Words of My Father

Season’s Greetings

This is the time of the year. The University dislikes this time of the year. The electric bill rises, or shall I say, soars as the malingeres attempt to cram a year’s work into a week; Students are wrecking havoc on the dining hall’s budget by coming to breakfast in droves.

Drug stores like this time of the year and order gobs and gobs of various and sundry “wonder drugs” for the poor benighted student who finds that there are just not enough hours in one day. Super markets like this time of the year. They are getting rid of all their off-brand instant, regular, and what-have-you coffees.

Eating and drinking establishments have been eagerly awaiting this time of year with wringing of hands and hoarding of all ingredients necessary to their specialties. There are great numbers of study parties and other (unadvertised) types.

Coeds passing by the men’s dorms in broad daylight have learned by this time either to despise or adore this time of year. It all depends on their frame of mind, and I might add, frame of frame. The response is the same from the gentlemen who have set up beaches facing Knox Road and anywhere else that they face.

Whistles are experimented with, cat-calls are perfected, old and new, banal and original, phrases are coined. This is an old game, the name of which has been lost through the countless eons of time in which it has been played, but whatever the name, the game’s the same. The effect is the only thing that is varied, but even this becomes boring, although to judge from the reactions of the beach-dwellers you would never know it.

Through all this infectious hub-bub, uproar, calamity, and whatever-name-you-have-for-it there are a few who seem immune. There are always a few of these people.. They are the ones who feel that college is a challenge to them. They are rewarded for their diligence by having their name placed in a very inconspicuous place in the office of the dean of their respective college.

By the same token, there are others who have the look of these students, and different only in that they are now seniors and tehy find that they are either failing a subject oor getting a “D” in their major. They metamorphose, and we are surprised to find that we cannot tell these from the perennial “brains.” It is astounding to what lengths man will drive himself in order to obtain that elusive “freedom.”

The average student has a peculiar hatred for this time of the year, and either feels that there is too little or too much time remaining.

In the final analysis, the water looks inviting, convertibles are exciting, fishes are biting. The world is worth joining once again for the few short months that we have to enjoy it, and in a few short (or long) weeks we will be working or playing, ro just plain hit-the-haying (for as long as we can).

On Games and Governors

It is spring, and there is a strange new game going around campus. A very strange new game. I never thought I would live to see the day when students would dress up in summer tuxes in order to view the sunrise.

These students have perfected a wonderful prayer movement which resembles a snakelike motion. When they have finished their swaying, they weave toward their dormitories singing a mournful, throaty chant. You would think that this new occupation would reflect itself in consumption of Dining Hall breakfasts, but actually the revers is taking place. Less and less students are seen in line in the morning. There must be an explanation, but I am completely in the dark as to what it can be.

Other things have been happening also. The Governor came down and dedicated Pink Teddy Hall amid flowers and high-sounding words, and they threw a banquet for him and honored guests. The night before, there were about 400 folding chairs in front of the library and five guards watching over them to stave off the criminal element of our great University.

When you think of the library, you cannot forget the misquotes int he DBK article which attested to having taken a sample of the opinions of the campus concerning said edifice. One of the little fillies who was quoted was much disturbed to find herself violently misquoted. When she was asked what she thought of a ladies room, with the tile and all. When she read what the paper printed, she found such eloquent phrases as … grand place to study … love that pink tile, etc. As I say, she was much disturbed.

I have noticed that Zal has been happy lately. I wonder why.

Looking through the pile of newspapers that come in each week from universities across the nation, I found one that touched my heart. There is a university in the mid-west, known as the University of Minnesota, which is printing some very exciting articles. The particular issue that I found is dated April 11, 1958. The article was all the more interesting because this school is situated in Minneapolis, which is not very far from St. Paul. It draws the bulk of its students from these two cities, and is reputed to be a five-day college.

This all sounds familiar, eh? A lot of the lack of enthusiasm on our campus has been attributed to just such a situation. That there is enthusiasm on Minnesota’s campus can be seen in a few of their articles. There is one story on the front page, the gist of which is that students at the university have seen fit to draw up a petition to abolish the existing student government and to replace it with a more representative one. One of the strange things in this move is that for the remainder of the semester, should this petition go through, the duties of the student government will be turned over to what would correspond to the Faculty Senate on our campus. I am not saying that such steps should be taken here, especially with the new constitution coming into being, but I am happy to see that weekday colleges are not fated to lie in the doldrums of apathetic existence.

