This inquisitorial guttural utterance came in the wake of a piece in the New York Times technology section, detailing the creation of a chat roulette program for college students called Random Dorm. Personally, I find chat roulette weird, boring and off-putting. Talking to some random people through a computer screen is time I would rather spend watching other people talk to each other on a screen, you know, like a TV show. From my thorough analysis of chat roulette, I can confidently ask why—of all the things one could do with money, intelligence and labor—would someone create a version of chat roulette for college students only? It’s not like the overwhelming percentage of chat roulette users are successful job holding middle-aged men and women. According to that same article, the most “avid users” of chat roulette were male college students.

Random Dorm requires you to use a college e-mail address to access the Web site. The result: You’ll now know the college at which that random erect penis resides. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always wanted to know where the people masturbating for public consumption lived. Call me anti-social, call me old-fashioned, but I find talking to random weirdos in real life awkward and painful enough. While the screen of my laptop is an incredibly inviting and comforting sight, I doubt it will ever inspire me to converse ad nauseum with the rest of the male college students across America. In addition, there are only so many times I can hear “Show us your tits,” without starting to believe I may actually have some.

Chat roulette is obviously a mindless diversion that shouldn’t be taken too seriously, and, comically, it resembles Russian roulette in the sense that you never know which click is going to bring up a smoking gun, if you know what I mean. What is slightly irritating is the incessant search for new social networking possibilities. Facebook and Twitter alone clog the techno-sphere. Do we really need a social networking random college-only video chat client as well? Josh Weinstein, who created Random Dorm, hopes to “ensure a degree of community and security,” according to the New York Times article. Isn’t the thrill of chat roulette the insecurity and lack of community? Is there anything secure and communal about random video chat?

Why take the randomness out of it? If you want community and security, video chat with someone you know. The hilarity of chat roulette and its potential to amuse is rooted in the absurdity of what you find there. Why try to turn this into something legitimate? Let some things stay as they are. I barely have the time to talk to the friends I already have, let alone the time to video chat with random college students.

I’ve encountered such a treacherous situation numerous times, often far too early for me to have my wits about me in any way capable of combating the investigating probes of my caring mother. How do you answer these questions? Delicately. Imagine explaining to your parent on separate occasions that you no longer have money for the following reasons: bailing a friend out of jail after he was wrongfully cuffed, paying a ticket and purchasing something that I’m going to choose not to name. Needless to say, this nameless purchase was not 15 Pointersauri after a good night at the casino. I’m not a gambler, though, so that idea is pure whimsy. One can only imagine how receptive the lucky woman on the other end of the phone was to these expenses. I had to try and convince her to believe me, let alone that this wasn’t some sort of chicanery or parental heist. The bottom line is that she was not happy.

This is not an article about my pecuniary mishaps. While my actions do not bode well for my future, college is a time when most of us achieve financial independence for the first time. Some of us may have help from parents or relatives, and some may support ourselves, but in either case, we are learning to be fiscally (ir)responsible. It’s a time when we have to learn to pay rent and gas on time and feel the consequences of not doing so. In most cases, there is no longer direct intervention on behalf of the almighty account holders. We are at a time in our lives when we make choices. Important financial questions cross our paths everyday: to Jimmy John’s or not to Jimmy John’s? Eight bucks and too much mayo later and you probably think to yourself that you should’ve saved the money. But that’s the point; it’s a learning process. Although, there is always the stop-tuition-payment card they play if you make too many bad decisions.

As we grow older, the decision-making process only becomes more difficult. Pretty soon we’re deciding between a martini and a beer instead of wondering if we should shell out the extra dollar for soda at the DUC. Instead of deciding whether to live on or off campus, we’re sitting down talking about a mortgage. These are formative years for our financial habits, and we probably shouldn’t be trusted with any money whatsoever. We’ll all leave school knowing how to close a bar tab, but hey, you have to start somewhere. Let’s not get all out of whack; always start with baby steps.

Is douche a gendered term? This is a tricky question. I would venture to say yes. I would say that it is far more common to hear, “Wow, that guy was a douche,” as opposed to, “Wow, that girl was a douche.” Being a douche appears to have a masculine connotation to it. Strange, considering the origins of the word. In the Latin: Douche Bag. There are, of course, exceptions. In the annals of history, there stands alone a douche untouched. Perhaps the greatest douche of all time: Ayn Rand. So douchey was she, that she has inspired cults of douche followers who worship her as a near deity. Bravo Ayn Rand. As prolific a writer as you may be, you certainly carry some heavy douche credentials.

