The mediocre menace

I love him as much as I hate him. And especially on the college campus, where we’re all blooming so competitively well into adulthood, that scumbag called mediocrity can be sighted all over the place. However, the unbeknownst irony is that the mediocre menace is usually spied dwelling within ourselves.

Now, I’m a bit of an artist; I dabble in music and sculpting. As an artist, it’s quite easy to size up your aesthetic displays to those of other artists. As a musician, it’s even (arguably) easier. I can remember one such time back in the seventh grade when mediocrity pounded its fists on my door:

I used to play piano at a competitive level. One year, I got chosen to represent my district at an honors recital. This was a big opportunity for me; I would be able to witness the performances of fellow pianists from other counties – something that didn’t happen very often to a Grays Harborite living on an isolated peninsula. Needless to say, the experience was a lot of fun and truly gratifying. But, at the same time, it was truly terrifying. I witnessed piano wizards half my age play pieces twice as hard as mine, and I kid you not, some of these wizards (I swear) were still in diapers (to get an appropriate mental snapshot of what I’m trying to say, simply put Matthew Palumbo in the body of a six-year old. I know! Freaky, right?). After mediocrity had beaten my door down, I vowed to up my piano practicing by an hour every day.

So, in a sense, I suppose the mediocre menace can be a good thing; it drove me to become a better piano player. Simply put, the mediocre menace manifested itself as a mean motivator (say that five times fast). Alright, I have a feeling some of you still have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m talking about feeling inferior, feeling mediocre – feeling like you’re just not good enough. Well here’s news for you: there’ll always be someone cooler than you. Believe me – I know what I’m talking about. A guy I’d like to say I knew wrote a song about it. If there was anybody to overcome mediocrity, Ben Folds did it with flying colors. So, take some friendly advice from your BackTalk editor: when mediocrity comes nipping at your heels, take those feelings and bury them in the ground with a shovel. If you can bear it, manipulate that little menace into motivating you, but that’s it. Seriously, he’s out for blood, man.

My rampant reasoning

Sometimes I wonder about things (I know, it’s profound). I wonder about what to eat, I wonder about what to throw down on this blasted page (it’s a love-hate relationship), I wonder about God and sometimes, I even wonder if I’m going to remember a specific moment of wondering for another time. Shoot, I didn’t include wondering about life’s paradoxes. “We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints; we spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less.” Are you guys picking up what I’m putting down? Are you catching what I’m throwing?

Spiritual things. As Adventists, I suppose wondering about those things can be taken as a bad sign. I mean, wondering often leads to questioning, and questioning your spirituality is definitely a bad thing, right? Well, to be honest, I have no idea. Basically, I’ve made the realization that the more I know, the more I don’t know. So, what about doctrines? Why is it when someone mentions the 27 Fundamental Beliefs, there’s always some joker that makes a wisecrack about how there are 28 now? We all know what follows: we pat each other on the back and have a good laugh. Ha. Funny. So, why are we laughing about what we supposedly believe in? Is that really a laughing matter? What are doctrines? The more I wonder about them, the more I see them simply as man’s manifestation of describing God’s will. Whoa, hold on a second. Isn’t man imperfect? Are you sure we can trust him with that? Yikes, now that’s what I call going out on a limb. We better leave those big decisions to the traditionalist and baby boomer generations. So, what about our generation? What about the millennials?

I’d like to believe that our generation isn’t so different from others. Both exemplify personal growth, both think anything is possible, both strive for optimism. But if all that’s true, then why can’t we decide whether to have drums in the church, if we should be nice to homosexuals, or decide if CommUnity is a religious or scholastic experience?

When it’s all said and done, I hope to believe that we’re not so different. That is, I want to believe that we’re sort of the same — generational differences aside.

Valentine's date? You got it.

Hi, I’m Brendan Hay, an ordinary college student who goes through life just like you. That’s right; I put my pants on like everybody else – one leg at a time. Except, today, I’m no longer Brendan Hay; I’m Brendan Hay the Love Guru. Picture me as the lovey-dovey idea fairy who shoots you with heart-tipped arrows. So, here it goes, ten of my personal favorite groovy date ideas:

Mystery Dinner (group) Date: Have any of you ever done a mystery dinner before? Holy cow, they’re fun to get into! Get a mystery set and plan out all the characters. Send out invites and make sure everyone comes in costume. Stay in character even during the dinner part.