One of the columnists on the staff of their paper saw fit to publish a few poems dealing with the issue, and the following is one  that I find particularly memorable.

DIDDLE, DADDLE

Diddle, Daddle, A. U. C.*
How I wonder what you be?

Way above our heads, I fear.
Is your extinction drawing near?

It is good to see issues like this stirring up interest somewhere in this nation. It keeps my faith alive.

*All University Congress.

So, Hi There, French!

Like, it’s the middle of the week and here I am in my well-worn booth at the Town Hall working on a fringe binge. You know what that is; one pitcher of beer and two packs of pretzels.

Well, like I say, I’m sitting here trying to be as inconspicuous as possib le when all of a sudden I’m approached.

There’s a guy standing at the side of the booth, and he says, “Hi.” Then figuring that this is enough, he cops a seat, and proceeds to finish the glass of beer that I have just poured.

This guy is about as welcome as a lipstick-stained cigarette butt on inspection day in the dorms.

He notices that I am possibly becoming piqued, so he says, “You remember be, French.” He dips his hand into my pretzel box, but what can I say, I remember him, French. I look him over, and take in his costume, baggy green sweater, haircut somewhere between clean bean and bob job.

This guy has a personality that won’t quit. He notices that I am looking at him strange, so he feels that he has to say something.

“Man,” he says, “What a life.” I make the fatal mistake. I say, “Having troubles?” “Man,” he says, “you don’t know.”

Which is true, I don’t know, in fact, I am not sure that I want to know, but I’m about to find out. I can tell by the glint in this guy’s eye.

He pauses for a minute to pour himself another glass of beer, wets his throat, looks at me strangely when I grab the pitcher and make like thirsty, then he decides against being taken off the subject and continues his litany. It is a work of art.

“Life,” he says, “is really out of it. Here I am trying to make my way through college, and the odds are really against me.” He stops, pats around his heart, smiles, and then with a tear in his throat, he says, “I’m even outa butts.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out my smokes. He grabs my hand, thanks me, and stows them away in his pocket. I am thankful that I made off with a sample pakc from the dining hall distribution hour.

“Ain’t I been through enough? Ain’t I had two years of rotesy. Don’t I know a few guys that’ve been in the Army?” I am nodding my head, and this guy thinks that I am encouraging him, so he goes on.

“Am I such a bad guy?” he asks. Before I can release my jaws to reply he is off again. “Hell, no, I ain’t such a bad guy.” At this time I am wondering whether I am such a bad guy and what I did wrong that I should deserve the treat that I am getting from my friend here.

“Man, they load me down with so much work that I have to put in thirty hours a day, day in and day out, week in and week out, year in and…” I put my hand up and he stops and looks at me quizzically, as if to say that I have a lot of guts cutting him off just when he is going well.

“It’s nothing,” I say, “Just a cramp in my arm.” He continues. “Year in and year out. It’s getting me down. I’m losing weight, losing sleep. I worry man, worry bad. Life is really out of it.”

He leans over the table in a conspiratorial manner, breathing stale beer in my face and says, “Y’know, buddy, I can see that you are my kind of guy, you don’t dig this bit either, do you?”

I start to say something, but he continues, “Hell, no, you’re too smart for that.” I shudder. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re too smart for that.”

“Man,” he says, leaning back, “it just ain’t worth it. I get into a frat, so what happens, all the affairs are pro=rated, and there’s no way. I take out a braod and she expects me to spend my life on her. There’s no way, there’s just no way. Life is really out of it.”

At this time the waitress comes over tot eh table and asks if we want some beer. My buddy casts a worshipful glance in my direction, but I say that I am not financially equipped to buy another.

Old Tom Terp just sits across from me, stunned. “You really broke?” He asks. He revives from the shock a few minutes later and tells me that he will be right back.

