Listen up readers, I have a problem. The other day I received my first piece of fan e-mail. But the fan e-mail isn't the problem. It feeds my ego, and somehow that makes me feel better about myself.
No, fan e-mail is not the problem; in fact, it is encouraged. But fan e-mail means people are reading my column, and that, my friends, is the problem.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Aren't you the obnoxious jerk that puts the Internet link to his column in his instant messenger profile every goddamn week? Don't you find your column to be shamelessly self-aggrandizing? And don't you use it just to make people aware that you know what words like self-aggrandizing mean?"
The quick answer to your questions: Yes.
But when people read my column, I encounter the backseat columnist phenomenon. And you know who you are, backseat columnist. You're the same guy who frantically tells the driver to switch lanes on the highway when the exit is a mile and a half away. And you're the same guy who tells me to throw to the B button receiver while playing Madden on Xbox, when he's so obviously been put in double coverage because for the last three quarters all you've been talking about is how open he is and you still won't be quiet because you don't realize you're helping Dan more than you're helping me so why don't you just get the hell out of my apartment. You're that guy, backseat columnist.
So in honor of all the "Hey, you should write a column about that"s I have received over the past three months (and at least two of these are not made up), I have compiled a quick list of my favorite topics, with my single favorite bringing up the rear. Enjoy.
The prospect of planting orange trees on the residential quad. Admittedly, this was the product of the rantings of a loony Tropicana Pure Premium Grovestand zealot who was driven over the edge by the continued serving of orange juice from concentrate by Tufts University Dining Services.
Sure it's a weak idea for a column, but it's fairly off-the-wall and original, especially considering the blueprints for a massive self-sustaining greenhouse structure that accompanied it.
The ten thousand tons of plastic they wrap around the tiny little sandwiches they serve at several on campus vendors. I was sitting at lunch one day with a friend of mine, and he could not for the life of him open his sandwich. Which I find ironic considering this guy has, quite possibly, the most nimble fingers at Tufts. And that was not meant to be sexual before I wrote it. Ladies and gentlemen, his phone number is available upon request.
My friend Matan. Every time I see him, he gives me a suggestion for a column. And every time it's about him. Example exchange:
Matan: So, I bought a new euro-trash button down shirt today.
Me: (looking at his shirt) So you did.
Matan: Yeah, you should put that in your column. And mention that I'm single.
Of course I took some liberties with the actual conversation. What he really said was, "mention that I'm Tufts University's most eligible bachelor." Second most, Matan. Third, if you count nimble fingers up there. I suppose his number is also available upon request, but it's just as easily found in the left stall of the Eaton Hall women's bathroom.
But enough of that (and by that I mean enough of me functioning as a dating service). Now for my most favorite column suggestion:
The betterment of society. More than once it has been suggested to me that I use my exposure as a Tufts Daily columnist to do more than make stupid jokes about prison rape or Catherine Zeta Jones. Rather, I should use my powers for good.
This recommendation came no stronger than a month ago when the idea of the responsibility of the media was brought to my attention. While writing to entertain is indeed a virtue, shouldn't it be secondary to the more traditional journalistic virtues of working as an advocator and investigator on the behalf of the public?
Unlike Mischa Barton, public lice, and my school work, I took this seriously. Maybe I should do something worthwhile with my 800-1,000 words every week. Why should I waste my time writing about my unconditional heterosexual love of the Red Sox or about movie stars that stalk me when there are people to save in this world? When there are crusades to embark on? When, just in America, half a million puppies die every year from insufficient love? Why?
After a good few minutes, I figured it out. Because I am not a journalist. That's why. I am just an idiot college student who writes about idiot college student things. Surely, I am no journalist. And as grand (READ: megalomaniacal. SEE ALSO: self-important) as the notion is, I'd say none of my fellow columnists are. Instead we are niche writers: the sports writer, the TV writer, the fashion writer, the lifestyle writer and the punditry writer. Each is a valuable part of this newspaper, and each and every one of us is special in our own way.
So the next time anyone feels the need to grab their quill ready to ink a scathing criticism of what they read, they should take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and ask themselves where babies come from. By the time they figure it out (the stork), they'll have forgotten what they got all riled up about in the first place.
If you, the criticizer, wishes to press on then no one, not even the stork, can stop you. You obviously see the practical purpose in needlessly biting the hand that feeds you that I do not. Be cautious though. Eventually they'll stop feeding you and you'll be forced to grab some orange juice from concentrate and an unwrappable sandwich from the campus center with my friend Matan. Who, by the way, is single.
