Topside recently had a special on Frosted Cheerios. The new flavor has my roomate Amanda incensed. "Honey Nut is fine," she says. "Apple Cinnamon is pushing it ... Frosted is a downright travesty!"
We decided that frosted Cheerios are much like dating at Dartmouth. They taste a lot better when you're drunk, but they're really not a good way to start the morning. But this column is not about Cheerios; it's about cynical "D" columnists.
I'm no psych major, but I divide the world into three kinds of people. First, there are the optimistic sort, like myself. In April, when the Green melts and the aroma of thawing dog droppings fills the air, we take a deep breath and say, "Ahhh ... smells like Spring!" Sometimes, while gaping at snowflakes, we walk into parking meters, but our pride reinflates like a Thermarest.
Then you have those reasonable, responsible people with well-planned lives who know exactly whom they'll be eating lunch next Friday and possibly even have genuine Career Goals (I shudder). I'm annoyed by their foolishly consistent little minds, but I'm perfectly willing to acknowledge the envious seeds of my annoyance. Besides, I need them around to remind me to register for classes.
Lastly, we find certain cynical pedants of the opinion page, editorialists for The D. Never ones to take pride in modesty, they let the luminiferous longiloquence (huh? exactly.) of their lines showcase their brilliance. As for the rest of us, we're mediocre. We're apathetic. They measure out our lives in coffeespoons and cigarettes. And rarely do they find a kind word to say about the College which they attend, presumably by choice.
It's not that I'm a bastion of school spirit myself. I didn't even go to the Homecoming game. I'm often irritated by the Greek system and its frat parties that are never as much fun as you think they're supposed to be. I'm annoyed by the inventive ways this school finds to suck my money. I'm disturbed when I meet people whose career ambitions are pretty well summed up by "Go Big Green." But I still find a lot to like about Dartmouth, perhaps because I come from a flat and inbred (although we're very careful to detassle our corn) Midwestern state.
One of the things I like best about Dartmouth, besides that little tree on the corner of the Green that turns red a week after all the others, is its intriguing network of "subcultures," from the Drama department to Ledyard to the political groups at Rocky. I can usually find people who share my interest-of-the-week. Maybe you'd like to join my "If I were the despotic ruler of a small yet resource-rich developing country" discussion group.
Sure, I'd love to say to my favorite Shakespeare Scholar, Columnist Bonderoff, "You Grow old, you grow old thou elvish-marked abortive rooting hog" (now that's a great line of Shakespeare!). But if Sam's pleasure lies in criticizing the pleasures of other people, that's fine. That must be his niche. I'm glad there are plenty of other nooks and crannies at this school for the rest of us to explore.
Oh, yeah. Did you hear that they've started putting more sugar in Wheaties? What was wrong with the old Wheaties, I don't know. As Amanda, about to break down, sighed, "I can't deal with all these things," my other housemate comforted her: "It's okay, just don't eat them."