He gets up and makes his way toward the other room. On the way he sees another one of his long-lost buddies. He slides up to the booth and says, “Hi.” He slides into the booth and says, “Don’t you remember me, English?”

He grabs the guy’s beer, smiles, offers him a cigarette, and says, “Man, life is really out of it.” This guy bites too. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

I leave.

And a Speakeasy Too?

For the past few months the newspapers have been full of comments on what has been termed by some a recession, and by others, a depression. Naturally, I paid no attention to these reports, thinking in my innocence that such inconsequential matters could never be felt on campus.

Since the advent of warm weather, however, I have had to revise my views on the matter. It seems that this recession or what-have-you has reached the campus. The coeds, as usual more sensitive to matters of this sort, have been the first to feel the sting of this monster. In their gropings to find a suitable way to deal with this situation, they ahve inclined themselves to self-sacrifice. (Little angels that they are!) When I think of the way in which they have chosen to deal with the matter I am almost moved to tears.

I don’t know whether or not you ahve noticed the fact that these veritable darlings have taken to invading their mother’s hope chests and wearing the old clothing that their mothers wore in their youth. The garish garb that we were accustomed to seeing only on Hallowe’en is that in which they have chosen to clothe themselves during this grave crisis. Bravely, they parade the streets, their heads high, a prideful gleam in their shiny little orbs, while the clothes they wear are hanging from their bodies in a most unsightly manner, none the better for having been put up in camphor these past thirty years.

Doubtless, they have been going on starvation diets in order to avoid splitting their makeshift clothing with the emphasis on slim hips and narrow shoulders. Such self-enforced humility cannot but be admired, and these dainty lasses have endeared themselves to my heart.

Now I must get down to facts and reach out to your sense of righteousness. Men, something must be done about this situation. How long do you think that these sensitive little darlings can go on with this pretense? How long before they break, before their grades suffer from the humiliation that they must feel? I understand that we must be practical about the matter; nevertheless, we must do what is in our power to do. Even if we could afford to clothe these lasses in proper attire, their pride would interfere, and they would be mortified by such a suggestion. No, this is not the way. We must band together during these trying times and resolve that we shall not make them feel out-of-place in any way.

It is time, I think for we men to assume our role in this tragedy. You ask, what we shal do? Is there reason why we could not choose to emulate our heroines in this matter? Our fathers must have kept some souvenier, some poingant reminder of their lost youth. It is our manifest duty to explore our attics and cellars for such items. Leave no stone unturned. Blazers, bell-bottom trousers, turtleneck sweaters, straw hats, and the not-to-be-neglected banjo and ukelele must reappear on campus.

I know that some of you will cringe from such a solution, but it must be done. Shall we let it be said that we are thoughtless cowards? It is so little to do. Shall we not try to bring some joy into the lives of the thoughtful coeds? Are we cads? No! We shall return to the day of the raccoon coat, the black-bottom, and Charleston. Let the cha-cha no longer permeate our thoughts, and once more let the hills around resound with a rousing bop-a-doo, boop-a-doo for old M. U.

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time in Campusland, there existed a curious group of animals. They were known as Mouseycows (females) and Herseymules (males); Genus Dininghallus; specious supervisorus. These beings were understood to Campusites to be strange but necessary, or to paraphrase the above, “something that had to be put up with.”

Whereas the habitat of Campusites during the daylight hours was known as “classrooms,” the Mouseycows and Horseymules congregated in a curious building known as a dining hall (i.e. Dininghallus). This group of beings, as a general rule, were disinterested in education and the problems of education, having come up the hard way and graduated from a school known as “Hardus Knockus U.”

As I have already stated, these beings inhabited the dining hall, where they took peculiar advantage over one of the dominant traits of the Campusites, who for some strange reason were known as “Hungry.” When they did become hungry, the Campusites were forced to do their eating at the dining hall because of another strange trait. They also had to sleep. In order to obtain sleeping facilities, Campusites were coerced into partaking of tehir victuals in the dining hall or relinquishing their status as Campusites. This plight gave rise to the popularity of other institutions which arose on the outskirts of Campusland. These institutions known as Greek houses and boarding houses swallowed up all the fortunate and wealthier dissenters, leaving only the poor unfortunates to remain as Campusites.

