“I hate strip clubs. It’s like watching porn in a room full of guys.”
“But it’s worse, isn’t it? I mean, doesn’t the porn watch you back?”
***
And so begins my endeavor to explain what I’ve been trying to say for the past year and a half in this space inexplicably known by the title Josh of the Jungle. By recounting a conversation I had with my friend Matt. About strip clubs. Maybe this wasn’t the start I was looking for.
After all, this is it, right? My last hurrah? I’m leaving Cadenza like Madonna left Sean Penn. Like Buffy the Vampire Slayer left the WB. Like Milosevic left Kosovo. Like the Lorax left the trees. No more weekly chance to publicly vent my feelings and frustrations. No more easy mirage to fool my professors into thinking I’m taking notes when I’m really just brainstorming ways to make my life seem less boring. No more seamless opportunities to embarrass my friend Emily. And I start my last column with a conversation about strip clubs?
But wait a second. Doesn’t that make sense? I mean, I won’t kid myself here. It’s not like I’ve been deconstructing the fate of the universe in this space every week. My most poignant column was about innertube water polo, for godsakes. The only letter to the editor I managed to inspire came from an angry SAC member who objected to my making fun of her worthless organization. (Again, only as a way to make fun of Emily-why, oh why, am I so misunderstood?). Most weeks I do just overhear a conversation and then make up lies about it until I’ve reached my word limit.
So, the question then becomes whether it’s worth trying to write a sort of meta-column (and after four years of this liberal arts education I should really hate anything that begins with “meta”) to explain myself and what I’ve been aiming to do or if I should just write about my normal run-of-the-mill strip-club-centric type of conversations. Decisions, decisions.
A few moments thought, however, makes two things abundantly clear. One, that conversation with Matt isn’t getting any funnier. Two, the only other things people talk about on campus these days-Thurtene and that clever statue-have been discussed to death. Looks like it’s on to the world of the meta-column.
Unfortunately, this poses problems of its own. Do I really want to figure out what I’ve been trying to accomplish for the past three semesters by exposing my thoughts/writing to my peers/enemies? Won’t that kind of enlightenment send me into a perilous void the likes of which no man hath ever escaped?
I know why I started writing, after all. I wanted to make people laugh and encourage them to vote against Ralph Nader. But along the way it’s gotten blurry. The power, I must admit, has corrupted me some. It seems like I’m recognizing friends every five or ten lines, trumpeting some cause or another every third column, copying jokes from The Simpsons every week. Amidst all these separate agendas, I feel like my column has lost its heart. I mean, where’s the nobility in column writing if you can’t brainwash people into doing what you want?
And then, of course, it hits me. As much as I do like sharing this space with you all every week, it really is something I do more for myself. Somewhere along the way it turned into a kind of journal of my thoughts and activities. No wonder it’s so hard for me to figure out this week’s topic. I’ve got one column (and one month) left.
And I really don’t have a clue how I’m going to say goodbye.
***
But then again, Matt did tell me about an odd dream where he entered a Kevin Sorbo look-alike contest. That’s a column right there. Maybe goodbyes don’t have to be so hard after all.