George, you’ve come a long way, baby!
When sitcoms reach their 100th episode, producers make a really
big fuss about it, inviting a huge audience and reflecting on the
past 99 shows. For musicians, it’s a greatest hits album after a
couple of releases; even Weird Al couldn’t escape it.
UCLA seemed to spend all our reg fees on its 75th anniversary
celebration in order for the presidential red carpet to be rolled
out and URSA to now console us with "Go, go, go, Bruins!
Challenging the future!"
So, it seems like everyone’s doing it.
Fear not. I refuse to be like the rest and succumb to the
societal pressure. I will stand my ground, be relieved that I’ve
survived this far and just move on.
Besides, it would be hard to waste millions to honor myself and
ramble on about how great my articles have been when I realize my
checking account is teetering towards extinction and my columns
really suck. I guess I’ll just have to settle with occupying a few
moments of your Tuesday to reminisce.
Believe it or not, this is my 10th article this year.
Amazingly, the editors haven’t booted me off these pages for
having subjects ranging from my small Barstow hometown to religious
experiences on the toilet. I’m still here and pushing my luck. Of
course, you’re wondering by now how this all started, so follow me
on a trek back in time. Warp speed … in reverse!
It was a joyous moment on Cynthia Terrain in Baltimore. What
happened in the back seat of that puke-green, two-door Dodge
Swinger was the miracle of life: the birth of a boy.
He was ugly because he still had that gooey mess and dead skin
all over his body, and the umbilical cord was … alright, who was
the wise guy that entered 1972? I wanted 1992! Try again.
Are we there yet? Good. 1992. For reasons I won’t get into, I
sent my housing application to Business Enterprises along with a
Polaroid of my bare rear end. Rather than dealing with me, the
administrator decided to be unprofessional and call my parents
instead.
The stubborn UCLA employee refused to listen to my arguments
that what he did was wrong; I was 19, legally an adult and capable
of directly dealing with people to handle my own problems. Within a
matter of hours, he sent my parents both the rejected application
and picture via FedEx.
Frustrated, I prepared for battle; a summer-long fight with
on-campus administrators and a story for all Bruins to read.
Publicizing my account in Viewpoint gives me great satisfaction,
and I know this is not the end.
1994: I began sharing my feelings, expressions, thoughts and
experiences in bimonthly columns. Its contents disgusted some
readers and bored others. In fact, most of the articles received
some other unexpected responses. Read on.
As typical with any job application process, I filled out forms,
turned them in and got interviewed. What I didn’t anticipate was
the third degree afterwards.
Remarks that I was unqualified for the position stemmed from
rumors about my somewhat unconventional writings. Although they
were unrelated to what I was applying for, I was grilled
nevertheless and asked to provide copies of the viewpoints.
Newspaper columnist in 1994-95; 1994 camp counselor; 1991-92
dorm programmer; 1978 first-grade bathroom monitor. If you’re an
employer reading this, those were my accomplishments in life. I’m
also a people person!
After giving tips in a column on how to avoid Bruin Walk
solicitors, I seem to have made it on the L.A. Church of Christ’s
Most Wanted. Simple case of paranoia? Probably not.
I’ve been accosted all too frequently and the greetings I
receive are too specialized to be meant for anyone else: "So,
George, what advice would you give now to dodge this invitation to
church?" Somebody, help me. Please?
Since griping about vending machines, I’ve been cheated out of a
hoagie, two bags of Cheetos, a cup of hot chocolate and paid a buck
for a Snickers. Calls made to the number UCLA vending puts on the
square silver sticker are always answered with the busy signal.
Hmm. Hoards of angry consumer calls or a convenient,
"oops-the-phone’s-off-the-hook-again" operator? You be the
judge.
Challenges to the naive intentions of the Natural High Committee
were met with an angry unpublished written response from its
director, Leslie Damski. I considered her last sentence Â
"George, don’t be surprised when Mommy and Daddy call you after
they get a copy of your article in the mail" as an idle threat.
That was until my phone conversation with my parents a week
later:
"By the way, George, did you send me your article?"
"No. Why?"
"Someone sent it to me with no return address."
"Oh, really? (long pause) Well, uh, what’d you think of it?"
"That sure is a funny picture of you."
Nice try, Leslie and Natural High. Sorry you didn’t get the
parental response you wanted.
Immature, unprofessional public employees; relentless spiritual
solicitors; sleazy vending services. What’s next? One thing’s for
sure: Things sure don’t change too often around here (unless you
consider the detours to your classes).
And, neither will I. See you on the Tuesday after next.
Tsai is a fifth-year senior majoring in enlarged nipple
piercings. His column appears on alternate Tuesdays.