The Horizons elections over and done with, the last bit of any sort of responsibility has finally lifted from my weary shoulders. It's a sense of liberation that reminds me mildly of the youthful innocence of freshman year, when 100 level classes and humid evenings outside Welch cafeteria were really the only worries one had. The only problem is that this new liberation has morphed, quite unexpectedly, into good old fashion bordem. Dear reader, between now and finals, I don't have a whole to do. Dr. Gitter provides my only real engagment with schoolwork with his book discussions on immigration (which, I'll have you know, as an immigrant, I'm all for). My other classes are stumbling along, seemingly sharing my sense of academic limbo, lulling me into a false sense of security before the finals.
In the interim, however, there's not a whole lot to do. Actually, that’s not quite true. Just this Sunday, there was a barbeque in the Thomson lawn, taking advantage of the perfect whether Ohio has recently had to offer. The same evening, the India Literacy Project organized a traditional Indian dance performance in Philips. Today, as I was walking back from editing class, a band of what seemed like nomadic puppeteers were performing outside Bashford. Then of course, there are the class representative elections tomorrow.
So I suppose it’s not really that there's nothing to do, it's just that junior year coming to an end, my legs just refuse taking me much further than my house's kitchen downstairs. I've been spending endless hours in front of my computer screen, shirtless, smelly and chocolate-toothed (refer to first blog entry) engaging in the great global dialect (i.e. reading the most inane, obsucre articles the New York Times has to offer) from the orange confines of my room.
The one time I did manage to make it past my house's front steps was when I went to go watch Taimour, my compatriot and fraternity brother, play for our varsity tennis team. It was a peach of a Saturday, cloudless and bright blue. The pervasive smell of blossoms was in the air, which was of course accompanied by the pervasive sight of sun bathing Ohio Wesleyan females, some of the Mid-West's finest. Anyway, along with Julian, another fraternity brother, I decided to rekindle my fledgling tennis career on the practice courts. Needless to say, the lethal forearm hasn't lost its bite, but the serve, which landed slightly out of the service square (to be more precise, it landed on the court on which the final of the varsity tournament against Wabash was being played) left something to be desired. Maybe that's why I haven't left the house in a while.
Ciao for now.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Anyway you slice you it
It snowed today. And also yesterday. In fact, even the day before yesterday, it snowed. No, dear reader, you are not reading an outdated post. This is April 9, 2007. Spring time. And it snowed today, yesterday and the day before. That's about all I have to say about that.
Last week I was stood up by my prospective student. Every year, the OWU admissions office, who you can thank for my useless banter, organizes Ohio Wesleyan's 'Slice of College Life,' a weekend in which prospective students come to campus, stay the night with a student host, and experience, first hand, college life. I'd like to take this opportunity to applaud the admissions office for the rollickingly successful program they have put together.
Anyway, my prospi (as they're referred to in OWU lingo), never showed up. It wasn't a big deal though because Matt, a lanky fellow from Vermont, also my fraternity pledge brother, had to work at the library, pawning his propsi off to me. We toured the library, we toured Bashford hall, and toured my arrestingly orange room. We watched TV, ate Welch food and talked about Social Security's impending disaster while I did finance homework. OWU in a nutshell.
"Yeah, I think I'm coming here, bro," he avers the next morning. I think the excitement of my life, unbearable to most, appealed, with immediate effect, to his party going ways. Bro-ing out is all it takes, it seems, to sell a product these days. Of course, my polished salesmanship will reel in even the most skeptical of buyers. Don't you, dear reader, agree?
In other, more pressing news, Horizons International elections, originally scheduled for today, have been pushed back, by yours truly, to Wednesday because of a dearth of nominations. That's right, my term as Horizons president, by most measures a successful one, has reached its denouement, ending what was a challenging, interesting and down right fun leadership position. The international student community here at OWU is a dynamic one that has managed to pervade every aspect of student life. It was an honor and privilege to represent that vibrancy and talent, and I wish all the best to the new board. That is, if there ever is one. If any international OWU students are reading this, please submit nominations. Please? I'll buy you a soda?
Here's a complete non-sequitur for you, dear reader: in the mid-west, carbonated colas are referred to as 'pop' and, on the coasts, are referred to as 'soda.' What's even more bizarre is that at any social gathering here at OWU, should the subject be brought up, a disturbingly raucous debate will inevitably ensue, polarizing social milieu, and alienating neutral parties. Tempers flair, feelings are hurt. Luckily, there is often enough of the age old social lubricant around to dowse the fires. An uneasy peace keeps the two sides at bay, and all is well again. Or so it seems...