Casino Night (group) Date: Alright guys, think Monte Carlo. Think super formal. Have someone with a house host the event. The couples can get together and play various card games (poker, blackjack, etc.), while sipping their favorite bubbly (non-alcoholic, of course). Oh, and remember, only Badventists gamble.

Classic Date: Here it is; dinner and a movie. But, there’s a twist: make the meal together. Then, afterwards, get cozy and watch a pirated movie on a laptop. What? Did someone say pirated?

Thrift Store Date: This one’s bound to get a lot of laughs. Go to a thrift store and pick out each other’s outfits for the night. Each person has to solemnly swear to wear what the other picks out though! Then, go about your date doing whatever.

Picture Date: First, find a children’s book with lots of pictures. Then, buy a disposable camera. Go through the book, reenacting the scenes as you go about your date, taking pictures with the camera. Afterwards, get the film developed and make an album to commemorate the date.

Stalker Date: For all you freaky people out there, go into town and find some couple who are obviously out on a date. Follow them around and do whatever they do. Just don’t follow them home, or to the projects in Lincoln Park …

Double Date with your Parents: Never mind, that’s just weird.

Park Date: This one oozes with romance, but depends on the weather. Plan a picnic in a park setting. Feed a loaf of bread to some ducks together. Then, find a fountain and take turns tossing in coins, saying your wishes out loud in the presence of your significant other. Caution: hearts may melt.

Deviant Date: A personal favorite. Kick off the evening climbing the fire escape of the Marcus Whitman in downtown Walla Walla. After escaping the police, drive over to Walmart and do every Walmart prank in the book (google Walmart pranks). Finish the date by jumping the gate at the Hampton Inn to use their hot tub, free of charge. If you get caught, tell them Brendan Hay sent you.

Nostalgic Date: Do whatever you loved doing as a kid together. Fly kites, build a puzzle, play a board game together or break out that old-school Nintendo 64. After all that silly goodness, make some macaroni and cheese, build a fort out of chairs, pillows and blankets, and watch “DuckTales the Movie: Treasure of the Lost Lamp” inside. Oh, yeah.

Mix ‘em up: Don’t know which awesome date to pick? Throw all of the above into a paper bag, shake them up and pick one (just hope you don’t pick the double date with your parents).

Chivalry

Katie Currier and I thought it would be interesting to do a little piece on chivalry. Now, you might be wondering why on Earth I’d put something like that on my BackTalk. Well, I happen to like social dynamics, and quite frankly, you should too. It may not be obvious at first, but being chivalrous towards a woman goes way back to the middle ages (you know, knighthood, knightly virtues, honor and all that jazz?). Now that you’ve made the connection between two closely related words (chivalry and knights), I will allow you a brief moment of ascertainment (I had one).

Contrary to popular belief, being chivalrous is not just exclusive to gentlemen showing respect to ladies. It goes both ways. So, to all those feminazis out there, when a man opens a door for you – don’t get angry because what he’s really doing is simply treating another human being with respect – gender aside. Hmm, now what a nice thought! Also, as so many men forget to realize, being chivalrous towards a lady is often found quite attractive. Doing those small, chivalrous deeds is easy. They’re the brownie points of the flirting world! When it comes to chivalry, WWU is on good terms. Katie believes there is a good supply of well-mannered men here (and I’m sure Jon Gienger is one of them). When entering a building, she’s found that a man (if one’s nearby) will almost always hold the door for her.

To finish, I thought it’d be fun to include a few of the lesser-executed acts of chivalry: 1. Men, if you’re sitting at a table with a woman or women, stand up when one arrives or leaves the table. 2. When walking with a woman downtown, take the side closest to the street. 3. If you’re driving a woman home, get out of the car and open her door when you get to her house. It looks super fly, and you’re in a much better position for that goodnight kiss.

While on the topic of chivalry, some of you may have found the content of last week’s page to be provocative in nature. If any of you interpreted it as sexual harassment, I humbly apologize. Brendan Hay is a chivalrous man. He does not sexually harass. It just isn’t chivalrous.

What kind of Adventist are you?

