Northwestern already has a great history with some of Chicago’s finest museums. And who doesn’t love to spend their Summer evenings in the Art Institute, escaping the sweltering heat by loudly discussing the monochromatic tendencies of Postminamilism or the intricate details of the sexual connotations Salvador Dali found in lobsters and telephones? I sure do. But one of these days I’m going to snap, and if I’m going to be forcibly escorted from a museum, I want to make sure it happens in the most badass way imaginable. Dressing up as a mummy in the Field Museum’s pyramid, taking an axe to a Rothko, or fishing for a shark in the Shedd Aquarium all sound pretty good to me. But I have nothing against leaving my dog’s excrement in the MCA as art, wearing a lab coat in the Adler Planetarium and assuring everybody that the sun will be extinguished next Friday, or getting drunk with a Chimpanzee at the Brookfield Zoo, just as long as notoriety ensues. Seduce a Professor
Summer at Northwestern is a magical thing. Boredom and loneliness coalesce into a formidable cyclone of pure libido, and nobody is safe. Perhaps Summer School professors are particularly susceptible to this phenomenon, especially when their students are charming, witty, and strapping young lads who tend to spend their time writing self-indulgent posts on the internet instead of playing outside. Here’s how a hypothetical situation might play itself out between the clumsy, yet affable, student and his Spanish professor:
El Estudiante: Hola. Estoy teniendo algunas problemas con mi tarea. Puedo obtener instrucciòn adicional despuès de la clase?
La Profesora: Por supuesto! Nunca notè que bello de una sonrisa que tienes, y lo sensible y tranquilizador que eres. Estoy ruborizada?
El Estudiante: Es el calor del amor. Venga, vamos a navegar en el Lago Michigan, mientras leìa la la poesìa de Neruda.
La Profesora: Dios mio!
Kick-off My ASG Student President Campaign
As ASG Student Body President, I would work tirelessly to bring an inter-campus zip line to Northwestern, replace our football team with the starting lineup of defending Lingerie Bowl Champions the Los Angeles Temptation, put a keg in every dorm room, and a segway in every garage. I will also work hard to meet student demands for a grow house in Tech, the extension of formal recognition to the Merpeople living in Lake Michigan, and the construction of a border wall between the University and the City of Evanston. Most importantly, however, I will not rest until my bill declaring Morton “Morty” O. Schapiro as “Supreme Master of the Universe” and endowing him with plenipotentiary power over the Galaxy is passed by the United Nations. What better time to get the jump on my fellow opponents for next year than during the summer?
Doing so would be in direct violation of the only two rules that govern The Keg: Never go when sober, and never go when it’s bright enough to see the floor. Even the notion of entering the Keg through the front door fills me with fright. But how can I resist such temptation in the face of unparalleled danger?
Skinny Dip in Lake Michigan
This might be a difficult challenge, considering the regrettable dearth of cheap booze and impressionable friends over the summer, but a challenge that must be surmounted nevertheless. The Snowpocalypse is over, Summer is here, and the time is ripe to brave the Evanston Police and an E-Coli outbreak for the blissful few seconds when I can freely wade into Lake Michigan before my love apples turn into kiwis. I like to remind myself that there is no federal law against nudity, and channel the notable nudist President John Quincy Adams while I free myself from the physical constraints of modern life. I am also willing to provide a sizable reward for anybody who can supply me with a dependable cure for shrinkage.
Being clean-shaven and presentable is sooooo passè. And there’s no chance in hell I can grow a full beard. The solution: a compromise. Maybe if I just focus all of my hair-growing power on my upper lip, I can valiantly return to class in the fall sporting facial hair with the tenacity of Burt Reynolds and sex appeal of Geraldo Rivera. As Walter Cronkite proved, all you need is a well-groomed and bristling ‘stache to gain cred in the world of journalism. But then again, when it comes to journalistic street cred, I think Sherman Ave’s doing alright.
Get the Blog Back Together