Ciao for now.
Last week I was stood up by my prospective student. Every year, the OWU admissions office, who you can thank for my useless banter, organizes Ohio Wesleyan's 'Slice of College Life,' a weekend in which prospective students come to campus, stay the night with a student host, and experience, first hand, college life. I'd like to take this opportunity to applaud the admissions office for the rollickingly successful program they have put together.
Anyway, my prospi (as they're referred to in OWU lingo), never showed up. It wasn't a big deal though because Matt, a lanky fellow from Vermont, also my fraternity pledge brother, had to work at the library, pawning his propsi off to me. We toured the library, we toured Bashford hall, and toured my arrestingly orange room. We watched TV, ate Welch food and talked about Social Security's impending disaster while I did finance homework. OWU in a nutshell.
"Yeah, I think I'm coming here, bro," he avers the next morning. I think the excitement of my life, unbearable to most, appealed, with immediate effect, to his party going ways. Bro-ing out is all it takes, it seems, to sell a product these days. Of course, my polished salesmanship will reel in even the most skeptical of buyers. Don't you, dear reader, agree?
In other, more pressing news, Horizons International elections, originally scheduled for today, have been pushed back, by yours truly, to Wednesday because of a dearth of nominations. That's right, my term as Horizons president, by most measures a successful one, has reached its denouement, ending what was a challenging, interesting and down right fun leadership position. The international student community here at OWU is a dynamic one that has managed to pervade every aspect of student life. It was an honor and privilege to represent that vibrancy and talent, and I wish all the best to the new board. That is, if there ever is one. If any international OWU students are reading this, please submit nominations. Please? I'll buy you a soda?
Here's a complete non-sequitur for you, dear reader: in the mid-west, carbonated colas are referred to as 'pop' and, on the coasts, are referred to as 'soda.' What's even more bizarre is that at any social gathering here at OWU, should the subject be brought up, a disturbingly raucous debate will inevitably ensue, polarizing social milieu, and alienating neutral parties. Tempers flair, feelings are hurt. Luckily, there is often enough of the age old social lubricant around to dowse the fires. An uneasy peace keeps the two sides at bay, and all is well again. Or so it seems...
Ciao for now.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Sentenced to death by the blues
Every few years an event occurs that is certain, even prior to its incidence, to have a perceptible impact on one's general temperament, one's personality. One can only hope that this impact, inevitably deep, is positive, and does not effect one's disposition towards oneself, others and indeed the world. At least, one hopes. Alas, dear readers, this past week in mid-March 2007, not one, not two, but, in fact, three such events left a deep, well defined, faultlessly concave impact crater on my soul.
Granted the West Indies loss was bearable. It was the first game of the tournament, they had home advantage, and we were walking on the field for the first time since Shoaib and Asif’s unavailability was reported, ruling them out completely. We had enough bench strength, I thought, and there was no reason why Gul and co., themselves a handful by any standards, could not take us to at least the latter stages of the Cup. It wasn’t a toothless attack, and, in fact, I felt we bowled fairly well in all of our games.
However, this was just the beginning. Upon Sabina Park, from the East came the great Caribbean cloud, thick and ripe with tragedy, bringing with it a disaster dressed in green, sporting red stubble, and nursing a pitcher of Guinness. Team Pakistan, on Saturday, March 17, 2007, the cornered tigers, the South Asian giants, the Men of God, succumbed to a skirt wearing, beer abusing, potato eating Irish team. Like the clouds over Sabina Park, my heart sank. An ominous sense of the end came over me; the end of what I did not know, but a shameful, honor-less end of all things. We were out of the cup.
Luckily, I had hedged my emotional bets that day by having Jack Brown, my brother Asad’s best friend, come over and spend an evening with the Naqvi boys. After a quick bowl of DC’s best guacamole on 14th and E, we took our seats at the Shakespeare Theatre for a remarkably well adapted and directed (I can’t say much for the acting) production of Richard III. This preceded an ever solid midnight burger at Clyde’s downtown. Jack, Asad and I discussed the play, movies, university life and the reasons for the proliferation of indie rock in Seattle. My lingering dejection caused me to cancel my St. Patty’s day drinking session with Kenneth Westling, a friend from Vienna (besides, who wants to go hang out in Cleveland Park?), but things were generally looking up. The night ended with a read through the New York Review of Books. The impact, it seemed, had been cushioned.
