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Whenever the subject of a DJ entry looks like Denis Leary wrote it amid a rant about red, red meat, that means you're in for something special. And by "special" I do mean under-medicated. I predict some bodyslamming of pedestrians and bursts of racial epithets almost constantly.
Let the bloodbath begin: Don't know if you heard, but uh... I just graduated. From a college. A college without the word "welding" or "Barbizon" in it. The presses are paralyzed. Looking back, the entire week before graduation -- where some lesser students take finals -- was at once totally a breeze and totally exhausting. My Burge-Daum kommandants and I spent a few thousand hours checking residents out of their dorms, assigning charges only when we felt extremely behooved to do so (like when, say, Johnny B. Burge got motorcycle tracks on his carpet or when, say, Johnny B. Burge all but replaced his carpet with a concrete of Keystone-Light spillage, Cheeto debris, and a few cum stains for luck). Otherwise, moveout basically amounted, as it always does, to circuitous boredom. I do have to say, I have a soft spot for the whole lame rigamarole. It's rare that you get to sit and just veg with the other RAs in a large group, and naturally you do a lot of sitting while you wait for the downtrodden desk worker to call you up. My Daria-brand cynicism be damned, I actually really fucking liked those folks. Strange to think of the people I've known forever in Res Life who I really wish I'd gotten to know better, namely people like Alan or Emily Doolittle. Almost everyone else I know pretty well. And despite their best efforts, they all know a shitload about me.
Nothing sucks more than scrambling to arrange plenty of time for saying goodbye to everyone. God, all the DI folks. All the RAs. The folks who mysteriously don't fit into either of those groups. I did an OK job alotting the proper extended hour to say goodbye to my main squeezes, who range from Facebook's Latest-Greatest Photo Caption Maven Anna Wiegenstein to, say, my effing backstage sweetheart Kristin Lang. However, what's fucking impossible is allowing enough time to bid farewell to the people who literally lived with me. I couldn't conceive of saying goodbye to Jessica during all of finals week. Leaving her is essentially the same thing as leaving Iowa, or my at least whacked-out version of it. Anyway, three of the greats, Jess, Mattfrench (one word, make no mistake. It's like Enya), and Sarah Michaelson, flock to Lemont in a couple weeks for one of my patented three-day tours of our great, awful metropolis. If PT's working at Best Buy, that's a two-day safari in itself. Casualties are inevitable, or just closeted and hilarious. Either way.
OK, the Liberal Arts & Science grad ceremony was, naturally, a towering shitshow of superstar proportions. Thank God for Rob Wilkie, a former RA and wonderful guy, who sat with me during the ass-ultranumbing roll call of 1,600 names, otherwise all of our snippy editorializing would've fallen on deaf ears. Now, don't get me wrong, graduation ceremonies really suck, but it does kind-of-almost-rule when your name gets read like this: "Louis Virtel, graduating with High Distinction and an honors degree in Journalism & Mass Communication." That's nearly better than being one of those badass black chicks with, like, 40 names -- and you better believe Professor Whoever read every syllable of Jocelyn Spinderella Templeton-Jones' card. Sometimes I have to just admit I cannot compare.
The theater-major graduation was a warmer, micro-version ceremony where professors read a few sentences of "information" you provide as you cross the stage and shake hands with everyone you've never met before. Hate to say it... mine went over pretty fabulously, as did Kiki's (naturally we collaborated beforehand). Anytime you can make Meredith "The STARE" Alexander physically uncomfortable is an almost assured crowd-pleaser. See, I love Meredith, and she knows it -- so I arranged it so I'd come back and shake her hand last. Apparently bumblefuck faculty member Erik Forsythe didn't get the set-up, because he leaned in when I got to him and said, like he was about to box my ears, "Now's the time when you go back and shake her hand." Sir, are you retarded? This is part of the gag. Anyway, Erik Forsythe looks like Chernobyl hit your grandfather, so I got over the overt, infuriating condescension eventually. Meredith loved my little "tribute" to her, and we both cried. Admittedly, my tears were sissier than hers.
