Kathy Drury. I’ve gotta thank you first, as it’s the final column of the year, and there wouldn’t be a column period if you hadn’t pestered the next person on this list to shift her morning-addled ass into gear and introduce me through the proper channels. This actually makes two years in a row that you’ve been shouted-out in a culminatory column, which amounts to about two times more than any other professor’s been represented at all (as best I can remember), so be sure to bear in mind that you’re particularly special, to both me and…
Jess Minnen. Oh, Jess, my graduating friend, my original partner in column crime here at the new, slightly bastardized within-Student-Life Cadenza. I still recall the first party of yours to which I was offered attendance, where I met the section’s editor-in-chief and drank myself so stupid that it’s become the stuff of amongst-friends lore. “Beer before liquor” never seemed so accurate, and yet it was the slightly peaked beginning of a rather beautiful friendship. Don’t wander too far, girl; it just wouldn’t be the same if, on our designated tavern nights, I couldn’t share a drink with both you and…
Travis Petersen. Said section editor-in-chief, now formerly so, having recently shifted over to the editorial point of Cadenza’s musical battering ram. It’s been a hell of a year, in our pages and otherwise, and of late it’s only been more hellified, what with those attacks on “the man,” and those pretty girls making graves. Of all the cats I’ve encountered in the course of writing for this rag, it’s with you that I’ve shared the most wry glances and hilarious observations, a tendency I hope continues for the foreseeable future and beyond. You’ve been a master editor, but even better a new friend. As the li’l man said, “rep yo’ city,” and rep you did; the Dub-G couldn’t have a finer ambassador than you…well, you and…
Robyn d’Avignon. Secretary/Vice President/Official Co-Organizer of Choir/Co-Op/The World Entire/A Reasonable Region of my Heart. Don’t take that the wrong way-although I could do a whole lot worse for people to be taken the wrong way about-just take it that you inspire me, wryly, whimsically, wonderfully, to be better. I believe in goodbyes, but you don’t, so lucky me. I’m going to spend a considerable amount of time next year missing you…you and…
Kaitlin Eckenroth. I can’t even remember what damn country in which you’re going to be whiling away your autumn, but-needless to say-it’s not likely to be one that will appreciate you, in all your busy-fied, architecture-obsessed, chicly-bespectacled flavor, as much as I do. You’re one of countless guinea pigs to whom I’ve at times subjected this column in primitive form, but you’re only one of two readers to ever take the time afterwards to write back. I don’t even know who the other one is (some trick complaining about Borders), but you’re my friend and you made me think, like you always do. I’m never gonna dig “The Lord of the Rings,” but I dig you, and that’s close enough. Which leaves me without a transition to…
Jeff Smith, Bill Paul, Rich Chapman, Pier Marton and the entirety of the film department, with which I’ve only further developed my involvement this year, and to whom (proper syntax and word order be damned) I’m indebted for a career of invaluable filmic instruction. You’re each insanely worthwhile in your own indelible ways, and if/when I ever manage to score that big-money distribution deal, you can bet on the sizable donation I’ll be shipping back here (along with a signed movie poster to replace that God-awful “Snow Falling On Cedars” ridiculousness in the office…the office manned, of course, by…
Lori Turner, from whom I’ll request a second to close my parentheses). My most avid supporter, my most supportive reader, the most accessible necessity a department could hope to have. A major full of students owes their organization to you, and I owe similarly a healthy portion of my column self-confidence. There’ll be plenty of visits in the future, no doubt, with equipment to be out-checked and papers to be in-turned, but-let’s be honest-it’s not like I ever need a reason. Which reminds me…
Matt Simonton. For no reason other than a willingness to put up with my sensitive writerly persnicketiness, which makes it sound like I don’t know you’re a groove-sweet editor to have at the helm, which you most certainly are. With the help of lovely Melissa Langdon, whom I’m only now starting to know (Mel- Word.), you’re going to exercise a complete mastery of the editorial art. That, and the parties are still going to be sweet. And, speaking of big gatherings of people who don’t necessarily know each other…
All the non-Wash. U. people to whom I’m indebted, for reading this column preliminarily or otherwise, but whom I’m leaving out in name because they don’t actually go here. No offense. You know I’ve got love, but I don’t have much space left so I’ve gotta get to…
Anita Rohira, with whom I haven’t spent nearly enough time. Jessi Stein, who needs to get back immediately from “the mystic East.” Beth Leonhardt, because ditto. That girl Sara from both Ohio and Ontario, for proving once and for all that geographical soulmates do exist. Michelle Repice, for having a last name worth repeating. Sam Caplan, Fernando Castro, Erin Chesnut and Cory Coleman, the absolute best neighbors any group of hardly-misfits could ever in any imaginable realm hope for, and I’m including Michelle Branch in any number of possibilities. Of course, James and Steve, because I don’t even need to say so. Table 17, in all its masterful trivia glory. Kristin Balzer, for giving me someone to write around. Anybody I’m forgetting, because I’m a big dolt for doing so. And you, the one reading this very sentence, for making it this far, or as far as you managed to get. Thanks for reading. See you next year.