I’m not one for labels or stereotypes, but when it comes to Adventists, there are so many flavors. For those of you I’m about to offend, I’m sorry, but sometimes I really can’t help myself. I do want you to know one thing though: I had a blast creating these terms. WWU, you put a smile on my face. Enjoy.

Badventist: Often looked down upon by other Adventists. Partakes in partying on the weekends and other forms of sinful debauchery (including drinking coffee). Group includes business majors and Steeler fans.

Dadventist: All those upstanding father figures out there. Alex Bryan, Dean Evans, etc.

Fadventist: Obsessed with aesthetics. Generally drives a nice car and has to have the latest iPhone. Also, supports the construction of large, monumental, statue-like structures on Adventist campuses …

Gladventist: Our school might only have three African American professors in a sea of white faculty, but this one Jamaican man has enough enthusiasm to count as twenty. Can I hear an Amen, Pedrito?

Madventist: Generally not so fun to be around. Will often be the first to point wayward souls in the right direction. If things get nasty, they may even split up your church. Yikes!

Padventist: Paddy McCoy.

Radventist: These people reek of awesome. They are generally known to have Brooklyn accents, and will occasionally interrupt large audiences with their creative intellect.

Sadventist: I’m sure you get the idea. Fortunately, there is a cure for Sadventists. Send those poor souls to Berean Fellowship, or inflict them with a little Dr. Tony Campolo. All you need is love, yo.


Best place to make out on campus?

Guys, I love it when you kiss, grope, and fondle; it reassures me that Adventists are actually capable of producing offspring. But, given the latest circumstances, I’ve been pressured by my peers into suggesting a few locations that might turn your public displays of affection into private ones.

The bowels of Rigby, late at night
Why not turn that little escapade into a science experiment? I’ve never seen anybody down there past 8 p.m.

FAC practice rooms
Hey you two! Get a room! Seriously, there’s no easier way. Some of the rooms even come with keys …

President McVay’s Desk
Go to it while he’s on his lunch break! I dare you. Ohhh boy!

My house
For an hourly fee, I might let you use the basement.

Excuse me while I go to a corner and shrivel up into a pile of dust now

Embarrassing moments. Everybody has them. Unfortunately, some of us may be in tune to our embarrassing side a bit more than others. I would argue to say I am one of the unlucky ones. Allow me to illustrate:

There was that time when I was in middle school, and I was on my way to a Youth Rally at the Buena Vista Seventh-day Adventist School in Auburn, Washington. It was a two hour drive, so my bladder was quite delighted when we had finally arrived at our destination. Running into the school, and not thinking which door I was going through, I proceeded into a restroom free of any urinals. For some reason, the mysterious absence of man’s #1 depository failed to grab my attention. I turned to the nearest stall, and no sooner had I gone in, two persons with not-so-masculine voices came into the restroom and located themselves in the neighboring stalls on either side of me. Terrified at what I had just done, I lifted my feet up and stood on the toilet, crouching in the most awkward position possible. The moments that followed were, needless to say, embarrassing.

Or that one time, when I was speaking to a bunch of preteens at Camp MiVoden for church, and was inadvertently stung by a bee. Getting stung by a bee in front of young campers however, wasn’t the embarrassing part; the expletive that reactively escaped from my mouth, was. Some of you reading this may actually have been there, but are recalling that no such utterance ever occurred. Well, it’s quite obvious, at least from my perspective, that your guardian angel was probably plugging your ears.

So, there you have it: a couple of Brendan Hay’s finer moments. Now, should we be ashamed of moments like these? No, I think not. These are the moments when we are in life’s spotlight; these are the moments when we know we’re actually alive (from personal experience, I can say that interrupting a televised sermon in front of two thousand people makes you feel very much alive, sorry, Garrett).

So, treasure those moments, for they are the moments in life that make it worth living.

