So today Daniel and I went to go turn in our last check to Sage Associates, for our posh and swanky senior year housing. Well, it was the last check for this school year, anyway.
We both had class until 11:25, but were free after that, so we met at Mallott. I got worried becuase the guest speaker we were having in Comm 345 was running long, and I know how anal Dan is about punctuality. I got outside to meet him at around 11:30. He commented about me being late at 11:31. At 11:32, midway between Day Hall and Mallott, Dan remembered he needed to mail some letters to his parents. At 11:38, after a trip through the magical underground passage that is the belly of Trillium, we were back on our way to turn in our checks.
The rest of the trip there was seemingly un-eventful. We turned in our checks. I signed some form. The ladies in the office smiled at us. Then we left. On our way back, however, Daniel reminded me of something I had told him just minutes earlier. Some girls I had never met had a pan of mine, and I should get it back.
If you're confused, you're not the only one. You should have seen the look on the girl's face when she came to the door of her apartment to find Dan and I standing there.
But this was no ordinary apartment.
This was the apartment that just a semester ago had been home to Rachel (of rice rocket fame), Sarah, and Lauren. Rachel and I used to take turns cooking at each other's places, and one time I brought a really good frying pan over to do catfish in. It was specialized, with ridges and grooves to lift the object you fry out of the grease it may produce. I dare say it was my favorite pan. But I'm an idiot. I left the pan at Rachel's late in the semester, and we both forgot about it. I got back to school after break to realize I didn't have my pan, or a way to contact Rachel, who had since gone abroad for the semester.
So fast forward from that point, two weeks, where I am visiting frm. roommate Dylan at the Cornell in Washington center. We did the dinner thing, watched West Wing with his current roommates, and talked for a bit. Then, during the evening people started to drop by. One of them was Sarah, who had lived with Rachel the semester before.
"Your pan is still at my apartment," she told me. "I left a note for the girls who moved in, so you should go ask for it."
Well fast forward another eight weeks, to today, when I tried go get it. The girl was confused, and polietely showed me all the cookwear in the apartment. My Pan was not among them. I left crushed, to take solice in an afternoon nap.
(On another tangent, they only had two frying pans. Two?!? -- how can anyone cook with just two frying pans?!? I mean, I have a roasting dish, wok, several frying pans of varying sizes, pots, and even a freakin' waffle maker. And *warning -- oncoming sexist comment -- * they were women. If I have an X and Y chromosome, and all that stuff, they should have at least half that. At least a third pan, or a pot or something...)
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Spring Breaking
I'm at wits end here -- thank God spring break is almost over. For some reason, I cannot sleep in any later than 5 a.m., and usually give up sleeping in general around 6 (despite having gone to bed around 1 a.m.). Resigned to napping most of the afternoon away, I have developed a vicious cycle, missing out on the sunlight and warmer weather that is not Ithaca. (Not that Lancaster's been sandy beaches or anything of the like...)
Bill and Mary Ann have been wonderful hosts, although I've already settled on a warmer climate for next year. Mr. Frasco recommends The Islands, Mexico (Cancun, if I recall properly), or the great state of Florida -- all prime choices that I hope to work out with the Men of Sage. If they can't settle on something, I'm hoping to get some of the fraternity brothers together for some bar hopping in warmer climates.
Oh, and while I'm rambling ... anyone else notice how quickly "Honey" moved from theaters to DVD? If only the good movies could do that, that quickly. I saw Starsky and Hutch last night with the 'rents, and they loved it. Personally, I thought it dragged a bit in the beginning, but then quickly got up to good-humor speed. Not quite the plot complexity of Zoolander, or Tennenbaums, and the characters weren't as developed, but easily a fan favorite for any Wilson/Stiller film.
(Although lets be honest, can anything beat Meet the Parents? Maybe Meet the Fuckers (due out this Spring/Summer), but Parents was a damn good film, and offered the talents of both Stiller and Wilson.)
Gems from my most recent Canadian sojourn, coming soon...
Bill and Mary Ann have been wonderful hosts, although I've already settled on a warmer climate for next year. Mr. Frasco recommends The Islands, Mexico (Cancun, if I recall properly), or the great state of Florida -- all prime choices that I hope to work out with the Men of Sage. If they can't settle on something, I'm hoping to get some of the fraternity brothers together for some bar hopping in warmer climates.
