Because haircuts should mirror bird plummage
Strutting through an Italian plaza (if you don’t strut they won’t know you’re American) the other day, I was enjoying just another day in the life. Curses from the enfeebled elderly couple I elbowed out of my way, glares from the feathered mohawk Euro-bag regarding my outfit of baggy jeans and a North Face, and the utter contempt of the only people who know English here, the miserably poor Indian men marketing their shitty lighters (luckily they can understand “Today’s just like yesterday, asshole, I ain’t buyin’”). When, lo, to my surprise, I was warmly greeted by a friendly, well-fed, terribly-dressed collegian.
“Hey, I’m out supporting Ani for ASG President, and we’re really interested in how annual term study-abroad students can have their Northwestern Experience brought to the next level!”
Blown away by the touching interest that ASG campaigners take in their student body, I spat on the ground and cursed “No one wants you here, gypsy” in Italian. I was completely flabbergasted and responded in the fashion of my new motherland (in fact the elderly couple from earlier witnessed the whole exchange and sweetly clasping my hand they said “Damn Albanians”).
If Morty thinks buying a sports complex is enough to get him adequately ripped for this position, it’s going to be a sad, amateur routine at the commencement.
I was recently reading the Facebook news and was shocked to find that Russian Mikhail Kalishnikov will be speaking at the Northwestern commencement address. I had likely received this information in the sprinkling of Northwestern news and race-scandal e-bulletins sometime in the past 48 hours, mailed direct to my spam folder. It was as I finished reading the title of the article and promptly commenced writing this article that I found the selection odd. (Are moments that happened within the past minute and a half, thoughts still knocking around in your skull, considered the past or present? They haven’t stopped happening, but they definitely started in a period before the present.)1
Not only was I blown away that they had managed to book the 65-year-old former former Soviet Union athlete/ballerino/Magic Mikhail spinoff Caucasus Films production co-star, but that Morty was willing to pay the postage for correspondence to Siberia. I guess I gave him more credit, but than again I am a Sherman Ave writer.
Wait, that’s not the David!
I’ve begun to wonder what marks the difference between sanity and madness.
Sure, I’ve been reading Moby Dick off and on, you know, for pleasure. And of course the diary of an Italian suicide that I’m studying doesn’t particularly pop with, let’s say, cheeriness.