What I have done here is identify a douche without defining one. Can we even really attempt to define what constitutes a douche? Is to each douche his own? More likely than not, everyone has their own conception of douchery; however, we can set forth a few general qualities. Note, not all of these are present in every douche, nor does possession of these qualities imply that you are, in fact, a raging douche. It is an amalgam of sorts, a chemical reaction of characteristics that infuses one with what it takes to be a douche. First: a totally unwarranted and undeserved sense of complete superiority. Notable douche-types with this characteristic include famous people and coffee shop intellectuals. Second: an unmitigated desire to demonstrate said undeserved superiority through shouting and ape-like displays of male dominance. Notable douche-types: stereotypical frat boys, steroid ridden athletes. Third: the backwards hat. It’s not always an indicator, but it certainly can be.

Now that I have certainly infuriated a large group of people, let me say that what I have done is quite douchey. By defining the indefinable, I have joined the widespread army of the douche, an army that has been privileged to see the likes of Napoleon (the little-guy douche), Richard Nixon (the politico-douche) and the cast of the Jersey Shore (reality TV-douches/ettes).  I stand among them proudly, waving my douche flag high, and I say to you earnestly, “embrace the douche within.”

We’ve all seen the Hollywood portrayal of the “make-out point” with a line of cars wobbling back and forth overlooking the dimly lit city. It’s the typical high school scene, and that’s exactly the problem. It’s for high schoolers. They are taking their cars out for a little romp under the night sky precisely because they can’t in their own homes. Parental ears are ultra sensitive to the rhythmic creaking of mattresses. This doesn’t apply to us. We’re in college now; it’s time to step up our game. It’s a time for anonymous drunken flings and masked orgies. If you are feeling adventurous, you could even have REGULAR, yes, REGULAR, sex in your bed. We all know our roommates should be subject to our nightly activities anyway; it’s not like they care. What are they, parents? They wouldn’t want to be parents, would they?

It’s time to retire the back-seat bang. First off, it’s dangerous. Your rear window gets all foggy, and you can’t see out of it when it’s time to back out, and then you end up hitting something. Case in point. Not only is it dangerous, but unless you’re riding in a Maybach, chances are your back seat isn’t that spacious. If you’re looking to keep your frisky exploits out of the public eye, then you’re going to run into some logistical difficulties, if you know what I mean. If you’re an exhibitionist, go ahead and sit up; everyone likes a show. Lastly, I’d like to point out that it’s simply rude. Whether you’re carpooling or going to get some pizza with friends, someone’s going to be sitting in your brothel of a back seat. Shame on you. You can’t escape the stench of shame, or sex in the back seat for that matter.

We’ve all graduated high school. Now let’s graduate sex school. Let’s find a better location than the back seat of our cars. Start experimenting in the Quad or the DUC. Make it count. Free yourselves from the aluminum confines of your Toyota. Say goodbye to muscle cramps and hello to pleasure. As sad as it makes me, the time has come to retire the back seat bang. I’m sorry, Ludacris, but it’s got to go.

By the way, this is all based on the assumption that Wash. U. students have sex, which is, most likely, a myth.

In all seriousness though, the Winter Olympics unite nations with a fervor that is usually reserved for non-U.S. nations during the World Cup. It provides us with a spectrum of events that range from nauseatingly boring to nauseatingly unbelievable. From curling to men’s downhill skiing, there is never a time when you can’t cool off by watching someone do something on ice. There is the obvious perk of nearly 24 hours of watchable TV provided by all of NBC’s networks, and actually tuning into CNBC is a strangely enjoyable and exotic activity. But let’s get back to the important point—this idea of a united community.

The Olympics has its stars. The aforementioned Shaun White, Apollo Ohno, Bode Miller and Lindsey Vonn all carry some serious weight within their respective sports. The great part about the Olympics, though, is that it doesn’t matter. I’ll root for anyone from the USA. You can be damn certain that I’ll be hating on the Austrian Nordic Biathlon team come game time. I want my boys in the red, white and blue to win everything. They put their heart and soul into their cross-country skiing-cum-rifle shooting.