Oh, and while I'm rambling ... anyone else notice how quickly "Honey" moved from theaters to DVD? If only the good movies could do that, that quickly. I saw Starsky and Hutch last night with the 'rents, and they loved it. Personally, I thought it dragged a bit in the beginning, but then quickly got up to good-humor speed. Not quite the plot complexity of Zoolander, or Tennenbaums, and the characters weren't as developed, but easily a fan favorite for any Wilson/Stiller film.
(Although lets be honest, can anything beat Meet the Parents? Maybe Meet the Fuckers (due out this Spring/Summer), but Parents was a damn good film, and offered the talents of both Stiller and Wilson.)
Gems from my most recent Canadian sojourn, coming soon...
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Can you strike out with one swing?
So tonight I got home and checked my messages. The machine was blinking, telling me that I had two of them.
"Hi this is Brook, I tried to call you twice last weekend but you're never home, and I don't like to leave messages on machines but..."
I admit, I smiled. But the message didn't say much. She apologized for not calling me sooner, and said that I was sweet, and to give her a call.
So why is this guy such a sweet guy? Perhaps pathetic, shy, and clueless could also be used to describe this guy. You see, last Tuesday I decided I was going to nut up and ask this girl (Brook) out. I had met her a few weeks earlier at the house, and we'd had some pretty good conversations since then. She seemed payful, she smiled at me, and she liked to dance. To top it off she was a curly-haired blonde (dyed as I later found out, but who am I kidding -- the larger-looped curly hair drives me crazy). Needless to say, I was sold at first sight.
So I had this plan. I was going to buy a single carnation, walk up to her place, and ask her out. Then things started to go wrong, fateful even. The florist was out of carnations, so I had to buy something else. I ran into everyone I knew on the way to her place, and they of course asked me what I was doing with a flower. And the biggest problem -- she wasn't home.
Now, the first thing they teach you in the boy scouts is to tie a square knot. Somewhere after that they drill into your head that you should always be prepared, and about the third time you forget your poncho during rainy season at summer camp it breaks through. Remembering these timeless lessons, I brought a note, just incase she wasn't home.
It was simple. "Brook, I think you're cool ... call me sometime if you want to hang out ..." I drew my inspiration from that one note I got in sixth grade history class. Albeit, I didn't have any boxes saying: check yes if you like me...
So I left it. Then I waited. And Waited. And Waited.
Nearly two weeks later, she calls me. Excitedly I begin planning out where we might go, what we might do, what I should say on the phone. To gauge my level of elation and comittment to what I think of this girl, I offer you this: I even cleaned our bathroom -- toilet and all.
So then I realize I might be putting my cart before the horse, reach for the phone and call her.
me: Hi
Brook: Hi (as if she had my number programed in)
me: It's Matt
Brook: I know ... so ...
(insert meaningless tap-dancing conversation here)
Brook: The flower was really sweet
me: ...
Brook: I have a boyfriend
Too bad sweet also equates to lonely...
"Hi this is Brook, I tried to call you twice last weekend but you're never home, and I don't like to leave messages on machines but..."
I admit, I smiled. But the message didn't say much. She apologized for not calling me sooner, and said that I was sweet, and to give her a call.
So why is this guy such a sweet guy? Perhaps pathetic, shy, and clueless could also be used to describe this guy. You see, last Tuesday I decided I was going to nut up and ask this girl (Brook) out. I had met her a few weeks earlier at the house, and we'd had some pretty good conversations since then. She seemed payful, she smiled at me, and she liked to dance. To top it off she was a curly-haired blonde (dyed as I later found out, but who am I kidding -- the larger-looped curly hair drives me crazy). Needless to say, I was sold at first sight.
So I had this plan. I was going to buy a single carnation, walk up to her place, and ask her out. Then things started to go wrong, fateful even. The florist was out of carnations, so I had to buy something else. I ran into everyone I knew on the way to her place, and they of course asked me what I was doing with a flower. And the biggest problem -- she wasn't home.
Now, the first thing they teach you in the boy scouts is to tie a square knot. Somewhere after that they drill into your head that you should always be prepared, and about the third time you forget your poncho during rainy season at summer camp it breaks through. Remembering these timeless lessons, I brought a note, just incase she wasn't home.