It's a jungle out there

Think Disney movie. Now, think Disney classic. Just to narrow it down a bit further, think Disney classic with superb music. What are you left with? The “Jungle Book,” of course. As a youngster, the “Jungle Book” was about as entertaining to me as it is for a pyromaniac to flush a chunk of sodium down the toilet. I don’t know if it was because of the songs by the Sherman brothers, or Baloo’s awesome life philosophy, or even the three indecisive vultures (“Now don’t start that again!”). The “Jungle Book” is like fine wine or cheese – it just gets better with age. However, there was one part about the “Jungle Book” that vexed me: the ending. Remember at the end, when Mowgli sees the young girl coming down from the Man-Village? Remember how he leaves his best friends, Baloo and Bagheera, to be with her? I used to get so mad at that scene I would pound my fists into the pillows! It just wasn’t fair, right? I suppose at the time, I just didn’t understand; girls were not yet a part of life’s jigsaw puzzle. But now, I kind of get what Mowgli was thinking ...

Here’s the deal. Guys. We’re all attending a school full of beautiful, intelligent, single women. They come down to the riverbed to fetch the water, but we don’t follow them back to the Man-Village! We’re like a bunch of Mowglies, screwing up the ending to the Jungle Book! C’mon! I was at Vespers last weekend, and I saw a pathetic sight; lots of guys sitting with guys, and even more girls sitting with girls. Please, I understand that our Adventist system separates the sexes from childbirth. I understand that we all went to banquets and not high school dances. I get all of that. But seriously though, biology ought to win over the Adventist conditioning sooner than later! Single guys: I know that somewhere out there, there’s a special lady you have your eye on. Do it. Follow her back to the Man-Village. Translation: take her out on a date! Girls: keep doing what you’re doing; we’ll get it eventually.

In the words of Freddy Mercury, “Play that game of love” (preferably the straight version though). OK, maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve been watching a bit too much “Millionaire Matchmaker.” Alright, I’ll shut-up now.

To infinity, and beyond!

Everybody! Guess what? I’m engaged! Ahhh! OK, actually, that was a lie; I’m not engaged, but I thought I’d say it anyway because it seems like everybody else is. C’mon, guys. I’m starting to feel a little left out. Alright, let’s change the subject. So, you’ve made it through the first decade of the new millennium. Congratulations. Feeling old yet? For those of you just entering college, you still have that invincible blood coursing through your rowdy, little veins; getting old hasn’t exactly hit you yet. While at the other end, those of us finishing up with our undergrad experience, and possibly looking a bit further into the future, may be at the precipice of beginning to taste our own mortality (it tastes yucky, just to let you know). Faculty, don’t you scoff now – we young’uns grow old too.

The fun’s really going to start when we have to explain to our children that we grew up with those chunky, VHS cassettes. Man, that’s going to blow their minds. Then, there’s the whole Apple revolution with the iPods, iTunes, iPhones and everything else that commences with a lowercase “i.” I can’t wait to see my kids’ faces when I tell them that music used to come from tangible, disk-like objects. The thing that really gets me though, and I mean really, really gets me, is texting. Forget the email; texting is the crowning communication achievement of the new millennium. It’s changed everything. For crying out loud, do you know how difficult it is to flirt with somebody via texting? OK, maybe it’s not that hard, but seriously. When I was thirteen, I picked up the phone, called the girl and told her I liked her. Voilá! It was that simple. Yes, it was really awkward, but really simple. Oh, the humanity. Where are we going? I still remember what my high school English teacher, Stephen Lacey, once said in class: “The only thing technology has done for us is allow more time to be busy.” Profound words …

Pleased to meet you. I'm a tool!

Myspace did a lot for us. It taught us how to play detective (you’ll never admit to how you once stalked someone online, but you’ll admit to doing “detective work”), it taught us how to become critics (remember when you used to rate your top friends?), but most of all, it blessed us with a new genre of photography. This new style best fits the category of the self-portrait, one to which I like to refer as the infamous “tool shot”.

Now, the “tool shot” has to fulfill a few requirements in order to be classified as a legitimate “tool shot”. One, the photographer needs to be half-naked. Two, the photographer needs to be in front of a mirror, or else he/she will have to settle for the awkward arm-bend maneuver (go on, I dare you to call your bro friends and ask them to come over and take half-naked pictures of you. What will they think?). Three, the photographer should never smile. This is a serious shot, one in which the photographer looks as though his/her dog has just died, but, at the same time feels like the cat’s pajamas (yes, I did just use the words cat and dog in one groovy sentence). Finally, four, the “tool shot” works best if the photographer is in the bathroom, preferably one where the toilet is in view. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words. Well, shoot, a thousand words aren’t enough as soon as you’ve included a toilet in the picture. I can see the Myspace caption now: “Hey baby, after you’ve finished checking out my rock-hard, chiseled abs, why don’t you stay and rest a bit on the John directly behind me?”