Sunday. My flight back to Columbus was at 6pm. We woke to a gorgeous DC spring day. A spattering of white clouds served only to accentuate their bright blue backdrop. The air was crisp, clean and leaden with a sense of springtime renewal. Jack called up around noon and said he could use some King Kabab to reacquaint himself with the district. Asad and I had no real objection. We picked up Fuad, Asad’s lawyer friend, and drove off to Crystal City, windows down and collars popped. Yesterday’s travails seemed a dream, barely clinging to my conscious.
The Afghans at King Kabab have been there since time immemorial. They have always been distracted, busy, intense; they yell at each other in Pushto and Punjabi while brooding over their handis, filling the air with aromas of cumin, coriander and turmeric. ‘Aaj to nihaari paki hai, sir!’ Sunday specialty is nihaari. Indescribable. Meals devoured, we head back to district, our pallets satisfied. Around 2.30pm, Asad gets a call from Taimour, a friend Asad and I first met at an awful barbeque lunch two years ago at Asif Bhale’s. ‘Yaar bhenchod Woolmer mar gaya hai!” Even through his faint, digital voice, I could sense bewilderment. Asad, sitting shotgun, turned, his eyes squinting in disbelief. ‘Bob Woolmer’s dead, Raza.” I could feel my soul’s crater stretching deep into my body. That Sunday, after about a decade, I shed my first tear. The nihaari didn’t sit well.
Granted the West Indies loss was bearable. It was the first game of the tournament, they had home advantage, and we were walking on the field for the first time since Shoaib and Asif’s unavailability was reported, ruling them out completely. We had enough bench strength, I thought, and there was no reason why Gul and co., themselves a handful by any standards, could not take us to at least the latter stages of the Cup. It wasn’t a toothless attack, and, in fact, I felt we bowled fairly well in all of our games.
However, this was just the beginning. Upon Sabina Park, from the East came the great Caribbean cloud, thick and ripe with tragedy, bringing with it a disaster dressed in green, sporting red stubble, and nursing a pitcher of Guinness. Team Pakistan, on Saturday, March 17, 2007, the cornered tigers, the South Asian giants, the Men of God, succumbed to a skirt wearing, beer abusing, potato eating Irish team. Like the clouds over Sabina Park, my heart sank. An ominous sense of the end came over me; the end of what I did not know, but a shameful, honor-less end of all things. We were out of the cup.
Luckily, I had hedged my emotional bets that day by having Jack Brown, my brother Asad’s best friend, come over and spend an evening with the Naqvi boys. After a quick bowl of DC’s best guacamole on 14th and E, we took our seats at the Shakespeare Theatre for a remarkably well adapted and directed (I can’t say much for the acting) production of Richard III. This preceded an ever solid midnight burger at Clyde’s downtown. Jack, Asad and I discussed the play, movies, university life and the reasons for the proliferation of indie rock in Seattle. My lingering dejection caused me to cancel my St. Patty’s day drinking session with Kenneth Westling, a friend from Vienna (besides, who wants to go hang out in Cleveland Park?), but things were generally looking up. The night ended with a read through the New York Review of Books. The impact, it seemed, had been cushioned.
Sunday. My flight back to Columbus was at 6pm. We woke to a gorgeous DC spring day. A spattering of white clouds served only to accentuate their bright blue backdrop. The air was crisp, clean and leaden with a sense of springtime renewal. Jack called up around noon and said he could use some King Kabab to reacquaint himself with the district. Asad and I had no real objection. We picked up Fuad, Asad’s lawyer friend, and drove off to Crystal City, windows down and collars popped. Yesterday’s travails seemed a dream, barely clinging to my conscious.