It was simple. "Brook, I think you're cool ... call me sometime if you want to hang out ..." I drew my inspiration from that one note I got in sixth grade history class. Albeit, I didn't have any boxes saying: check yes if you like me...
So I left it. Then I waited. And Waited. And Waited.
Nearly two weeks later, she calls me. Excitedly I begin planning out where we might go, what we might do, what I should say on the phone. To gauge my level of elation and comittment to what I think of this girl, I offer you this: I even cleaned our bathroom -- toilet and all.
So then I realize I might be putting my cart before the horse, reach for the phone and call her.
me: Hi
Brook: Hi (as if she had my number programed in)
me: It's Matt
Brook: I know ... so ...
(insert meaningless tap-dancing conversation here)
Brook: The flower was really sweet
me: ...
Brook: I have a boyfriend
Too bad sweet also equates to lonely...
Verb choice: killed vs. died
Cornell student George Boiardi passed away yesteray evening after taking a shot to the chest during a varsity lacrosse game. Admittedly I was stunned, first to hear the news, second to the idea that none of the other beat writers (I cover the team) had contacted me, third to hear the news.
I saw it on the way to class today. I was passing the Indian-run convenience store by the Eddy Gate, when I saw the Ithaca Journal banner headline in the news stand. I didn't catch the words, but the photo was unmistakable -- a paper-width shot of the men's lacrosse team, lined up and on their knees. I quickly bought a copy, along with the day's Daily Sun.
What started as a walk to class has quickly turned into a trial of sorrow and reflection.
I didn't know George and had never met him during my time covering the team, but the fact that he was chosen as a team captain tells me plenty. He was clearly a dedicated teammate, caring friend, and talented athlete. I have no way of putting into words what his teammates must be feeling. I feel for them, his family, and even more so for the young man who fired the shot. I hope that he doesn't blame himself for the fluke accident.
Which leads me to something that I've been questioning all day: killed, or died? As a writer, word choice is crucial becuase of the emotions and memories certain phrasings may envoke.
To me, the word killed implies malice. You kill an enemy, or a pest. Murderers kill. Killing happens on the battle field. So does it apply to an athletic event?
When a student commits suicide, we say suicide. We say they passed away, or died. We don't say that the razor blade, overdose, or gorge killed them. Instead, we describe those things as a cause of death.
That said, I take issue with the use of the word "killed" to describe George's death. George died, of an accident no less. There was no malice. There was no intent. There was no killing.
I saw it on the way to class today. I was passing the Indian-run convenience store by the Eddy Gate, when I saw the Ithaca Journal banner headline in the news stand. I didn't catch the words, but the photo was unmistakable -- a paper-width shot of the men's lacrosse team, lined up and on their knees. I quickly bought a copy, along with the day's Daily Sun.
What started as a walk to class has quickly turned into a trial of sorrow and reflection.
I didn't know George and had never met him during my time covering the team, but the fact that he was chosen as a team captain tells me plenty. He was clearly a dedicated teammate, caring friend, and talented athlete. I have no way of putting into words what his teammates must be feeling. I feel for them, his family, and even more so for the young man who fired the shot. I hope that he doesn't blame himself for the fluke accident.
Which leads me to something that I've been questioning all day: killed, or died? As a writer, word choice is crucial becuase of the emotions and memories certain phrasings may envoke.
To me, the word killed implies malice. You kill an enemy, or a pest. Murderers kill. Killing happens on the battle field. So does it apply to an athletic event?
When a student commits suicide, we say suicide. We say they passed away, or died. We don't say that the razor blade, overdose, or gorge killed them. Instead, we describe those things as a cause of death.
That said, I take issue with the use of the word "killed" to describe George's death. George died, of an accident no less. There was no malice. There was no intent. There was no killing.
Monday, March 15, 2004
As The Sun turns...
A controversy is a brewin'
Apparently, I was not elected to a senior editor position at The Daily Sun, despite garnering more than the necessary total number of votes. What does this mean? Two things: first, from an election standpoint, one or more of the big three (Editor in Cheif, Managing Editor, Business Manager) didn't vote for me, and two, I am for all practical purposes done at The Daily Sun.
I'll keep the column. I'll keep my beat. It wouldn't be fair to dump more work on the current editors. I will not however help with pullouts, read over and edit content, or design pages. Those are rights and responsibilites reserved to editors, of which I am supposedly not one.