However, enough meandering, we shall now return to our subjects, the Mouseycows and Horseymules. Due to their elevated positions (which could only have been attained in the Dininhallus status) they shortly transcended their primary job as dieticians and became dogmaticians. Food was to be eaten at specific times or not at all.  The purpose of this being to teach the Campusites some nebulous lesson. To accomplish this purpose, food was thrown out rather than fed to late Campusites. Fried eggs, spaghetti, milk, etc., were left to molder and sour, or be eaten by stray dogs.

The situation was not much better for those Campusites who arrived on time at the dining hall. Breakfasts were characterized by green eggs and soggy toast,m lunches and dinners by greasy trays and filthy silverware.

There grew a great animosity between Campusites and Dininghallus supervisora, which, of course, was always frequented by victory for the supervisora who, at any obscure excuse found it expedient to close the dining hall to Campusites in favor of political conventions and the like.

Campusites were forced to practice a very old instinctive behavior known as “Hoarding.” Soon window sills around Campusland sported large colonies of milk cartons and cereal cartons, closets contained large numbers of cracker packets, hardy items such as peanut butter and jelly were purchased at times of great wealth to supplement the stock. Laws cropped up in order to combat these forages upon dining hall and boulevard, such as illegality of removing food from the dining hall and banning of hot plates from dormitories. Some enterprising campusites found ways of getting around these inconveniences while other Campusites paled and grew melancholy.

As a result of this constant battle, education, which was assumed to be the chief foal of Campusites, took second place, and many Campusites found it difficult to maintain both nutritional and scholastic fitness.

Of course, situations such as these do not exist today in our enlightened society, and Campusites in the dining hall are delighted at the seven dancing girls who come around to their tables and take their orders. Situations such as this did exist in the dark ages of educational institutes, but they could never exist again, especially at our model institutions.

No Room at the Theater

Sunday morning I wandered over to the Student Union Building to see the final try-outs for “Oklahoma.” There were only 30 people present in this final elimination, but this is not the whole story. Over 150 had auditioned prior to this, and if this is any indication of the interest which this play has aroused, I am worried.

I’m not attempting to appraise the talent. That will be your job during their performances. There is one problem, though, that comes to mind. A capacity crowd for the seven performances is approximately 2,800 to 3,000 people, and this is possible only when seats are used which do not command a full view of the stage, and when, as an amergency expedient, folding chairs are set up in the aisles.

The question which comes to my mind is: What will happen if more than 2,800 students want to see the show? Actually, even less than that number will get a chance to see the show. Everyone connected with the production is entitled to complimentary tickets, critics from Washington and surrounding areas will be extended invitations, faculty members will be present, etc.

Bearing this in mind, the maximum number of tickets available for students is somewhere around 2,500. I sort of feel that there will be more than that many students interested in seeing the show, possibly as many as 5,000. In previous years, capacity crowds have been the rule rather than the exception, especially for musicals. Crowds have been getting larger rather than smaller each year, with the outcome that many people have not been able to get seats for performances. Not too many years ago, when the University was putting on “Cyrano De Bergerac,” all tickets for all performances were sold out the first day. This may be the case with “Oklahoma.”

Efforts in the past to procure better facilities have met with no success. The Athletic Department has shown a negative attitude when approached concerning the use of Ritchie Coliseum for performances, the SGA has been found unwilling to allow an extension of the run of the show, although these would be possible solutions. Other measures have been proposed, including the radical idea that better facilities should be made permanently available, but these have also met with the same negative degree  of success.

I don’t think that I am overestimating when I state that possibly 5,000 or more people are going to want to see “Oklahoma.” This may possible be a modest estimate when other sources of patrons are considered.

The problem is what the students on campus are going to do. Whether you realize it or not, an organized protest can go a long way toward improvement of the situation. If enough people shout long enough, the school may have to comply at least to the extent of allowing the use of Ritchie Coliseum, or allowing the show to play an extra week. This is up to you.

