Friendly Advice

I live in a college town, populated by legions of the best, the brightest, the worthless and the hopelessly mediocre. I walk into work through throngs of khaki-shorted fraternity boys and tube-topped sorority girls. I buy coffee from linguistics majors and beer from would-be social workers. Every other business in town is prefixed with a “University.” My life is awash in students.

I am not a student—haven’t been for several years now, and never at the University about a mile down the street from my house. I live here for the fringe benefits—good, cheap nightlife, a surplus of college radio stations, high quality of life, low stress, regular opportunities for interesting conversations whilst standing in line at the bank—and so I’m willing to endure the ubiquity of student life. It’s an equal exchange, and at twenty-eight years old I’m a comparative dinosaur. I lack the enthusiasm to attend Early 90’s dance parties and listen as slack-jawed twenty year olds try to recreate the clothes I wore to high school. I don’t go to undergrad parties; I know which bars are shunned by the Greek Community. I’d say, on a whole at least 90% of the university population is either inoffensive or forgettable. And the remaining 10%--the most intolerable of twenty-two year old hipsters can be ignored with some effort.

Unfortunately, sheer proximity often trumps any attempt I make at distance. Working at a record store and keeping friendly relations with the younger generation, I find myself eavesdropping, even engaging with the latter. And I’m sure they’re all—deep down—really nice people. I’m sure they love their grandmothers, and adore puppies and probably spend Sunday afternoons reading short stories to old people. I’m sure they treat their friends with love and respect, and I’m sure deep down, they’re all vulnerable and self-sacrificing and endlessly generous and forgiving.

Maybe miles down, but there nonetheless.

I say that because upfront a fair amount of them seem like the most vapid, self-serving, superficial, petty, critical, jealous, spiteful bitches (gender neutral) I’ve ever seen. Fortunately, they’re young. Many of them away from home for the first time, many of them amply provided for by generous, oblivious parents, most of them stubbornly unclear, if not flat out delusional about their future. A few years out of school, a few dead end jobs, and a few thousand dollars of yet-unpaid debt later, most of them will drop the pretense and start acting like they have a soul. But for the time being, they have license to behave like utter jackasses and we’ll keep our traps shut. Our livelihoods depend on them, and we like living here.

That said. As a former student and recovering jackass, I offer the following as suggestions. It might not be worth much—not now, maybe not even in the long run. If all goes well, you’ll figure this out on your own. But in anticipating what’s coming, these little tips might help you in making the transition from utter vapidity to human being.

TIP #1

Talking about how much work you have to do in your chosen field of study, particularly if that chosen field happens to be in the humanities, is bullshit, and you know it. The column of well-regarded, trade paperback editions of cutting edge theoretical texts and obscure novels you have stacked beside your bed, and frequently flout as evidence of how much work you have to do is not interesting conversation when you’re out at a bar. If you like the class (and you probably do—those classes are ALWAYS electives), then don’t bitch about it. You chose to be a Post-Marxist, Post-Structuralist, and Comparative Lit Major with emphasis on Scandinavian Electronic Music, remember? And chances are you chose that major for one of the following three reasons 1) It was easy 2) It was cool or 3) You actually like the topic. So shut the hell up.

Your regular recitation of academic texts at the supper table sounds a lot like snobbery. And no one believes you are any smarter because you have twice as much work to do. On the contrary, if it’s that tough for you, then drop the class on S&M in Italian Cinema and take something easy, like you know, Molecular Biology or Quantum Mechanics

Speaking as a former lit major (who never, incidentally, did homework), I know your dramatic catalogue of novels you have to read in a semester is a sort of coping mechanism to trick yourself into believing that what your doing is harder and more IMPORTANT than it actually is. But I got a little secret for you: It’s pretty easy, and it’s not all that important, except maybe to you, the handful of people that find your thesis a good read, and a couple of anonymous undergrads in the future who will find your paper in a forgotten corner of the library and turn it in for a final. College professors at elite universities don’t change the world—the good ones may produce more college professors, but that’s about it. You want to do something IMPORTANT? Go be a nurse in a cancer ward, or a social worker, or a public defender, or an infectious disease specialist, or a fireman. And yes teaching is important. So why not go get a job teaching inner city kids, or illiterate adults, or migrant workers or prisoners? Hell, why not pick up some litter, or talk to the cashier at Wal-Mart like she’s a real person, and not a statistic. Oh yeah, and while we’re on the subject, odds are Artforum is not going to hire you and Harvard is not going to let you in. So you’d best acquaint yourself with the following phrase: “You know, ma’am, a grande soy latte is only fifty cents more.”