As the world continues to spin, and “tool shots” continue to appear all over social networking websites, we romantics will continue to bow our heads in shame. Seriously, “tool shots” need to die.

Curds and Whey

You might not think it, but cottage cheese is actually delicious. For the longest time I had this unnatural phobia for cottage cheese. When passing in salad bars, I would eye the mysterious, white chunky goop and get the willies. But for the first time the other day, when I went to the cafeteria to snag lunch, the cottage cheese in the salad bar looked appealing. There it was nestled snuggly between the cut-up broccoli and sliced olives. It was untouched — a clear indicator that a score of others also shared in my rash, ex-phobia. I heaped a healthy portion of the squishy, mozzarella-like substance onto my salad plate; today was a good day.

I overcame my cottage cheese phobia towards the end of this last summer. I was visiting a friend in Sacramento, and I happened to have dinner with her family. I remember seeing a carton of cottage cheese on the table and thinking, “Oh great, a cottage cheese family.” Noticing how everyone was eating cottage cheese with their stroganoff, I decided to be gutsy and at least try it. I gulped as I brought the spoon up to my mouth and, trying not to think about it, quickly shoved the white mess in. But to my surprise, it didn’t taste at all like I thought cottage cheese was supposed to. I quickly breathed a sigh of relief. The rest is history.

So basically, I guess I’m trying to find a creative way of saying don’t judge a book by its cover. I mean, I did, and look what it got me: years and years of cottage cheese deprivation. Excuse me now while I go eat some curds and whey…

The Stock Theory

If you know me personally, or have been around me for any length of time, you may have been unfortunately subjected to my stock theory. So, what’s the stock theory? Well, it’s my way of explaining a certain phenomenon of dating kinetics between young men and women during the college years — especially in the Adventist pond. Did I discover it? Probably not. Am I the only one who’s noticed it? I guess we’ll find out. First off, let’s define stock.

Stock is basically best defined as what you have going for yourself. For all you engineers out there, it’s kind of like potential energy. Picture your stock as a bank account capable of being filled with value. So, directly translated, a person with high stock has a lot to offer. For the entering male freshmen, your stock is quite low. I don’t care if you think you are the cat’s pajamas; you’re far from completing your degree, you’re probably not making much money and, when it comes to the college birds, they can easily twist your ear making you go in any direction they please. On the other hand, the entering female freshmen start off with high stock. So what makes the fairer sex any different? Well shoot, son, they have all the power! The alluring feminine form, in itself, is enough of a reason. The equation looks like this: Man, who has low stock, seeks beautiful woman earnestly, ultimately giving her high stock.

Gradually though, things start to change. That girl, who was initially just interested in mere surface traits in men (humor, good looks, spontaneity), starts to figure things out after she has “traveled the world” and “seen all there is to see.” She then starts to look for traits like generosity, humility, and loyalty — traits that would make a good father. You see, she’s starting to notice that her biological clock isn’t ticking any slower. By now, that guy who used to be a low stocker has increased his stock. The girl, who is now a senior in college, starts to understand that her mate selection will diminish greatly upon graduating. And believe me, as Adventists, we’re exceedingly picky. So, here it is that the phenomenon occurs. There is a “stock swap”, and before you know it, the man has all the power in the world, mainly because of biological reasons.

Alright, before you come hunt me down for offending you, let me remind you that I just shared a theory. Is it true? I don’t know. You tell me.

Madventist

When I was younger (just a wee toddler), seeing me sitting up straight, alert, and attentive during the church sermon was a rare sight. While the pastor spoke, my short attention span would often wander to my mother’s purse, where I could always be sure to find some blank paper and crayons. Kneeling on the brown, rusty-colored carpet and bending over the pew like a hunchback, I would spill out my brains onto those wonderful sheets of blank paper. Dinosaurs, spaceships and faraway made-up worlds inspired from my collection of NES video games were the usual fodder projected from the deep, inner recesses of my mind. I didn’t have to entertain my boredom this way every Sabbath though. Every once in a while, this thing called Communion would occur. As a six year-old, all I knew was that Communion was the time when they handed out those delicious, bite-sized, crunchy squares that you could never buy in a grocery store. The enigmatical ritual of elderly men praying over bread and juice was enough of a display to keep my racing, curious mind occupied. Unfortunately, the chance to eat during church came with a drawback: I was allowed only one puny square.