I have a feeling that it is about time that something was done about these conditions, and so I am proposing a possible solution. I would appreciate very much if interested students, interested fraternities and sororities, interested clubs and dormitories, etc., would let me know in some tangible way whether or not they are inteerested in seeing something done along the lines that I have proposed. If you are interested, either contact me personally, drop off your comments or petitions in the Executive Editor’s box at the Journalism Building, or send a letter (in care of me) to the Diamondback.

Dorm’s Eye View

Man, what a weirdy campus. You can never tell how things will turn out. You would call registration a usual situation, wouldn’t you? Well, that’s where it started.

I had just finished registering for classes, and was debating whether or not I would be considered a night student. Then it all started. I am walking out of the armory, when I find my way barred by a chick who tells me that I will have to go downstairs to get out. As I reach the bottom step, I find myself converged upon by this guy that looks faintly familiar. He has his hand out as a sort of hint.

“Sorry, bub,” I say, “I’m an atheist.” “This ain’t for religion,” he says, “this is for a dorm card.” “Look, man,” I say, “it’s against my religion to give money away.” “Now friend,” he says, moving in quickly and putting me in a hammerlock, “You are mistaken.” Naturally, I see my error, and start working in a different direction. “Man, look,” I say in my most confidential voice, “I can’t show my money now, I’ll be broke before I reach the door.” “Where do you live?” he says. He sort of tightens up on his hold, so I tell him. He reaches in my pocket, checks my room key, and let’s me go.

“You’re in luck,” he says, “I live in that dorm.” These words hit me like the kiss of death, and I wander out, sorely shook. About 5:30, I hear a clammoring, like it’s the big bad wolf, and I am made to open the door. I’ve had it! It’s him! They’ve finally caught up with me. Giving in to the law of averages and brute strength, I slip him a buck with my free hand. He leaves and I pick up the pieces. This is the end of it, I think.

Then I get stranded here during the big snow. It’s Saturday night, and it is snowing so bad that I decide to forget supper. I am lying on the bed when the door starts to get smashed in. In he comes, snow and all. “There’s a dance tonight,” he says. “This is great news,” I say to myself, “just great.” I say to him, “So?” “So.” He says, “SO!! Man, get dressed, your dorm card is finally paying off.” I look at him a little strange like and say, “Man, I ain’t dressed for this weather. I’m pneumonia prone, and …” “No sweat,” he says, “I got sweaters.”

He leaves, and I mop up the lake he created. I am almost dressed when he comes in with his sweater. I finish up quick like, fearful of his arm lock, and we brave the blizzard. The dance is in Harford Hall, and when we get there, we are alone. A few minutes later, a few guys show up, and my buddy volunteers one of them to take his care and pick up the girls in the dorms.

I outline my plan while we are waiting for the girls. Thirteen cups of punch at a nickel apiece, and thirty-five cookies at a penny apiece, one buck. I am sitting in a corner accomplishing my objective, when a lassy comes up to me. “Dance,” she says. “Dance?” I say. “Not please dance, not would you like to dance.” I can see that this dish never took PE 8. She wants to cha-cha, they’re playing a rock and roll. I can’t take it. The dance ends, and I cut out. I am caught at the door, and my buddy tells me that it will cost me one sweater to leave. I stay.

I am sitting at my desk Monday night, blowing my nose, when a battering ram crashes down upon the door. He comes lumbering in with some more glad tidings. “Dance at Somerset tonight.” “Quick,” I say, “the smelling salts.” “Exciting, huh?” he says. I am crushed. He brings in his best sweater, and I am beginning to have suspicions that this guy likes me. We slosh over to Somerset, and I am sitting in a corner again, when a familiar faces comes up to me. The mouth opens and I quiver. “Dance!” She grabs me from the chair, and I am dancing again. It’s a cha-cha, but she is doing an odd variation of the jitterbug. Somehow, I survive the dance, and she shuffles me over to a corner. When she is finished, I have a date with her Saturday, and I realize that I have gained a new friend.

Five o’clock the next morning, I have a voice at my door. “Yuh goin’ to breakfast?” I open the door, brush the sleep from my eyes and look at him. I smell his breath, but it does no good, my suspicions are confirmed. He really likes me. “Here,” I say, “here’s a dollar, and here’s the dorm card. Do me a favor and take it back. I’ve over-drawn my account anyway.” He ignores me, and we wander off to breakfast.