The Afghans at King Kabab have been there since time immemorial. They have always been distracted, busy, intense; they yell at each other in Pushto and Punjabi while brooding over their handis, filling the air with aromas of cumin, coriander and turmeric. ‘Aaj to nihaari paki hai, sir!’ Sunday specialty is nihaari. Indescribable. Meals devoured, we head back to district, our pallets satisfied. Around 2.30pm, Asad gets a call from Taimour, a friend Asad and I first met at an awful barbeque lunch two years ago at Asif Bhale’s. ‘Yaar bhenchod Woolmer mar gaya hai!” Even through his faint, digital voice, I could sense bewilderment. Asad, sitting shotgun, turned, his eyes squinting in disbelief. ‘Bob Woolmer’s dead, Raza.” I could feel my soul’s crater stretching deep into my body. That Sunday, after about a decade, I shed my first tear. The nihaari didn’t sit well.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
need to reboot
The past week was chaotic, undefined, theme-less. There was no common thread, if you, dear reader, will. I have hence decided, after much fruitless consideration of alternatives, to post an anachronistic stream of conscious, untamed by grammar and punctation, of the week that was:
northwestern mutual said they do not sponsor international students for the life insurance sales exam thank god that job sounded like the end of soul the class average for financial management this week was a 63 yes im gloating i would gloat some more but dino and gandhi got 94 and 95 respectively i’ve decided not to do much else with horizons this year except completely restructure it or give it structure really it snowed again and then it was sunny sopranos re-runs pakistan beat south africa convincingly but canada unconvincingly its funny that every pundit every commentator every expert is refusing to commit to predicting pakistans chances for the cup we’re really down and out right now but its exactly in these situations that we play our best fingers dear reader are crossed i realized i havent left campus for a while the nibc was so easy it was difficult my new study motivation is the new zealand rugby teams Hakka a aborignal war dance they do prior to every game http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V8DX_8-uXUk gets you pumped ive been editing transcript articles left right and center for Neidbalkis class all its really made me realize was how poor a writer i used to be look at me now a regular vs naipaul kappa karaoke high on enthusiasm low on talent jimmy fiji president and expert vocalist was awful
So, dear readers, you can see a lack of anything substantive to bring home to muse about this week. I will, however, be in the nation’s capital chillaxing, if you, dear readers, will, with my brother and Jack Brown (a WASP turned Muslim now teaching Islamic studies in Seattle) as well as my usual cast of DC socialites, during a much-needed Spring Break. On my return, my rested and re-organized brain will offer more coherence, more illuminating insight into the dog eat dog world that is, and always will be, Ohio Wesleyan.
Until then, dear readers,
Ciao for now!
Monday, February 26, 2007
Departed from reality
Free speech is a myth.
The Departed wasn't that good. I finally saw it the other day. Really, it sucked.
Mark Wahlburg's squalid rants aside, there was little new about it. Nickolson went on as if he's playing the Joker again, Leonardo forgot how to act, and Matt Damon's accent sounded like it'd been locked in the attic since Good Will Hunting. Scorsese seems to have given in to the studios and made a movie by committee, by popularism and without any of the edge and real grit of Goodfellas or Casino. He even managed (to the film's detriment) to subdue the city of Boston, usually so charmingly prominent in any film shot there.
Of course there's been a mob of angry students, faculty and staff waving pitchforks and torches outside my window since I first circulated the above opinion. I'm the first person I've met not to build a shrine in his home for the galactic cinematic triumph that is The Departed.
It's an opinion that has pervaded my social life too. I find myself more and more alienated in OWU. This morning in Financial Management, the guy who usually sits next to me got up in a huff and went to sit across the aisle. Just last night I was evicted from my own room when I scoffed at the Best Picture Osar. And over the weekend I reduced a friend to actual tears with my cinematographic insensitivity.
My new fear is that rumor of my heresy will soon reach Northwestern Mutual Fund. Why, you ask, would this matter? Well because I'm scheduled for an interview at NWMF in Columbus on Wednesday, but haven't yet received confirmation of the meeting time. I fear they've gotten wind of my slander. Voltaire's turning in his grave I tell you.
In other news, I'm hoping to pick up Horizons International again after a brief hiatus. But it's going to be a busy week with two exams and this interview. I had a solid performance with bat and ball in our weekly cricket match (that's right, I play cricket. You got somethin' ta say?) yesterday as we beat the Lahoris in both games. Indoor cricket should be institutionalized.
But alas, dear reader, I leave you in a time of peril, fraught with danger at every corner. You may hear of me next nailing 95 theses on the front gates of Warner Brothers studios. Pray for me oh loyal reader, for the days of darkness shall soon be banished!
Ciao for now
The Departed wasn't that good. I finally saw it the other day. Really, it sucked.
Mark Wahlburg's squalid rants aside, there was little new about it. Nickolson went on as if he's playing the Joker again, Leonardo forgot how to act, and Matt Damon's accent sounded like it'd been locked in the attic since Good Will Hunting. Scorsese seems to have given in to the studios and made a movie by committee, by popularism and without any of the edge and real grit of Goodfellas or Casino. He even managed (to the film's detriment) to subdue the city of Boston, usually so charmingly prominent in any film shot there.