However, my luck changed one Sabbath when Communion lined up on the same day as potluck. After lunch, my cronies and I would run around the dark sanctuary like it was some sort of celestial playground. Except this time, to our amazement, the leftover Communion bread was left out in all of its splendor. At last, I would have the chance to eat Communion bread to my heart’s content! We giggled maniacally as we gobbled down square after sqaure. But just then, all of a sudden, she entered. You know, the scary, old “madventist” of a lady that is out to get little boys and girls for running around God’s house. We were doomed. She had been after us before, and this was the last straw. After telling us how she was going to sic the pastor on us, and make sure that we were not only spanked by our parents, but everyone else’s parents, she trundled out of the sanctuary. For the next hour or so, I remember hiding under the pews in holy terror, just waiting to see what would become of my behind. But deep inside, I knew I was the victor. I had succeeded. I had eaten not one, but three entire trays of Communion bread.

The Wonder Years

Can you remember back when you used to be excited for Christmas? You know, back when you’d wake up at five in the morning? I’m assuming you’d run straight to the Christmas tree, and then, after scouring through the presents, you’d immediately run to your sleeping parents and yank them out of bed. Alright, so maybe you’re one of those who still wakes up your parents on Christmas, but at least for me (and I daresay it might include the majority of us college students), it is now the parents getting us out of bed when Christmas rolls around and it’s time to open presents.

I suppose the classic answer to why this phenomenal change occurs is that we’re getting older. Ah, yes, blame it on maturity. Well, let me tell you something — maturity is a lame answer! As cliché as it sounds, you have to remember that there’s a child in all of us. Unfortunately, that child has been buried under the strains and responsibilities that get shoveled upon a growing adolescent (allow me to let you in on a little secret: college is infamous for beating the “adolescence” out of you). Don’t get me wrong, going down life’s path and finding a career, or perhaps, starting a family, are worthy endeavors that many of us should look into. It’s just that all too often, after all the seriousness of learning is said and done, some of us forget about our childhoods and leave them in the rearview mirror. So, what I want you to remember is this: don’t let college ultimately change your being. Sure, let academia expand your horizon, but don’t let it rob you of your inner child.

Stranger Danger

I’ve recently stumbled upon one of the most useful websites I believe cyberspace has to offer — Craigslist. Now, you’re probably thinking, “Oh, come on, Brendan. Hop on the bandwagon. I’ve been using Craigslist for years!” Well, I haven’t. And let me tell you, I like it. Its simplicity and expediency rival that of In-N-Out Burger (yet another divine innovation). I used to think the whole concept of Craigslist was loony. I mean, looking around at classified advertisements online, then contacting the seller, and later, even meeting up with him or her to seal the deal — isn’t that just a little strange? Well, as I paced around my sorry-excuse-of-a-house (perhaps better aptly described as a man cave), materialism finally got the better of me. Looking at the furniture section on Craigslist in the Tri-Cities location, I spied the sale of a century: a full-sized wooden dining table along with three chairs for a mere twenty-five dollars. I wrote down the contact number and quickly reached for my phone. After a few awkward text messages, I was out the door and on my way.

I soon realized that finding a house I’d never been to in the dark was going to pose a challenge. Even with the address plugged into Debra, my talking GPS, none of the surrounding houses were matching up with the supposed destination. This actually didn’t come as a surprise; the vixen Debra had lied to me in the past on more than one occasion. Throwing my hands in the air, I dialed the seller’s number. After a rather awkward phone conversation, I was led to the right house. Unfortunately, I forgot what apartment she was in, so I had to knock on a few random doors before I came to the right one (I was too embarrassed to call her back, and yes, I know I don’t make sense sometimes – I blame it on Debra). To make a long story short, I finally got the table. So, the thing I want to leave you with is this: conquer the world. Use Craigslist. Meet people you don’t know. From my experience, good things can come from this, like really cheap furniture.

