At the end of the DVD accompanying his recent album Bo$$ Hogg Barbarians, rapper J-Zone sits in his studio and answers fans’ questions. After he answers a question about what a vagina would say if it could shrink itself, the interviewer says, “The next question is from Christopher. He goes to Harvard…”
“Oh shit!” J-Zone interjects. “You actually have Harvard kids listening to my records? Are you trying to bring down your IQ by listening to my music? That’s scary! A Harvard person…”
“Here’s his question: Somehow I go to Harvard where certain cats aren’t really feeling everything I stand for. How do I keep it super ignorant and crush all the haters at an institution of higher learning?”
J-Zone thinks for a second and says, “What you do is bust your ass in class, become the valedictorian or whatever, and when you speak at your graduation, quote me.”
Just like the Burning Bush gave Moses a divine mandate to talk to Pharaoh, we feel that J-Zone has anointed us to offer some final words of ignorance before we break the tape at the finish line of our senior year. While neither of us will be named Harvard Class of ’06 Valedictorian (aka World’s Weirdest Kid), we feel blessed to have had the ability to publish blathering crap over the past year. What began as an act of nepotism within the FM office became an opportunity for us to make everyone feel just a bit more depressed about their surroundings on a weekly basis. And, let us tell you, it was truly our pleasure.
But at some point in the last few weeks we looked back upon our four years of broken dreams and sexual frustration, and suddenly nostalgia washed over us in an awesome wave. Who would have figured four years ago, when an over-eager, aggressively Catholic Catizone ran into an under-eager, socially awkward Schonberger at Pre-Frosh weekend, that we might actually be sad to say goodbye?
Sure, we’re delighted to say goodbye to City Step jokers who dance like idiots in front of the Science Center. Goodbye to kids who are convinced that they are somehow “tougher” because they played high school football or because their middle school was built on a toxic dump. Goodbye and good riddance to girls who wouldn’t hook up with us. (Incidentally, if you run into us in the future when we’re looking mad handsome and cool, follow J-Zone’s advice and “Don’t holler.”)
But it’s goodbye to the good times, too. Four years after a pair of red folders and a boatload of desperation first brought us together, we have run a marathon, seen Phil Collins in concert, and had full sex with three of the same girls (this last part is false). We’ve also never voted in a UC election, never been to an a cappella concert, and never worn rash guards and Hawaiian shirts to Mather Lather. All in all, we can’t really complain.
When it comes down to it, survival at this place depends on perspective. After refusing to let an 8-year-old beat him in a race in the movie Prefontaine, America’s greatest distance runner tells his girlfriend, “All my life people have told me, ‘You’re too small, Pre. You’re not fast enough, Pre. Give up your foolish dreams, STEVE!’” We know how Pre feels; there are a lot of people and things around here that will get you down, but in the end it doesn’t take much to crush all the haters and have a moderately enjoyable time.
Next year, tons of ’06 alums will change their Facebook “job” sections to say “Kind of a big deal at [somewhere miserable].” But who gives a shit? As J-Zone reminds us, “A job ain’t nuthin’ but work.” And their souls will be equally worthless at our 10 and 35 year reunions.
Although no one really knows what the future holds, it’s probably a mix between Spaceballs and Demolition Man, with a cryogenically preserved Brendan Frasier running around like a hilarious cyber-punk from the past. However, one thing is certain: in 100 years, we’ll all be dead. What’s death like? We’re not too sure, but we can say with some certainty that it’s at least as boring as life, if not more so. The point is, no one will remember you, so stop acting like you’re important.
To keep everyone honest, we’ve decided to hand-pick our successors for this column. The competition was thick like Serena Williams’ booty, but we’re proud to announce the winners of the 2006 Bell Lap Contest: D.A. Wallach ’07 and Peter Martinez ’07. This Midwestern duo impressed us with their insightful guide to juicing graduate students, which revealed that the term “TF” originally stood for “Titty Fucking.”
And so, that’s all for us. As we described in our first column way back in September, the closing scene to Prefontaine features Pre’s lifeless body being driven around the track in a hearse as a crowd chants “Pre! Pre! Pre!” and his coach eulogizes: “Pre ran every race like it was his last. Well, this is his last. This is the Bell Lap for Steve Prefontaine.”
While they probably won’t let us ride around the Yard in a hearse at graduation, we know how Pre feels. This is the Bell Lap for Chris and Chris. Thank you to everyone who supported the column, to all the guys who bought us drinks and all the girls who e-mailed us and made us believe that maybe we are no longer repellent to women.
To our fellow members of the Class of ’06: You are a mish-mash of the most miserable and most incredible people we’ve ever met. But whoever you are, enjoy this last month and watch your back at the Last Chance Dance, because we’ll be pulling old-school moves like “pantsing” people and pushing them over while someone crouches behind their legs.
To the underclassmen: Save Lamont, boycott the Kong, and when you speak at your Class Day ceremonies, quote us.
Peace up your asses!
Love,
The Bell Lap