Of course there's been a mob of angry students, faculty and staff waving pitchforks and torches outside my window since I first circulated the above opinion. I'm the first person I've met not to build a shrine in his home for the galactic cinematic triumph that is The Departed.
It's an opinion that has pervaded my social life too. I find myself more and more alienated in OWU. This morning in Financial Management, the guy who usually sits next to me got up in a huff and went to sit across the aisle. Just last night I was evicted from my own room when I scoffed at the Best Picture Osar. And over the weekend I reduced a friend to actual tears with my cinematographic insensitivity.
My new fear is that rumor of my heresy will soon reach Northwestern Mutual Fund. Why, you ask, would this matter? Well because I'm scheduled for an interview at NWMF in Columbus on Wednesday, but haven't yet received confirmation of the meeting time. I fear they've gotten wind of my slander. Voltaire's turning in his grave I tell you.
In other news, I'm hoping to pick up Horizons International again after a brief hiatus. But it's going to be a busy week with two exams and this interview. I had a solid performance with bat and ball in our weekly cricket match (that's right, I play cricket. You got somethin' ta say?) yesterday as we beat the Lahoris in both games. Indoor cricket should be institutionalized.
But alas, dear reader, I leave you in a time of peril, fraught with danger at every corner. You may hear of me next nailing 95 theses on the front gates of Warner Brothers studios. Pray for me oh loyal reader, for the days of darkness shall soon be banished!
Ciao for now
Monday, February 19, 2007
War on Carb
I'm dieting.
I realize you, dear reader, don't know me too well yet. I'm about 5'11 and 180 pounds. So I'm not enormous. But the novelty here isn't numerical, its conceptual. You see never in my life have I given much credence to this whole health thing. I love rich, greasy food; the type of food that warms the tongue, slickens the teeth, quenches the soul. Burger, steak, liver, nihaari: all titillate my senses and grease my otherwise evasive personality. A day without a slab of meat is a day in the fires of culinary hell.
So I've been burning down here for 5 days. I eat only salads with vinaigrette, scrambled eggs, or (oh god) fresh fruit. I haven't come within a 10-foot radius of a carbohydrate since Friday. Bob, our house chef, is threatening to quit. My fraternity brothers don't see me anymore. They rumor around the house is that I'm vegetating in a corner of my room with a copy of the Tripitaka. It's too early to tell how this new regime will effect my sanity, but the early signs aren't encouraging.
The self-disciple might have been brought about by last week's crippling snow days. All hell sort of broke loose. Professors were scrambling to maintain class schedules, postpone exams, and generally have a field day with their email accounts. Us students reveled. I can say with certainty that last Wednesday, not a single person on campus took a shower. In addition to the hygienal festivities, lots of aforementioned food was consumed. Like, lots. We were all walking around with second day stubbles and protruding bellies. The local economy might actually have benefitted from 6 inches of snow that brought life to a stand still.
Anyway, the point being: I got fat. And now I'm on a perilous, impossible, Frodo-an quest to shave a few pounds off the mid-riff. One positive from all of this is that I caught up on some work. Speaking of which, good ol' Dr. Gitter has a nice little exam all ready for me tomorrow morning. More and exams and diets next week. Till then:
Ciao for now.
I realize you, dear reader, don't know me too well yet. I'm about 5'11 and 180 pounds. So I'm not enormous. But the novelty here isn't numerical, its conceptual. You see never in my life have I given much credence to this whole health thing. I love rich, greasy food; the type of food that warms the tongue, slickens the teeth, quenches the soul. Burger, steak, liver, nihaari: all titillate my senses and grease my otherwise evasive personality. A day without a slab of meat is a day in the fires of culinary hell.
So I've been burning down here for 5 days. I eat only salads with vinaigrette, scrambled eggs, or (oh god) fresh fruit. I haven't come within a 10-foot radius of a carbohydrate since Friday. Bob, our house chef, is threatening to quit. My fraternity brothers don't see me anymore. They rumor around the house is that I'm vegetating in a corner of my room with a copy of the Tripitaka. It's too early to tell how this new regime will effect my sanity, but the early signs aren't encouraging.