There is only one solution to my problem. “Dean James,” I say, “I have to have my room changed.” “Why?” he says. I mumble something about my roommate eating crackers in bed, but he doesn’t think that the room change will be necessary. I like life too much for suicide, so I am going to drop out of school. Maybe my friends will graduate before I am too old.

A Tale of Woe

Cutting across the mall between classes, trying to make it to class on time just to make an impression, I am accosted by a lost looking youth with a wistful look in his bloodshot eyes. He looks me over and decides that I am not dangerous, so he makes up his small mind to burden me with his tale of woe. After taking his dink off and twisting it in his sweaty little palms, gasping a few times, and wiping his nose on his sleeve, he timidly asks, “Cudja tell me where building ‘O’ is?”

I look at him cautiously, trying to size up the situation, when he attempts to help me out. “Y ’see, I’m a greshman here this year, an’ I don’ know my way around’.” You can imagine my astonishment at this, as it is not until this instant that I recognize this boy as a freshman, he looks so much like anyone else that you would see walking around campus at nine in the morning.

Being of great native intelligence, this sturdy young fellow recognizes my dilemma and decides to clarify it for me a little more. “I’m from Baltimore,” he says, “and this place is pretty big, and …” I raise my hand reassuringly and let him know that I understand the problem and that I will be only too glad to help him out.

“Building ‘O’,” I say in a thoughtful manner, “let me see.” “Yeah,” he says. Seeing the prize I have here, and not missing the opportunity, I tell him that I will gladly assist him in his plight. “Son,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder, “you have come to the right man.” “Yeah,” he says. “Son,” I say, “you know where the Dining Hall is, right.” “Right,” he says. “Well, you walk around to the rear of the Dining Hall, and you will see the infirmary, and then you — you had better take this down, son, I don’t want you to get all balled up and have to go getting more instructions.” “All right,” he says, opening up his brand new notebook with the big “M” and picture of a Terrapin on it.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, I ahve you as far as the infirmary, don’t I?” “Yeah,” he says. “Now then, we’re almost tehre, aren’t we? Once you have gotten to the infirmary, you walk down the driveway, and you will see a few buildings. One of them is named Wicomico, and the one on its right is called Carroll. To the right of Carroll Hall is a building that you can’t miss. That’s the one you want. It’s called Preinkert, get that P-R-E-I-N-K-E-R-T, Preinkert. That is boy, that the one you want.”

He slobbers his thanks all over me, and turns away just as the bells ring. I walk to my class, satisfied that I have done my good deed for the day. Being late, everyone turns and stares at me as I sneak in, but I am unmindful of this. I sit through this great indoctrination class, waiting with bated breath for the bell. Finally, I am allowed to leave, and I stroll across the mall whistling. I come upon a group of lassies who are giggling strange things, and listen in. “No!” says the short one. “Yes!” says the fat one. “Not the girl’s gym,” says the short one. “Yes,” says tyhe fat one, “like as if he owned the place. Little dink on his little pointed ead and all.”

I push through the little mob that has formed at the wall and wander to my psych class.

So, You’ve Gotta Gripe!

Well, we all came back with a bang. Not enough books in the library, not enough seats for the game, not enough time before finals. Really great to be some place where we can complain about things again, isn’t it? How long ago was it, a little over a week? You were rudely awakened at about 11:30 and asked what you wanted for breakfast, with the sly little remark that maybe what you really wanted was lunch, in which case you could go back to sleep for another half-hour.

Not too much that you could say about that—not aloud, anyway. And when you finally did come downstairs, the first thing that you heard was, “While you’re up….” A surly little grunt may have passed your lips at this point, but after all, you were home, you were having a vacation. Then after doing all the odd little things like putting up the drapes or vacuuming the rug or cleaning off the table or making your bed, or…. Well, anyway, when you had finished all of this and eaten, and gotten ready to go to the library to study,. as you were leaving the house, breathing a sigh of relief, you heard, “On your way back….” So after going about thirty miles out of your way on your “way back” and getting no work done, you finish supper and as you are leaving the room you get a phone call from one of the guys or one of the girls, and you say that you are going to study this evening, at which time a little voice from the table says, “But dear, you’ve studied all day, it isn’t good for you to stay home like this.”