I said goodbye to Jessica, Mattfrench, Sarah, and Kiki all on Sunday morning, just as Gloria and I put the final Madonna DVD in the Astro van. Totally sad, but I'm seeing all these people very soon. In fact, I'm seeing Kiki... today. I'm attending our deeeeear friend Meagan Ekberg's wedding in Rockford, IL. OK, we all know my sense of direction is, uh, fucking pathetic, so I'm hoping to arrive at Rockford by the time I retire. Remember how my friends are getting married? Welcome to the newest, hugest phase of your life, Louis S. Bambaataa Virtel. I mean, I'm in a pretty serious relationship too -- but I just don't think I'll end up marrying this MySpace photo of Danny Pintauro. Same old story. I'm doing all the work.
Moving on to the ballad portion of this entry, let's talk about... the life I just left behind. This is pretty hard to do, trying to understand what college has meant to me. Not to get overly nostalgic (or cynical, for that matter) about it, but college has felt like... a mostly pleasant detour. When I arrived at Iowa, I didn't want to be there. I felt like my life took an unready, wrongly aimed turn south. It continued to feel that way for a long time, well into my sophomore year, even if I made extra-quality friends (including Alyssa and Maggie) and took extra-quality classes (AMERICAN POP MUSICCCC and Meredith's acting class). At 18, all I wanted to do was get published prominently. I didn't see any reason to bring a diploma into the picture. However, leave it to the motherfucking Daily Iowan to acquaint me with how much I needed to learn. With unwavering certainty, I can say the paper's been the greatest learning experience in all of college. I mean, besides Journalistic Reporting & Writing class. HA fucking HA, fucking retards. Becoming an RA was an absolutely necessary step to take in order to make my Iowa time sufficiently social and sumptuous. Not to say I even like the "job" aspect of it; the department's expectations of RAs are so purposely vague that they can screw you over in any of a million forms, blaming you for not being "a good role model" among other nonsense items of blacklisting. But the friends I made in this job (some of them my residents, believe it or not) really gave college a healthy kick in the ass for me.
Earlier I chose the word "detour" purposely; Iowa was nice, but it's nowhere near where I want to physically end up in my career. I'm sure that's the case for most people, but I find it frustrating when I'm not always somehow finding ways to advance my life and get where I want to go -- even if I'm stalling to do something "productive" like getting an education. But then again, let's look at me right now: I'm chilling in Lemont, half-waiting on jobs and half-turning my parents' house into a personal hammock. Might be dangerous to say, but I'm actually really enjoying these sweet, serene weeks. I'm not so big a fan of the times when I have NOTHING to do, but hanging out so often with the family means a lot to me. And catching up on "Jeopardy!" and Netflix-ing entire seasons of "Veronica Mars." That helps too.
I'm also digging my home-friends, who continue to dwindle away from Lemont for the summer. Mostly I spend my time with Elyse, robbing a typical amount of saloons while she wields the hatchet. But Lauren Neybert's a key player too, though she's booking it to Washington D.C. in a matter of... oh my GOD, two days! Help! OK, I actually need a job. I just scared myself back to life.
Let's end this entry on a hyper-stupid note and recount my fave songs from ALL of college. God, don't you love realizing I'm secretly 14?
1. The Dixie Chicks "The Long Way Around"
2. Kelis "Bossy"
3. Destiny's Child "Lose My Breath"
4. Rihanna "Don't Stop the Music"
5. Madonna "Hung Up"
6. Prince "Black Sweat"
7. The Dixie Chicks "Favorite Year"
8. Aimee Mann "King of the Jailhouse"
9. Gwen Stefani "What You Waiting For"
10. Kelly Clarkson "Behind These Hazel Eyes" (OH YES, bitches, I am MIS-UNDER-STOOD)
And with that, I can go back to my -- ahem -- heroin-binge fixation on Fleetwood Mac's Rumours and Greatest Hits. I know I'm a sissy since my favorite Fleetwood Mac member is Christine McVie. I could've picked the vampy, ethereal Stevie Nicks, the hard-rockin' Mick Fleetwood, or the energetic Lindsey Buckingham, but no. I choose Christine. The one in the pantsuit. Truthfully, I think she wrotethe most indelible melodies in the group, and she certainly wrote the GREATEST Fleetwood Mac song of all time ("You Make Loving Fun"). Lindsey's second on my list. Stevie Nicks' lyrics never quite make enough sense to me. If I ever see anyone's face in some snow-covered hills, I'm going to double-check that a poacher hasn't sniped me with a poison dart.
So, that's it for now. Thanks for reading, tolerating, laughing when I tell you to. Love you guys. And by the way, I LOVE The University of Iowa. Thanks to everyone (and I do mean everyone, miraculously) who made it sweet.
Love,
Louis
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