In the old-fashioned world of the print newspaper, things worked just a little bit slower than they do in this new-fangled, fast-paced electronic information age. Faceless Matt Drudges and Smoking Guns didn't flash you the most current of the world's news in a split second, and cnn.com didn't alert your Blackberry the moment a new pope was elected.
Instead, twined bundles of the afternoon paper were tossed off mule-drawn carts at the 11-year-old street urchin hawking the day's headlines on the street corner for a nickel a pop: "Watt's steam engine to make trip up and down the Potomac," or "Cincinnati Red Stockings first to use rounded bats," or, yes, even "Ragamuffin William Howard Taft recants on promise to not drill for oil in Alaska: Roosevelt grouses."
And therein lies the challenge of the contemporary columnist, to be just riveting and sharp enough to hold attention and recycle the news you've already heard with his or her own watermark; like peeing on a tree or pressing the tip of your clicky pen into your forearm five times to make the Olympic rings. That, my friends and readers, is the cross I bore from my very first column until this, my very last.
Don't get your eyes checked, I promise you this is the last time a lot of you will read my words in the Tufts Daily (for the seniors, I will have a commencement column, but that's the last time I will use the 'C' word here for fear of a Class of 2005 mass aneurysm) and it has been fun. I like to think that for the most part I was successful, not only in holding your attention as readers but also in peeing on the proverbial tree of collegiate "journalism." Making my mark.
So now I finally erupt from my writer's chrysalis to present to you "The Saj of Tao: A Retrospecticus." A display of gratitude to inspirations, helpful hands, and, as always, freshman girls who tell me that they enjoy my column. Little ladies: you are what keeps this old man's heart a-flutter and don't let no one tell you different, you hear?
First, thank yous: to the Web sites. The dear Web sites that make my babble that much less inane.
Dictionary.com, first and foremost. Do you think I know what 'chrysalis' means? Hell, I just looked it up two minutes ago, and I still don't know. And 'denouement'? Are you kidding me? I even learned that 'retrospecticus' isn't a real word.
The next time you see me using a computer for a non-e-mail, non-espn.com related purpose in a public space, take a look at the screen. Odds are I'm looking up some word I came across in a fifth-grade social studies text. And the best part? I'm ashamed of it. So please, embarrass me the next time you see me.
Imdb.com, next. There's no way I actually remembered that Larry and Balki's boss on "Perfect Strangers" was named Gorpley. Sure, I remembered the character, and sure, I remembered the time he dressed up like a woman to try and claim the large sum of money the boys found, but his name? Please.
Wikipedia.org, my dearest friend. Not a credible source to cite on research papers, I discovered, but if I'm in a bind and need to know who made the steam engine efficient enough to jumpstart the creation of an effective steam-powered cargo-carrying industry (James Watt) for the sole purpose of setting up a joke a few lines later about a fat stupid President opening up ANWR to oil-drilling at the turn of the last century, I know where to go.
The Daily editorial staff, for allowing me this weekly amorphous forum. What do I write about? I don't know, and they never do. Faith is the key word here. They gave me a slot based on three haphazardly-arranged column submissions back in September, two of which I myself found dreadful, and one of which was my inaugural piece toeing the oh-so-funny line between humor and sexism.
My submissions are chronically late: "Patrice [my patient editor], it's Tuesday night, you know the drill, it'll be in your inbox when you wake up" is often the initiating sentence of our weekly exchanges.
For a publication that prefers some semblance of structure and routine from its columnists, I had none of it, and I'm glad they were okay with that. I don't care what tired, spiteful joke the Primary Source may make: for something that comes out five days a week on a campus this small, they do a very good job.
The Boston Red Sox. I'll say it again and again. They won the World Series, which afforded me, quite possibly, the most enjoyable writing experience of my life back in November. It may have not been perfect, or funny, or whatever else everyone was expecting, but I loved it.
To comedic inspiration, and growing out of it. It's easy to write a column with a bunch of fart jokes and quick laughs. Remember GONORRHEA? I sure do, but it was just something to maybe make you laugh out loud in Juan Alonso's Thursday World Literature lecture.
(Don't worry Professor Alonso, the times that I was present in class I paid steady attention and didn't hack at the crossword puzzle or even play the role of eager sycophant like my classmates. My head was in the game, trust me, no matter how many times you caught me off-guard as I tried to decipher the mystery language on the whiteboard of that terrible, terrible classroom in the basement of Olin. Portuguese, German, Euskara, who knows what it was.)
And as I approach my word limit for the final time, I am just glad that I didn't mail this one in. I hope you are too. End transmission.
