antigreg :
April 1-2, 2001 — Virgin screwdrivers and broken glass
I have a hard time with taking residence elections seriously; holding one of said elections on April 1 doesn't help matters. Allowing me to campaign for the position of social convener and giving me the opportunity to say a speech destroys any shred of credibility that may have been left. And yet I still think that a person or two ended up crying at the end of it all...
I woke up fairly late in the afternoon on Sunday. A lack of sleep and an excess of infection had each taken their toll, and I dragged myself out of bed feeling groggy ten or eleven hours after I'd entered it. Much napping ensued, and it took a lot of energy to work myself up to that almost-extroverted level at which I can give a speech without stuttering.
The house elections started at 10:00PM with the house president pleading with all those running for positions to leave the room as friends. This was kind of amusing considering the barely-disguised barbs that followed in some of the candidacy speeches. So much negative emotion put into something so irrelevant; it just warms the heart.
Johnston was hoping to record my speech for posterity's sake and had carried Jeff's four-track recorder with him in his backpack. He couldn't find the power button in time (replies to this journal regarding Johnston's all-time high in the competency department are encouraged), so I'll give you the recap from memory:
Now, I'll be the first to admit that my birthday sign said nothing about my being an integral part of Middle House. (Editor's note: we each get a birthday sign; mine said something about cool piercings in acrostic form. Last week, a girl's birthday sign had an epic poem ending with a bit about her being an integral part of Middle House. Get it?) And granted, I haven't been to a house meeting in well over a month. And sure, I'm not very social and I hate being convened.
But I can change. Middle House could use a change. We can grow together.
When elected social convener, I promise to make a return to dry events. I will single-handedly take the rum straight out of rum-and-coke and put the virgin right back into screwdriver.
But there's more: because I won't be enrolling in any classes next year, I'll be able to make Middle House social convener my full-time job. Can any other candidates promise you that? Of course not. They'll be too busy with classes and the endless task of taking down the libelous signs I put up about them. And don't think there won't be more...
In summary, I will ensure that next year revolves around my platform of less beer and more fun. Assuming your idea of fun runs parallel with my idea to have "pub night" renamed to "sit alone quietly in our rooms using the Internet night."
It came across better spoken. Highlights were my threatening tone for the "And don't think there won't be more" part (keep in mind that a sign reading, "Most candidates for social convener only go so far as kissing babies; don't vote Karen" was on the front door of residence for a day or two), and my emotional plea for Middle House and I to "grow together." Less nervous laughter and fewer odd looks were generated than were by that valedictorian speech of mine, but I'm at least feeling a little bit less rusty as far as public speaking goes.
Needless to say, I lost. It didn't help that I wasn't even on the ballot. The girl I'd been running against had taken far too much of what I was saying seriously and actually looked a bit stunned when I told her I'd be crying myself to sleep over my defeat. I figured she'd've clued in when I showed up at her door to congratulate her, megaphone in hand, with threats to wake her up several times nightly for two weeks using the siren setting. There's nothing I hate more than being taken seriously.
Meanwhile, Jeff is currently writing an essay on Johnston's computer and has a huge stack of books on the French Revolution beside him, some almost 200 years old. I'm tempted to put them up on Ebay as one-cent books with no reserve, if only to see a pack of disgruntled librarians track him down at our home next year to pull his teeth out with pliers. Just like in "Marathon Man." But with librarians.
And back at the ranch...
After that election nonsense had come to an end, Erika and I sent emails back and forth for a few hours. It was a painful and honest conversation. I'd feel a lot better if we weren't both left so frightened.
When I woke up this morning, the world was much as I'd left it, and I failed to get much accomplished. I went to one class, though, so I've something to be proud of. Tomorrow I've my last physics lab of the year, but I haven't the slightest idea how to do the lab. I'm going to set my alarm and try to arrive early enough that I can learn how to work a multimeter. You know, one of the neat-o gadgets that can determine voltage and amperage. Don't you wish that you'd taken physics in high school? (I'd say university, but it's more or less the same here, except with more lackluster instructions.)
I'm also starting to worry that I have a research project due this Friday. It just says that it's due the last Friday of the term on the Web site, and I realized yesterday that the term technically ends on next Wednesday. Which means I should probably hasten my efforts to explain the position of straight edge as a resistant force within the conformity-resistance paradigm. This can't not make for a good time.
DC circuits and books about hegemony await...
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Contact : Greg Sullivan, PO Box 533, Station C, Toronto ON M6J 3P6, Canada; greg@antigreg.com.