The self-disciple might have been brought about by last week's crippling snow days. All hell sort of broke loose. Professors were scrambling to maintain class schedules, postpone exams, and generally have a field day with their email accounts. Us students reveled. I can say with certainty that last Wednesday, not a single person on campus took a shower. In addition to the hygienal festivities, lots of aforementioned food was consumed. Like, lots. We were all walking around with second day stubbles and protruding bellies. The local economy might actually have benefitted from 6 inches of snow that brought life to a stand still.
Anyway, the point being: I got fat. And now I'm on a perilous, impossible, Frodo-an quest to shave a few pounds off the mid-riff. One positive from all of this is that I caught up on some work. Speaking of which, good ol' Dr. Gitter has a nice little exam all ready for me tomorrow morning. More and exams and diets next week. Till then:
Ciao for now.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
cold, camera-less days
So here’s my first post. It’s been a long time coming too. Hilary Lowbridge, Director of Admissions, has probably been tearing her hair out getting me to send in my bio and picture for the blog. The problem was that I couldn’t find a camera to take a suitable picture of me. Facebook pictures are always at awkward angles, or with friends, or inappropriate. And for some bizarre reason I couldn’t find a camera until yesterday. So the picture I’ve come up with is myself, three-quartered at an awkward angle in my orange room at Phi Gamma Delta (Fiji). It is a statement against the negativity of post-colonial semantics in describing the serendipitous partition of the sub-continent. But not really.
I do, however, have a new computer. Now, Ohio winters aren’t child’s play. They have a little bite, a little fight, a little personality. Late night winds in particular separate the men from the men-who-don’t-like-late-night-winds. In lieu of this, having one’s own computer for homework, surfing and bored.com is certainly worth it. For instance, I would normally have been in the library, with all its social, literary and gastronomic distractions, writing this. I also would’ve had to put on my shirt, brush my teeth, spray deodorant and, if that isn’t bad enough, walk fifteen minutes in the snow. I would’ve been grumpy. But luckily, dear readers, you’ve caught me in the comfort of my own room, shirtless, smelly and chocolate-toothed, telling you about OWU.
Oh yeah! I forgot about the whole talking about school thing. Classes are gaining momentum and beginning to threaten late night movies. I actually have an assignment due tomorrow for Labor Econ with Professor Gitter which I’m really stuck on. Why is this a problem, you ask? Well because it’s already mid-night, I’m not in bed, I’m going to wake-up with difficulty, show up late to his class, and have to pay a dollar. That’s right, you, dear reader, heard me. If you are late to Bob Gitter's class , you contribute to the Econ department’s candy fund by paying one whole dollar. As he keeps saying, “People respond to incentives.” And respond we do! No one is ever late to that class. It’s bizarre! As he also keeps saying, “A dollar saved is a dollar earned.”
Which brings me back to the camera. I need to get a camera for myself. But I have no money. Which brings me back to Labor Econ. I need to get to class on time.
Ciao for now.
I do, however, have a new computer. Now, Ohio winters aren’t child’s play. They have a little bite, a little fight, a little personality. Late night winds in particular separate the men from the men-who-don’t-like-late-night-winds. In lieu of this, having one’s own computer for homework, surfing and bored.com is certainly worth it. For instance, I would normally have been in the library, with all its social, literary and gastronomic distractions, writing this. I also would’ve had to put on my shirt, brush my teeth, spray deodorant and, if that isn’t bad enough, walk fifteen minutes in the snow. I would’ve been grumpy. But luckily, dear readers, you’ve caught me in the comfort of my own room, shirtless, smelly and chocolate-toothed, telling you about OWU.
Oh yeah! I forgot about the whole talking about school thing. Classes are gaining momentum and beginning to threaten late night movies. I actually have an assignment due tomorrow for Labor Econ with Professor Gitter which I’m really stuck on. Why is this a problem, you ask? Well because it’s already mid-night, I’m not in bed, I’m going to wake-up with difficulty, show up late to his class, and have to pay a dollar. That’s right, you, dear reader, heard me. If you are late to Bob Gitter's class , you contribute to the Econ department’s candy fund by paying one whole dollar. As he keeps saying, “People respond to incentives.” And respond we do! No one is ever late to that class. It’s bizarre! As he also keeps saying, “A dollar saved is a dollar earned.”
Which brings me back to the camera. I need to get a camera for myself. But I have no money. Which brings me back to Labor Econ. I need to get to class on time.
Ciao for now.
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