And the Controversy? Well, for starters, the current sports editor said he'd quit if I didn't win. Does he hold up to his word and shock the rest of the editorial board? Do his assistants go too? It'd cripple the paper, and create an interesting standoff. What if the other editors followed? How strongly do they feel about it?
Then again, all of this is just based off of bits and pieces of rumors. We'll find out the whole thing on Tuesday, when (undoubtably) I'll be whining and speculating again.
If anyone has any suggestions for my newfound free time, feel free to pass them along.
---
And Cornell lost in hockey tonight. It was dissapointing to say the least. Check out my column in The Sun tomorrow for my full thoughts on the season.
Apparently, I was not elected to a senior editor position at The Daily Sun, despite garnering more than the necessary total number of votes. What does this mean? Two things: first, from an election standpoint, one or more of the big three (Editor in Cheif, Managing Editor, Business Manager) didn't vote for me, and two, I am for all practical purposes done at The Daily Sun.
I'll keep the column. I'll keep my beat. It wouldn't be fair to dump more work on the current editors. I will not however help with pullouts, read over and edit content, or design pages. Those are rights and responsibilites reserved to editors, of which I am supposedly not one.
And the Controversy? Well, for starters, the current sports editor said he'd quit if I didn't win. Does he hold up to his word and shock the rest of the editorial board? Do his assistants go too? It'd cripple the paper, and create an interesting standoff. What if the other editors followed? How strongly do they feel about it?
Then again, all of this is just based off of bits and pieces of rumors. We'll find out the whole thing on Tuesday, when (undoubtably) I'll be whining and speculating again.
If anyone has any suggestions for my newfound free time, feel free to pass them along.
---
And Cornell lost in hockey tonight. It was dissapointing to say the least. Check out my column in The Sun tomorrow for my full thoughts on the season.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
An officer and a (half naked) gentleman...
So Wednesday night soon turned into Thursday morning as I struggled to finish up my notebook for Comm 345, and put together a video segment for my Comm 486 class. To top it off, I had just spent several hours at the paper, working to ensure that the Hobo feature I had written was properly published. Four extremely long readings, and one dropped CS class later, and our dear friend Mr. Sun was beginning to make his brief, yet daily appearance on the Ithaca horizion. The all-nighter was over, and the morning after had come.
So there I was, coasting through the day, making some insightful — yet mostly incoherent — comments in lecture, and slowly counting down the hours until I could go home and collapse into a ball on my bed. Nap time came soon enough, yet was too brief. I awoke at 6:30 p.m., to call down to the Daily Sun office and see if anyone had gotten hockey qoutes. This night would (hopefully not) be the last hockey pullout I would ever have to work on. (Hopefully not, beucase we'd do another one if the team went to the NCAA Frozen Four in Boston, and that'd be worth the lost sleep).
Owen, the new sports editor, picked up the phone. No one, to his knowledge had gotten qoutes. I hung up the phone, put pants on, and rushed to East Hill.
The ice was empty when I arrived, but the lights were still on in the hockey office. Breathless, I rushed in to find Sue, the hockey secretary, finishing up for the night. We chatted a while, and I took a sigh of relief since Alex — the former sports editor — had actually gone to practice before me. Sue and I chatted for a while, and then I went home to write up my senior editor proposal and head to the office.
I made it to the office around 9:30, after a meager lunch/dinner of four eggs (scrambled) and some chopped up sasuage. I then started writing one of my two articles for the night. Total, I'd have to produce 1800 words out of basically nothing. It was nerve wracking, but four hours, and 12 mini chocolate covered donuts later, I finished. Then Alex and I laid in the text, wrote some headlines, and headed home.
So now it's 3:30, and I check my e-mail and get into bed. Four a.m. rolls around, and cue our mysterious phone call:
me: Hello?
them: Did you just call 911?
me: No, we're all sleeping here.
them: are you sure?
me, nervously: uh, yeah...
them: well an officer will be by to check on you in a few minutes.
'Click'
So now I'm freaked out, and trying to figure out the best way to check on my apartmentmates. I decide just to knock and ask if they're okay, and three-minutes of confused conversation later, I find out they all are indeed just fine. Then the office shows up.
