town; however, not too
small. We do, after all, have a^booming furniture industry, consisting of
one company that manufactures made-to-order outhouses, that come
complete with a free copy of the 1963 Roebuck's catalog for your
reading and cleaning pleasure.
We have all the modern convenience , like a stop light. I would, at
this point in time inject the routine about the mouse that runs up and
down the stairs in the stoplight and turns on the colors as he runs and
then dies leaving the light permanently on yellow, but I won't go into
that.
As a matter of fact, Zorphilton is so small that the sign saying
"Welcome to Zorphilton" has a notice on the reverse side stating that
"You are now leaving Zorphilton."
As I look out the window of my place of employment, the offices of
the local newspaper, affectionately known as the "Daily Mistake," I can
see the entire readership of the news. He has an Edsel that is still in
good condition.
The people here are always friendly and calm. Why, just the other
day we at the newspaper were treated to an example of peaceful
confrontation as a lady came into place an ad in the "Mistake" and her
family saw some of their neighbors in the lobby. They succeeded in
beating each others brains out in a flurry of fists and torn shirts, the
latter revealing the manly physique of several of those involved.
Actually, the funny thing about the whole situation was that the lady
origionally mentioned had come into the office to place an ad in the
paper reading "...want to care for children In my home." . . . classic
Americana?
And we're organized here in the foothills. An ambulance just passed
by on it s way to an emergency call and slammed head on into another
car — which didn't bother to stick around to survey the damage.
Well, what about entertainment you say? That all depends on your
social class. Here, the young people are divided into four groups: the
rednecks, the freaks (usually former rednecks, but often just bores of
upper middle class families), the straights, and the college students, (the
latter usually inclusive of the former three).
The rednecks go to two places, either the Big Barff Drive-In, or the
bowling alley. The Big Barff is a place of attraction because of the
captive audience that it contains which is especially good for setting the
(continued on page two - second column)