It’s some good, old-fashioned, international competition…It is a chance for Americans to root for America without feeling pompous. We need this as a country. The Olympics provide an opportunity for us to stop hating ourselves for the international political and cultural blunders we’ve made in the past. It is a chance to revel in the success of our athletes, to live vicariously through their achievements. And I’ll tell you what: It’s thrilling. It is O.K. to root against another nation in the total medal count. The Olympics are absent of political correctness, and it is beautiful.

It may be chancy, insensitive and simply false to say that we are the greatest country in the world, but if we win the most medals, we can certainly brag about our superiority in snowy athleticism. It’s about time for some national pride. Set your obligations aside, clear your schedules and sit down in front of the TV with some friends and cheer for America. ’Cause if there’s one thing we know we’re good at, it’s snowboarding.

Charlie is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. He can be reached via e-mail at chlow@wustl.edu.

Mike Hirshon | Student Life

There are points when I fear that my lifestyle is unsustainable. For example, after a Jimmy John’s sandwich. Then there are those rare, fleeting moments when I breach the fortress of narcissism and consider the lives of others. In this case, I fear for our generation and those younger than we are.

We are living in a world of constant access; to entertainment, locations, substances, people, foods, basically anything. We are constantly multitasking, looking for the next YouTube video to take our minds off the essay we were writing 20 minutes ago.

We are a generation of distraction. A tumultuous mob of fast paced, twitchy 18 to 20-somethings who have no concept of calm. We have a persistent need to be occupied. Do any of us just sit with our own thoughts? I sure as hell do nothing of the sort. The prospect of allowing myself to reconcile with the multitude of ideas running through my head is terrifying.

My father can, even likes, to sit with a cigar and just read a newspaper or listen to jazz. He does nothing else. He would do this for an hour, even two. More if he doesn’t have work to do. My reaction to this: WTF?

We are an A.D.D. generation, and I fear that it is only going to get worse. In 10 years a 20-year-old will be playing videogames while writing a paper (telekinetically sending sentences to a computer), all the while snorting even more ubiquitous and potent versions of Adderall to keep him focused.

That really isn’t so different from today. We are constantly on our cell phones, whether it be in class, at lunch or at the dinner table. Study drugs float around like candy. If you want other drugs, those can be found too, let’s not be naïve.

If I were to put myself in my dad’s chair, the picture would be very different. I’d have my phone out, my computer would be on my lap with at least three windows open and I’d hardly be thinking or even listening to the music, which most likely would not be jazz. Jazz is too slow; it’s not engaging enough.

I’ve managed to have two conversations going simultaneously, one via text, and the other in person. What was the result of this? I have no idea what I said to either person, but somehow I managed to say something.

Have you ever tried leaving your phone somewhere for a few hours? It’s an excruciatingly liberating feeling. It feels as if someone took your connection to the outside world and hacked at it with an ice pick, yet at the same time, you feel more involved with your immediate surroundings. I found myself fraught with concern over the fact that I may not be responding to someone immediately, and at the same time found that very same distance to be empowering.

I wonder if it is getting to the point where we’re going to burn ourselves out. When there is simply a sensory overload. Will comedy cease to tickle our funny bones? Will we fail to empathize with others? Will there never be enough culinary variety? Is everyone going to be inhaling study drugs just to keep up with the pace of our culture? I wonder if a world of absolute connectivity and access will result in a connection to nothing?

But hey, before we get to that place, don’t forget to pop an Adderall, eat a burrito with a side of spring rolls, text your friends while eating your multicultural lunch with two others, all while doing the StudLife crossword puzzle. Why? Because we can.

Example two: It’s a furiously hectic 12:19 p.m. You and a friend, because God forbid you attempt this exercise with more than one other person, wait in an exhaustingly slow line for food. Crowds swarm around you, and you are growing impatient. As you and your friend exit the food line, you weave through herds of people to get some water. After being nearly knocked over three times, you search futilely for 20 minutes for a place to rest your weary bones and enjoy your meal. Sucks for you, though: There are no seats.

Which one sounds more familiar?