Now keep in mind, it's 4 a.m. I sleep in my underwear (little boy underpants, as Mr. Mcalvin has described them). There's now a stranger at the door, forcing me to put pants on. I'm not happy. Then he starts asking questions like, "why can't I speak with the other people who live here?" and "Why am I supposed to believe that just becuase you look like the guy on this id that you are the Matthew who lives at this address and who's name the phone is registered under?"
Luckily Brian, one of the guys I live with, was up going to the bathroom at this time, and was able to corroborate some of my facts. Then the officer left, and I went back to bed.
---
Playoff hockey tonight, and it was amazing. The team scored five goals total, and had an incredible amount of energy in the first. There was also a great fight, but it's late so I'll describe it another time. Expect another confused story about a girl as well.
So there I was, coasting through the day, making some insightful — yet mostly incoherent — comments in lecture, and slowly counting down the hours until I could go home and collapse into a ball on my bed. Nap time came soon enough, yet was too brief. I awoke at 6:30 p.m., to call down to the Daily Sun office and see if anyone had gotten hockey qoutes. This night would (hopefully not) be the last hockey pullout I would ever have to work on. (Hopefully not, beucase we'd do another one if the team went to the NCAA Frozen Four in Boston, and that'd be worth the lost sleep).
Owen, the new sports editor, picked up the phone. No one, to his knowledge had gotten qoutes. I hung up the phone, put pants on, and rushed to East Hill.
The ice was empty when I arrived, but the lights were still on in the hockey office. Breathless, I rushed in to find Sue, the hockey secretary, finishing up for the night. We chatted a while, and I took a sigh of relief since Alex — the former sports editor — had actually gone to practice before me. Sue and I chatted for a while, and then I went home to write up my senior editor proposal and head to the office.
I made it to the office around 9:30, after a meager lunch/dinner of four eggs (scrambled) and some chopped up sasuage. I then started writing one of my two articles for the night. Total, I'd have to produce 1800 words out of basically nothing. It was nerve wracking, but four hours, and 12 mini chocolate covered donuts later, I finished. Then Alex and I laid in the text, wrote some headlines, and headed home.
So now it's 3:30, and I check my e-mail and get into bed. Four a.m. rolls around, and cue our mysterious phone call:
me: Hello?
them: Did you just call 911?
me: No, we're all sleeping here.
them: are you sure?
me, nervously: uh, yeah...
them: well an officer will be by to check on you in a few minutes.
'Click'
So now I'm freaked out, and trying to figure out the best way to check on my apartmentmates. I decide just to knock and ask if they're okay, and three-minutes of confused conversation later, I find out they all are indeed just fine. Then the office shows up.
Now keep in mind, it's 4 a.m. I sleep in my underwear (little boy underpants, as Mr. Mcalvin has described them). There's now a stranger at the door, forcing me to put pants on. I'm not happy. Then he starts asking questions like, "why can't I speak with the other people who live here?" and "Why am I supposed to believe that just becuase you look like the guy on this id that you are the Matthew who lives at this address and who's name the phone is registered under?"
Luckily Brian, one of the guys I live with, was up going to the bathroom at this time, and was able to corroborate some of my facts. Then the officer left, and I went back to bed.
---
Playoff hockey tonight, and it was amazing. The team scored five goals total, and had an incredible amount of energy in the first. There was also a great fight, but it's late so I'll describe it another time. Expect another confused story about a girl as well.
Friday, March 12, 2004
How I nutted up...
coming soon...
And you know it'll be an instant classic becuase it's about romance, mystery, intrigue and stove-top delights.
And you know it'll be an instant classic becuase it's about romance, mystery, intrigue and stove-top delights.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Happy and you know it
I've been described and named many things. Childish, obnoxious, sweet, a credit union ... but today, at the risk of appearing self depricating, I'd like to add one to the list:
Happy.
Last night was my last night as an editor at the paper, meaning that now I don't need to spend 20-40 hours a week immersed in the Daily Sun. I'm excited at the prospects my newfound freedom brings me. I can live a life again, be social, do my homework...
The best part is that I feel happy. It hasn't completely sunk in yet, but I know it will over the next few days. Already I feel as if a great weight has been removed from my shoulders. I hope this is only the beginning.
Now don't get me wrong -- I've loved my Daily Sun editorial experience. Without it, I'd have half a dozen fewer close friends. The bonds I've made while taking road trips, putting out wraps and dicking around at the office rival those from pledging. Without being an editor I never would have met Jeremy Schaap, let alone have his cell phone number.