“Not to 50!!!”

Alright, no more funny business — things are about to get a little dicey. With Week of Worship in our rearview mirrors, we’re no longer protected by Campus Ministries’ orb of spiritual emphasis. Henceforth, professors no longer feel guilty about inflicting the most amount of brain pain possible. “Not to 50!!!” As Count Rugen from the movie classic, “The Princess Bride,” would surely put it. So, it’s time to “batten down the hatches” and (groan) put on the study gloves. But before you put my BackTalk down, or open this newspaper up, I’m going to leave you with an inspirational bit from Edgar Guest, the People’s Poet, to help boost your motivation meter.

Somebody said that it couldn't be done, but he with a chuckle replied that "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one who wouldn't say so ‘til he'd tried. So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin on his face. If he worried he hid it. He started to sing as he tackled the thing that couldn't be done, and he did it. Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that; at least no one ever has done it"; but he took off his coat and he took off his hat, and the first thing we knew he'd begun it. With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin, without any doubting or quiddit, he started to sing as he tackled the thing that couldn't be done, and he did it. There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done, there are thousands to prophesy failure; there are thousands to point out to you one by one, the dangers that wait to assail you. But just buckle in with a bit of a grin, just take off your coat and go to it; just start to sing as you tackle the thing that "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

Super Troopers

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I’m a senior, and I have yet to receive that dreaded slip of paper from the notorious squad of peace protectors; the College Place City Police. Sure, I’ve been pulled over a couple of times for creeping past a stop sign and the occasional jaywalking (yes, you can get pulled over while you’re walking), but somehow I’ve always managed to walk away unscathed. You’ll find it’s a longstanding tradition here at WWU to share your personal encounters involving the College Place cops with your friends. Just ask WWU alumnus Lance Davis or sophomore automotive technology major Kurt Lamberton and they’ll keep you entertained for a good half hour. So, what’s the best kind of cop story? It’s simple. The best stories are the ones involving an element of surprise.

Last Friday after vespers, the Bechtels were hosting their weekly smoothie night. Things were starting to get a little rowdy though as the party approached 45 guests. Now, we all know College Place likes its peace and quiet, so it wasn’t long before the fuzz came knocking at the Bechtels’ door. In front of the house, an officer stopped a bewildered Austin Nystrom, Spanish/theology major, from going back into the Bechtels’ home. Austin quickly explained he’d forgotten his Bible inside. No doubt skeptical to Austin’s excuse, and thinking they were just about to break up a royal flush of a kegger, the anxious officers entered the house. However to their dismay, not one drop of alcohol was found. Instead they were met with 45 WWU students getting ready to sing a rousing chorus of “King Jesus is All”. Sadly, the religious experience of Christian fellowship was disbanded, but the irony still lingers. I just can’t help imagine what was going through those three officers’ heads. “Those crazy Adventists…”

Ready. Set. Go!

So, once again that time of year is upon us. Whether you’re ready or not, it’s here! Perhaps you’ve been eagerly anticipating the college comeback, or maybe you’ve been dreading the return of all things academic (like me). First off, I’d like to say welcome back to all the returning students. Secondly, I’d like to extend an even warmer welcome to all you freshmen that have chosen (or maybe not have chosen) College Place as your provisional place of residence over the next eight months. Freshmen, allow me to let you in on a little secret. College is actually not that bad. In fact, some of you may like it. To all those ex-boarding students out there, no longer will your lights be turned off at 8:00 pm. No longer will you be forced to wear dress socks to church. No longer will you flee to the shadows when you want to spend some special time with your significant other. Sure, you may make some mistakes now and then, like speeding down College Avenue or getting suckered in to joining the Booster Club, but fortunately, college is a good place to learn from mistakes.

It’s true, the first week of school is a messy pot of mixed emotions: all those classic awkward silences in the cafeteria, the stress from not being entirely settled in, or the haunting belief that you’ll never see a “jumping Einstein” (on more of a side note, I’d still like to know who birthed the idea of a fat little jumping Einstein). On the other hand, you’re excited to see friends and you’ve no doubt been eyeing the “new prospects”. So why do I like WWU? It’s simple. It’s cliché. I like WWU because of the type of people it breeds. Better watch out! This Adventist institution of higher education may grow on you.