Lately, it seems as if Wash. U.’s student body has increased to the size of the University of Wisconsin’s. Either that, or wizards magically shrunk the campus over winter break. Either way, there is a problem. There are no seats at almost any location, the lines are long and slow, and venues frequently run out of food. And let me tell you this, if I don’t get that warm, giant chocolate chip cookie from the DUC café, I get cranky.

These complaints may seem selfish in the wake of tragedy, and I agree wholeheartedly. There are greater problems in the world, and student groups have addressed them in a variety of ways across the campus. In fact, the student response to the crisis in Haiti has been dramatic and inspiring—even today, a booth will be in the DUC throughout the afternoon to raise funds for the Haiti earthquake—so I see no reason to press the issue. Furthermore, if I were writing for The New York Times, I might be more prone to expand my journalistic horizons. But I’m not. I write for this school’s newspaper, and this happens to be a major problem across campus. With the extravagant tuition they pay, the students of this campus should not have to trudge from building to building looking for a place to eat lunch. I don’t know how the University would approach the seating problem, but the DUC, Holmes Lounge, Whispers, and even Hilltop Bakery are nearly unanimously seat-less during peak lunch hours.

When I see students eating outside in 25-degree weather, I know there’s a problem. We were not meant to be penguins. When I see friends huddled together on the half bench thing with the artsy-metallic-looking-swirl-design, it’s clear that the school has not done an adequate job creating table space in the DUC. It’s not only that there are no seats in the main dining room. The café is always full, as is the secret back room past the Career Center. How do people even know that room exists? I’m not whining about something irrelevant. While it may not be a global cause, a top-notch university, such as the one we attend, should have facilities large enough to support its student body. Call me crazy, but it’s a royal pain to have to cover three buildings as if you were in a Navy SEALs operation just to find a chair. Not only is it inconvenient, it’s embarrassing.

Questions that may arise during your trek for salvation: “Why has that kid walked around Whispers three times in the past 10 minutes?” Or, “Why is that kid carrying his food all over campus…Weirdo.” So if the practical aspect of more seating isn’t enough to spur this campus into widespread revolt, let my made up impressions of people judging your lame, seat-less self seal the deal. Good luck finding a table today! Wait…it’s Friday, and no one is on campus; never mind.

I don’t mean told in the sense that there is some oppressive drill sergeant harping on your every move. That role is reserved for course syllabi and parents. What I am talking about are the cultural phenomena of the “quick and easy” this or the “10 point plan” that. Every magazine, blog or newspaper has a resident expert that seemingly knows how to live life better than you do. It’s not surprising that they do either, because it seems like we eat it up. The latest tips and tricks are as seemingly irresistible as 3 a.m. chicken fingers after a long night of (not) drinking.

I am quite guilty of supporting the “tell-me-what-to-do” movement in journalism. I am an avid reader of the lifestyle magazine GQ, and somehow Men’s Health has found my e-mail address and decided that my sexual performance is terrible and needs boosting, and that my pectoral muscles are lacking in definition and ripped-ness. I don’t mind that GQ tells me how to dress or where to eat. I even catch myself reading the “Six easy steps to rippling abs,” or “10 easy ways to satisfy her NOW.” Do I listen…? It’s hard to ignore the pretty packaging, and sure-handedness of the advice, so I’ll almost always read it. Do I ever implement the readymade magazine lifestyle tips into my actual existence? Rarely.

The staff of Men’s Health probably knows some solid exercise methods to keep you in shape. Do the writers look like the people they put on the cover? I doubt it. The dudes at GQ probably do have cooler clothes than I do also. And they probably have better taste in everything that’s culturally relevant. How I yearn to be a journalist hipster. Really, what it all boils down to is that when Cosmo tells girls “what guys really want, but are too afraid to tell you,” coupled with an airbrushed picture of some incredibly sexy movie star on the cover, they are capitalizing on insecurity. And the fact that the guys probably didn’t tell you: same thing goes for GQ. They are putting out a product that we are digesting, because they say they know what’s best and we, the consumers, don’t trust our own opinion. While we all could use a little advice now and then, we don’t need pre-packaged lifestyles dictated to us through various forms of media. In reality, who’s better at telling you how to live than yourself? Who’s better at knowing what you really want? I’ll tell you who. Me. Not those amazingly cool hipsters at GQ.