The Lacrosse, Football and Hockey seasons? Priceless. I love interacting with those guys, getting involved, it's like falling in love with someone, only my someone is a team of 20+ sweaty guys and a rough and tumble coach. You feel for them; angst when they don't make the post season, happiness when they do, and sheer joy when they go all the way.
But today, I'm done. Today I'm going to the gym for the first time all semester. Today I'm having dinner at the house. Today I'm joking around with the housmates. Today I'm happy.
*expect the daily details after this weekend ... I've got some good ones coming up.
Happy.
Last night was my last night as an editor at the paper, meaning that now I don't need to spend 20-40 hours a week immersed in the Daily Sun. I'm excited at the prospects my newfound freedom brings me. I can live a life again, be social, do my homework...
The best part is that I feel happy. It hasn't completely sunk in yet, but I know it will over the next few days. Already I feel as if a great weight has been removed from my shoulders. I hope this is only the beginning.
Now don't get me wrong -- I've loved my Daily Sun editorial experience. Without it, I'd have half a dozen fewer close friends. The bonds I've made while taking road trips, putting out wraps and dicking around at the office rival those from pledging. Without being an editor I never would have met Jeremy Schaap, let alone have his cell phone number.
The Lacrosse, Football and Hockey seasons? Priceless. I love interacting with those guys, getting involved, it's like falling in love with someone, only my someone is a team of 20+ sweaty guys and a rough and tumble coach. You feel for them; angst when they don't make the post season, happiness when they do, and sheer joy when they go all the way.
But today, I'm done. Today I'm going to the gym for the first time all semester. Today I'm having dinner at the house. Today I'm joking around with the housmates. Today I'm happy.
*expect the daily details after this weekend ... I've got some good ones coming up.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
What is it about the yellow ones?
So yesterday morning, I went to my shift at the helpdesk -- 8 a.m. -- like usual. Things progressed normally, the shifts changed over, and I was free to leave. As I packed up, however, this really cute girl came up to the counter. Still gathering my things up, I listened in.
"Is Andrew here?"
"He Just left," the front desk consultant said.
"Oh, I'll come back."
Now I don't really know too much about the consultants or their personal lives, but in the case of most, they have no lives outside of the helpdesk. Andrew seemed like a cool customer, so I didn't make this assumption about him, but the visitor did surprise me. When I was back on shift in the afternoon, he came in to do his afternoon thing, so I asked him about it.
And he had no idea.
I was baffled -- envious more so. Andrew had a secret admirer, or stalker of some sort and she was cute. She happened to come back in the afternoon, and asked if Andrew was there. I took care of this time (being at the front desk), and offered to go get him. She declined, but handed me a bag to pass on.
I gave it to him, and he smiled, but he was still confused. Then his face brightened. Inside of the bag was a plastic, clear water bottle -- like a nalgene, but slightly smaller. Inside of that were a ton of skittles.
"She even knew I didn't like the yellow ones," Andrew said with a dreamy smile, referring to the fact that the girl had picked out all of the yellow skittles before filling the bottle.
I've since suspected that he knows more than he was letting on, but he really didn't seem to understand why he got a thing of skittles. And does it matter? Gifts from good looking girls? Mystery, surprise, romance? Who doesn't crave those things?
Perhaps the better question is what is it about the yellow ones?
---
It's strange sometimes to think that I work for the same organization (Daily Sun) that EB White, Dick Schaap, and thousands of other alumns have worked for, but it's also humbling. My work carries on their legends, perpetuates their myths, and continues to provide thousands with up to date, and accurate Cornell news.
So last night, when a writer phoned in an egregious error, I was inclined to fix it -- it's my duty as an editor to present the facts. I then wrote the editors in training a note, letting them know about the error. They had labeled John Edwards (D - N.C.) as a senator from South Carolina. Two writers, two news editors, and a copy editor had all read this story, and the gaffe had gone un-noticed until one of the authors phoned in the mistake. In my mind, it was as rediculous as saying A-Rod plays for the Mets; close, but no cigar.
In my passionate e-mail I noted that I -- an assistant sports editor -- knew that Dennis Kucinic was from Ohio, how come they didn't know where Edwards was from? I suggested they think about the great responsibility that they were about to enter into, and think of how they were connected to the greats such as White and Schaap. I let them know that I wasn't out to hurt feelings, but that I felt very strongly about this error. I also told them that if they wanted to vent at me, comment, or discuss, they should shoot me an e-mail.
