Thursday, April 25, 1996
Alumnus status brings only junk mail, probing questions about
life
I’ve been preaching for several years about the merits of taking
one’s time in getting through college. I’ve told almost anybody
that will listen: sleeping people, infants, kidnapping victims.
Many accused me of just trying to rationalize my own longevity in
college. I was beginning to wonder if they were partially
right.
Well, I’ve discovered the answer, and that is that I am right (I
can say that here with no shame because this is my column). As my
friends from Chico State like to say, "Graduating in four years is
like leaving the party at 10 p.m." You gotta stay later than 10;
that’s when things are just getting started. You only have to make
sure you leave before the next morning when the host asks you to
help clean up.
With six years under my belt, I realize that I pushed the
cleaning factor. Papa Murphy was just about to ask me to help
scrape the cheese doodles off the ceiling and mop the vomit out of
the VCR (the signs of a good party). In case you are too stupid
(USC student) or too hungover (last night’s VCR violator), I’m
speaking in metaphors, and telling you to be sure that you better
EXPERIENCE EVERYTHING COLLEGE HAS TO OFFER AND TAKE YOUR TIME.
The reason I know this truth to be self-evident is that five
weeks ago, I graduated. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you my
diploma, which Papa Murphy said should be ready to pick up before
my second child is in braces.
I’m now standing at the doorway of the real world, and I feel
about as welcome as a door-to-door salesman peddling top soil
(another metaphor). I’m suffering from what the National
Psychological Association calls Post-Graduate Depressive
Neurological Gripe  PIG DUNG. (I threw the vowels in to make
a funny phrase.)
There are many factors that make the real world a cruel, cold,
uncaring place which should be avoided as long as possible.
Hopefully after reading this, you will heed my warnings and tell
your parents that there are several classes in romantic Martian
literature that you want to enroll in, so you’ve decided to take
another year. With their blessing (and daddy’s credit card), of
course.
I will share with you a few problems associated with PIG DUNG.
Based on the fact that I will vouch for the reality of the
situation, you may decide that getting out in four years is not
such a priority. Based on the fact that I may be full of it, you
will probably use this paper in your bird cage.
1. The worst part about graduating is that now everybody and my
mother ask the same question: Can you pass the salt, please? No,
actually I take that back; the most asked question (always asked in
a condescending tone) is: So what are you going to do now? Of
course they’re asking you what kind of job you’re going to get. The
best money-making endeavor I’ve been able to come up with is
getting a new credit card. I mean, hell, I majored in environmental
studies. Tree hugging doesn’t exactly pay the rent, unless you
happen to be the Swiss Family Robinson.
So far, nobody has offered me any money for my writing. If
anybody is reading this and wants to offer me a job, I can be
reached at (555) 555-5555. If you are offering me a job paying
$10,000-$20,000, press 1; $20,000-$30,000, press 2; $100,000-plus,
please wake me.
I’ve found that the best strategy to quell people’s "interest"
in what you are doing next is make up a good story. It’ll keep them
off your back until you’ve finally accomplished worthwhile career
goals, whenever they may be.
2. Many parents decide that your childhood room will only be
kept intact until the day you graduate. As soon as that day comes,
parents get the sudden compulsion to have a sewing room or a study
or a rumpus room. Nobody really knows what to even do in a rumpus
room, it’s just that rumpus is a cool word that ranks right up
there with juggernaut.
My parents were no different, and the day I was done, everything
I owned was crammed into a shoe box and stored somewhere in the
garage. When I called my parents to tell them that I had passed all
my classes, they busted out the champagne. It wasn’t to celebrate
for me, rather for the unlimited possibilities they now had with an
extra room. They now have a place to sew, a place to study and a
place to rumpus.
The champagne was also partially to celebrate the fact that they
no longer had to make their deposits into First Interstate Bank of
UCLA. Of course, six years of college left them almost broke, and
the only champagne they could afford was called Thunderbird.
3. You’ve given your heart and soul to this university over the
years. Cheered for victories, agonized over defeats. Laughed for
the good times, cried at the bad ones. You feel a bond has formed:
parent/child, mentor/student. You’d think that bond would be
sacred, with no price tag on it. If you really think that, you’ve
been eating to many green clovers, purple horseshoes and rainbow
colored ahh … well, rainbows, I guess.
UCLA will sell you out to the highest bidder, or any bidder for
that matter. There must be a department for making sure that
students’ names and addresses are instantly handed over to junk
mail corporations  DFMSTSNAAAIHOTJMC (because everything here
has to be an acronym). I can’t seem to figure out what building the
office is in, possibly somewhere in the tunnels.
Yeah that’s right, there are corporations which do nothing but
send out junk mail, and my name and graduation status have recently
moved to the top of the list. I’ve received more "special offer"
pamphlets in the last month than I can possibly light on fire.
Thank you, UCLA, for making sure that my credit card bills are not
getting lonely in the mail box.
The Alumni Association has been after me a lot in the last
month, as well. They gave me about four working days after
finishing to start asking me for money. It’s funny how when I
needed things from the school over the years, they sure didn’t work
that quick. But now I’m an alumnus, supposedly with a real (meaning
waiter) job, and supposedly with money. Which reminds me, I’m tired
of those students always complaining about basketball seats. They
belong to alumni like me who have money (insert extreme sarcasm
here).
4. Many other important (besides career) questions spring up all
at once, and are thrown right in your face. What am I going to do
about health care? How am I going to afford real furniture to sit
my real butt in during my real life? What part of the country am I
going to live in? Am I going to be close to a Taco Bell? Does that
clown at the bar last night really think he can eat three egg salad
sandwiches faster than I can fill a Coors can with urine?
These are some of the dilemmas that will face you in your
post-graduation days. The skill with which you find these answers
obviously rests very little on how well you paid attention in that
bio lab. All the finagling you did to get the grade in spite of not
buying your book until ninth week is the type of know-how you’ll
need.
As an expert in the finaglization department, I’ve decided that
the answers to the above questions are: aspirin and Band-Aids; it’s
easy to have your coffee table match your night stand when they are
both cardboard boxes; doesn’t really matter because I know there
will be a Taco Bell nearby; yes, he does; and the tree does make
noise regardless of whether someone is around to hear it.
5. I’m now forced to create a couple of pages of fiction which
are supposed to make people think I have what they want, and slap
the name résumé on it. Everything on it is going to be a
lie because I don’t speak Japanese, I don’t know how to use the
Internet and I don’t know why I can use "information" for free from
a pay phone but at home 411 costs money.
I’m not even sure I should put that I wrote for The Bruin on my
résumé. They might want to see some of my work, but I
wrote about beer too often to seem competent. It’s too bad I can’t
use my fortunes from those cookies as my qualifications. ("Look
buddy, this here says that my sense of ambition will lead to great
financial successes; I don’t see how you could not hire me.")
My month out of school has been a trying time for many reasons.
For the last 23 years, my life has followed a path; I knew where I
was headed. Now the way seems so unsure, the future cloudy. These
difficult times have led me to one conclusion that seems to be an
obvious solution: grad school  two more years of avoiding the
real world.
Birkenstein is a UCLA alumnus. He would like to pay tribute to
the boys across the street who shot a bottle rocket at his building
and shouted, "Write an article about that, asshole." A whole column
could not be contributed, but it was worth mentioning. Thanks for
the laughs and the memories, guys.