A rotten banana and a revelation

I can no longer see the color of the futon in my dorm room and the floor is scattered with corn flakes. Is the underwear I found today on my chair clean? Hopefully, because I’m wearing them.

When my roommate Nora recently declared, “Damn, we need to clean the room soon,” I was ambivalent. But Friday, something happened that actually made me care.

I was sitting at my desk, absentmindedly pawing through week-old piles of clothes with my foot. Facebook had me completely distracted, until I felt something strange and sort of lumpy beneath the scarf at my toes. Instantly intrigued, I pushed it harder. It popped.

Now perturbed, I ‘brb’-ed on Google Talk and excavated all the clothes and lifted the leg of my chair. Hidden beneath both was a thoroughly rotten banana. Cleaning the crusted fruit with a lonely sock, I tried to estimate the time of its demise, but realized that it didn’t matter.

Things are out of hand. Nora, I’ll clean this week. I promise.


Bus stop Wonka fix

I was on my way home from North Campus Saturday at around 2 a.m. when a small group of students caught my eye through the bus window. They were standing on the sidewalk near the bus stop on Fuller, but they weren’t waiting for the bus.

Instead, the group of about five were huddled around a computer that was sitting on a bench, focused intently on whatever was on the screen. The driver slowed to pick them up, but the students waved the bus away.

As we passed, all the passengers looked out to see what was so engaging. I only caught a glimpse, but it was easy to identify was so captivating: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I guess the spring weather just gave them a taste for snozzberries.


All-holy Hash Bash

On Saturday, I went to church, but it wasn’t Catholic, Protestant or any other common denomination. It was Hash Bash. The preacher was radical, but I felt I could relate to his sermon.

“God forgive America!” he shouted to the crowd gathered on Monroe Street. “God forgive America for illegalizing marijuana!”

I was having a religious experience, though I don’t think it was the sort that my hippie parents had hoped. Later that afternoon, the man’s message no longer seemed so profound. But I think I’ll always take these last lines of his sermon with me:

“Every day, I thank the Lord, I say Amen, and I light up!”


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