The two editors in training sent me wonderful responses, citing their own love for the news and politics that they will soon be delivering to the campus. I feel that they now understand the scope of their new positions. One of the Editor in Chief candidates even applauded me for the note.
Then the hating began.
Another editor and I, who have never had a great amount of love for each other to begin with, blasted me -- calling me childish, hurtful, and obnoxious. Another told me that I should have sat down with them first, and that my comments weren't helpful. Yet does it hurt to strive for perfection? Is it childish and obnxious to take pride in my work, the organization it represents, and the rich history and tradition that has come before?
If it is, then lock me up and throw away the key. I plead guilty on all accounts.
---
I'm on a quest to change my CS 100 J grade to pass/fail. I need to get the proff's signature before Thursday at noon. I'm going to track down my own advisor tomorrow. If all else fails, I'm just going to drop the class and audit it.
"Is Andrew here?"
"He Just left," the front desk consultant said.
"Oh, I'll come back."
Now I don't really know too much about the consultants or their personal lives, but in the case of most, they have no lives outside of the helpdesk. Andrew seemed like a cool customer, so I didn't make this assumption about him, but the visitor did surprise me. When I was back on shift in the afternoon, he came in to do his afternoon thing, so I asked him about it.
And he had no idea.
I was baffled -- envious more so. Andrew had a secret admirer, or stalker of some sort and she was cute. She happened to come back in the afternoon, and asked if Andrew was there. I took care of this time (being at the front desk), and offered to go get him. She declined, but handed me a bag to pass on.
I gave it to him, and he smiled, but he was still confused. Then his face brightened. Inside of the bag was a plastic, clear water bottle -- like a nalgene, but slightly smaller. Inside of that were a ton of skittles.
"She even knew I didn't like the yellow ones," Andrew said with a dreamy smile, referring to the fact that the girl had picked out all of the yellow skittles before filling the bottle.
I've since suspected that he knows more than he was letting on, but he really didn't seem to understand why he got a thing of skittles. And does it matter? Gifts from good looking girls? Mystery, surprise, romance? Who doesn't crave those things?
Perhaps the better question is what is it about the yellow ones?
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It's strange sometimes to think that I work for the same organization (Daily Sun) that EB White, Dick Schaap, and thousands of other alumns have worked for, but it's also humbling. My work carries on their legends, perpetuates their myths, and continues to provide thousands with up to date, and accurate Cornell news.
So last night, when a writer phoned in an egregious error, I was inclined to fix it -- it's my duty as an editor to present the facts. I then wrote the editors in training a note, letting them know about the error. They had labeled John Edwards (D - N.C.) as a senator from South Carolina. Two writers, two news editors, and a copy editor had all read this story, and the gaffe had gone un-noticed until one of the authors phoned in the mistake. In my mind, it was as rediculous as saying A-Rod plays for the Mets; close, but no cigar.
In my passionate e-mail I noted that I -- an assistant sports editor -- knew that Dennis Kucinic was from Ohio, how come they didn't know where Edwards was from? I suggested they think about the great responsibility that they were about to enter into, and think of how they were connected to the greats such as White and Schaap. I let them know that I wasn't out to hurt feelings, but that I felt very strongly about this error. I also told them that if they wanted to vent at me, comment, or discuss, they should shoot me an e-mail.
The two editors in training sent me wonderful responses, citing their own love for the news and politics that they will soon be delivering to the campus. I feel that they now understand the scope of their new positions. One of the Editor in Chief candidates even applauded me for the note.
Then the hating began.
Another editor and I, who have never had a great amount of love for each other to begin with, blasted me -- calling me childish, hurtful, and obnoxious. Another told me that I should have sat down with them first, and that my comments weren't helpful. Yet does it hurt to strive for perfection? Is it childish and obnxious to take pride in my work, the organization it represents, and the rich history and tradition that has come before?
If it is, then lock me up and throw away the key. I plead guilty on all accounts.
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I'm on a quest to change my CS 100 J grade to pass/fail. I need to get the proff's signature before Thursday at noon. I'm going to track down my own advisor tomorrow. If all else fails, I'm just going to drop the class and audit it.