There is so much at stake, seems our freedom's up against the ropes...

So, since it still seems like a good idea to get my certificate of completion from The School Elihu Built When He Wasn’t Slaving, it goes without saying that I was shopping classes furiously, eagerly bouncing from building to building, pontificator to poet, hoping to finally create the schedule that had eluded me my entire college career. And by “shop classes furiously” I mean I went to the two classes I had decided would be the least waste of my time and best use of my Monday through Wednesday schematic. It’s simple really: The Boy Wonder doesn’t do the following: Class before 11, class with section, class on days beginning with the letters S, Th, or F.

Anyway, in the two hours between a class I need to take in order to graduate and one that I actually want to spend time in, I found myself in Valhalla, attempting to  eat what technically constituted a salad, though I’m not sure such a name can be designated to a dish made up of mostly the white part of iceberg lettuce. Nothing says healthy like the least nutritious part of the least nutritious source of fiber since printer paper.

As I sat there, sans company, I had occasion to look around the place and come to an unremarkable yet otherwise startling conclusion: I didn’t know most of the people in the joint. Now, it would be foolish to say I ever, during the four years I was supposed to have finished college and begun my sojourn of unemployment, actually knew most of the people in this place ( I mean, there are all kinds of South Asians I don’t even know about) but even in my non-knowing, I knew people by face or terrible footwear.

Now? I can’t tell the difference between the class of 2010 and those unfortunate youth excursions that come to Valhalla every now and again to assuage the university’s liberal guilt by allowing “common” folk to enter the premises without a navy blue polo shirt and ID badge. I really just don’t know who these people are, not by face or section d bag reputation or otherwise. So as I’m sitting there, facing the front doors people walk through to get inside, I found myself doing what we all would do: waiting for one of my homies and or groupies to show up. And it didn’t happen.

I mean, the lack of groupie love was OK because, even your boy needs a day off from it, but the fact that none of my dogs were gonna come woofin was kind of sobering. I could have sat there all day– It is Valhalla after all– and Young MGreevey wasn’t going to walk through, unshaven and ensconced in his fishscale robe. Should I have felt determined enough to keep loyal vigil, He Hate Me was not going to come strolling through the door, phones in ears, nose in air, keeping an eye peeled for any reflective surface that would give him an opportunity admire his first and last love.The hounds I was looking for have gone off to bury their bones in other yards. Biko wasn’t coming. Marion wasn’t coming.

And yet, as I considered all the people that wouldn’t be showing up because they were busy living their lives, I decided it’s probably about time I do the same. As Andre Benjamin quipped, “you focus on the past and your ass’ll be a has-what.” And as I finished my salad, young Wining Boy shuffled in and sat down, bringing an air of possibilty with him. Peace to the sands of time.

Penultimate Thought:  Black and white photos are infinitely gullier than color.

Final Thought: Black greeks = Preppy gangs.

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