And then as you leave the house, you say, “Mom, wake me up early tomorrow, about 7:30 or 8, I want to get some studying in.” So the next morning you are awakend by the sun whihc is flooding the bvedroom, and you glance at te clock and it says 11:30, and you run downstairs, and ask your mother what catastrophe happened that she didn’t wake you up, and you hear, “Well, dear, you got in late last night….” So you stamp back upstairs and get dressed, mumbling to yourself, and come back down to eat a sandwich and be off, and you are notified that “Lunch willb e done in a few minutes, but why don’t you run to the store and…”

So now it’s two o’clock and you are finally taking off. You start the car and the lady from down the street asks you where you are going, and could you please drop her off downtown as she is late, that is, if it isn’t out of your way.

By some miracle, it is January 5th, and you find yourself back at school. You renew old acquaintances and head for the Pizza Hut or the Deli or the Hot Shoppe, and you talk for hours. Then school starts, and you decide to look over the library. It is big, but where are all the books? You make out your exam schedule and find that there isn’t time for you to get all your work done, and you look forward to Saturday only to find out that there are only 5500 seats for the students. You’re in heaven; you can sit up nights thinking of the nastyt ways you can get back at the school, and look forward to semester break so you can get away from it all and go back home. Home. …

Specialize, Organize, Criticize!

Page two of today’s paper carries a comment by the Assistant Dean of Men. Mr. DeMarr decries the situation on campus not as apathy, but as a lack of organization. This may be true. Perhaps we are not organized. Viewing the situation as a whole, I believe the trouble is that we are not specializing. In this day and age this is an inexcusable fault. You can approach any student on campus and get his comments on a dozen or more things that he feels are deplorable. Think of what a blast he could make if he were to specialize on one thing.

Specialization is not the complete answer to this, which brings us back to Mr. DeMarr’s comments on organization. This is the answer. Specialize and arganize. Select the thing that you are most interested in complaining about, and then go out and find a few others who have complaints about the same subject. Go one step further; institute a system whereby committees or clubs could be organized which would concentrate on just one situation.

A typical list of clubs could include such ones as: the We Find Conditions In The Dining Hall Deplorable Because Club; or The Daydodger’s Discussion Group On Why We Think Parking Facilities Are Unfair To Us; or, on another tangent, the We Feel That Student Publications Are Miserable Because Committee. (This latter group could be subdivided into two segments, one on the Diamondback, and one on the Old Line, which would meet once a week on different nights, with a yearly seminar on the Terrapin, to be held the first night after its disbursement.)

The above are not all the possibilities, and you don’t even have to limit yourselves to the major interests on campus. After organized, this program could be expanded to include conditions encountered in only one college. Even more specialized than this, you could eventually segregate groups discussing conditions encountered only by Pre-Vets, Pre-Meds, Accountants, Engineers, etc.

I ask you, why should you be a poor old jack of all trades and master of none? Twenty opinions are better than one, and you could always get a report from the other groups that you might have a cursory interest in. You can rest assured that these people will be able to answer any question, and better define any ill-feeling that you might have as to any other facet of student life in a manner that you could be proud of.

When I think of this magnificent plan, which I am sure must have entered my mind through some divine guidance, I am overcome by emotion. Think of the new vistas that can be exploited on the collegiate horizons. What cannot this new method of critical analysis accomplish? Shame on you, Mr. Shulman. The answer lies not in the abusement of feminity, but here, under our fingertips, and it is not until now that we have become aware of it.

Criticism is the answer, but not disorganized criticism. Organized criticism, specialized criticism is what we need. Band together, bring some form to this formless mass. Be proud to say, I am a “Dining Hall” man, or I am an “Infirmary” man. I leave you now, in complete confidence that my plan will not fall into some musty corner to rot and fall apart. I shall sleep tonight in utter assurance that this is the answer, the key, the panacaea. This shall lead us from the brink of despair upon which we are now teetering, and shall carry us to the greatest heights attainable in the collegiate sphere.