P.S. Do 50 crunches a day and lose five pounds in two weeks. Also, supplement your workout with a rare fungus from the Amazon. I can’t tell you the name though, cause it’s a secret, you know, for those in the “know.”

(Godiva Reisenbichler | Student Life)

As finals approach and my brain stews in its own juices, I have been ruminating on the fusion between Texts From Last Night and Facebook. The merger is purely unofficial, and Facebook has made no attempt to incorporate TFLN into its massive social stratosphere. I have wasted many mindless hours perusing the Web sites’ pages in an attempt to escape the clutches of my academically-burdened reality.

Texts From Last Night, as it stands alone, is a hilarious amalgam of ridiculous comments from those who choose to publicly display their debauchery. The key here, however, is that Texts From Last Night is faceless, except for an area code. Many of these “texts” are probably made up as well.

The trend that I have noticed is that Facebookers have started posting said funny texts on each other’s walls in an attempt, I would assume, to associate with whatever was posted. I question this behavior not out of some moral opposition to outlandish behavior, or to the publication of it anonymously. I simply wonder why one would choose to associate their name and face to behaviors that are anonymous on another Web site because they are shockingly inappropriate.

If you want to go out and behave raucously, I’d be quite hypocritical if I told you not to. I just don’t think an entire online community needs to know exactly what kind of tomfoolery you choose to identify with. The friends who accompany you on your nightly adventures are enough of an audience. Keep on procrastinating by living vicariously trough text messages though—it keeps your mind fresh. One must be mentally stimulated for finals. Speaking of which, good luck on those bad boys. I’m going to need it.

Charlie is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. He can be reached via e-mail at chlow@wustl.edu.

(Kelsey Eng | Student Life)

Oh, yeah! It’s that time of the year. Christmas ads start to taunt you through the television screen. Hanukkah ads don’t exist. Nor do those for anything else really. The generic “Happy Holidays” reigns supreme. Turkeys start gobbling knowing that their short and fairly meaningless lives are going to end in the culmination of their entire purpose: to feed an entire nation on one day. Poor, poor turkeys.

Luckily for you, the rest of this article will not be adding to your holiday cheer. This is a more ominous look at the wondrous holiday that is our Thanksgiving. Rather, this is an introspective look at the madness that ensues prior to our departure for Thanksgiving break. On top of the irony of celebrating a holiday in which we spread horrible diseases to the native population and stole their food, which they taught us to grow, there is still more to learn about the dark side of the onset of the holiday season.

Problem number one: The most important and all-consuming spectacle of Olin Library. Over the normal course of the semester, Olin is a quiet refuge for timely and efficient study. But hell hath no fury like the last two weeks of a semester at Wash. U., and the library becomes a black hole of soul-sucking depression. The blank faces of student zombies wandering the B-stacks in search of scholarly sustenance are enough evidence to bring in the Ghostbusters. Someone revive us!

If I could be so bold as to suggest that a student would prefer not to spend every waking moment either in class, slaving over a paper or studying for an exam, would I be venturing too far? Caffeine-infused binges and furious attempts to finish projects leave us rattled and crying for the days of pre-school. How I yearn for block-building, naptime and a refreshing glass of apple juice.

It has gotten to the point, at least for me, where the library has become the antithesis of productivity. It is incredibly difficult for me to enter the library and set myself to work, solely because the environment is near poisonous. There has been no change of scenery at all, and I suspect this applies to a few others as well. The reason I say this is because at this time of the year, there are so many people crammed into cubicles that the Internet crashes. Screw library bandwidth. What about our mental bandwidth?

Granted, I am bloviating and spewing hyperbole all over the place like Mount Vesuvius, but I needed to fill a column with something in the midst of my scholastic marathon that will hopefully culminate prior to the break. Why not rant and rave like a lunatic if you don’t know what else to write about? Perhaps it is a waste of your time and of ink and paper. Perhaps it irritates you. Such are the petty inconsistencies in life. One day you’re curled up in the fetal position after writing 30 pages of papers; the next you’re feasting on cranberry sauce and turkey legs. Are those parallel? Not really. One could argue that they are both feasts—one literal, one scholarly—but who cares? Inevitably you will partake in both. Have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Charlie is a sophomore in Arts & Sciences. He can be reached via e-mail at chlow@wustl.edu.