It was the politest rude awakening in recent memory. We were fast asleep at 7:30 this morning when the phone shattered or sweaty communal dream. On the other end of the anonymous 212 number was an anonymous female voice from the anonymous NYC university, answering a late-night electronic query. Are you serious? That’s not how we roll here at the UofC@B. When she suggested I actually call the Grad Housing department I nearly fainted (fortunately I was still in bed). Call an administrative department? We’re not in public school anymore, Toto. The T just yawned—he was not amused.
I don’t expect you to be either. In other important local news, English Professors M&V had their baby L late last night. The class is investigating the hooded infant towel market.
My apologies for the absence—the things I haven’t followed since Friday could fill a book. I’ve been in the SOUTH (thoughts forthcoming, but you can check out the pictorial on my Facebook) , a place with too much memory and not enough foresight for its own good. Back home in Cali, all the intangibles are starting to fade and the broad, overwhelming sense of “what the fuck are they doing” descends. Keep your imagineery eyes peeled for a news update forthcoming.
Back in Bezerkeley, it’s a lot of the same. The days before graduation are all sunshowers and cigarette smoke. That is, the evil combination of stress and sun, which makes Spring finals almost insufferable. Good for us, there’s nothing but novels from here until June. Expect an excerpt late this month.