Friday, February 15, 2002
For the sake of those out there who have not had the esteemed priveledge of viewing the original "Random Musings", I bring it to you now, in blog form. I originally sent this thing out in September. Heh.
Random Musings of a Self-Proclaimed Nutcase
A Highly Biased and Selective Look at the College Life of Teri Krenek
In This Issue:
Procrastination Gets You Everywhere
Why the last minute is the best minute…
What I Learned On My Summer Vacation
Observances about UT
Parking Illegally: A Guide to Not Getting Towed
Everything you ever wanted to know about cheating the system… at least, where a pull-tab and cashier parking garage is concerned…
Gone To Texas
A horrified look at a Texas tradition
Procrastination Gets You Everywhere
If my middle name was not “Michelle”, it would likely be “Procrastination”. Of course, I give the guise of being a practical, responsible young woman, but those who really know me also know the truth about my philosophy: if it’s not last-minute, it’s not worth doing. There’s something to be said about that last surge of adrenaline when the
procrastinator realizes how little time is left to complete the long delayed project; the sweet burst of energy and inspiration that can only come from slacking off. It’s a beautiful thing.
However, I’ve noticed that procrastination does have its drawbacks. Putting off too many tasks at one time, forgetting due dates, accidentally falling asleep during the last leg of that 2 a.m. research paper… all are potential problems which often arise for the procrastinator. In my case, delaying my fall semester class registration was a Very Bad Move. I could have arranged my orientation weekend sometime over the summer I suppose… but then, what was the rush? Surely registering in the fall would be just as simple as registering in the summer.
The more fool I. I notice that most procrastinators have an Achilles’ heel of sorts in the failure to take all aspects of a strategically delayed action into account. Such as the fact that summer registration would have given me a better chance of receiving the classes I desired on my schedule. As it was, registering the week before the beginning of classes basically guaranteed me a schedule of electives. If I was lucky. Further, before I could register my schedule, I was required by my college to visit an advisor. Of course, this wasted time only decreased my chance of getting a decent class. And, sure enough, after the rigmarole of useless advising, paying for housing and arranging computer accounts, among other formalities and general troubleshooting, I began to register via the computer lab, and found course after course full to capacity. Art 302? Full. Biology? Full. Chemistry? Full. Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to be placed into one of my drawing classes, and an Art History course, as well as other courses that would count toward my major and enable me a steady fifteen-hour schedule.
I went on about my business, calculating my tuition and marveling at the astounding amount of “required fees” which my father would be paying. (I have no intention of ever using the woodshop, yet it comes as part of the plan. Of course.) As I continued down the list of fees and tuition, I noticed something quite interesting lurking near the bottom of the page, in the form of a small line which read:
Less Anticipated Financial Aid --- -$1,000.00
At first I thought it was a grievous and ultimately mocking mistake; the scholarships, which I had applied for, had left me in the proverbial dust, without a dime to speak for my outstanding academic record. Of course, I never really expected much in the way of free money; each of my scholarship applications included a family income within the “and more” category, which essentially ensured my rejection, regardless of my essays or academics, or the fact that my dad is cheap. Naturally, I assumed the “financial aid” was surely a processing error of some sort. Surely I would have been notified by mail if I had received a monetary award. Surely this was just another problem to be rectified. Joy, I thought, more troubleshooting.
A few mouse clicks later, however, I came to the shocking and wonderful proof that, according to the official records of the Financial Aid Division, I indeed was the recipient of a $2000.00 James Edmonds award for academics through the UT freshman scholarship application. One thousand dollars per semester is quite a nice surprise, especially after a rather frustrating registration.
Now what, you inquire, does this good fortune have to do with my procrastination? Well, as it happened, I wrote my James Edmonds award-winning essays at about 1 a.m. the night before my scholarship application was due. Ah, the sweet smell of victory. Just another incident in support of the fact that yes, procrastination does get you everywhere. Or at least, it can get you somewhere…
What I Learned On My Summer Vacation
I have only just begun to explore the campus of the University of Texas and the Austin area, but already I’ve learned some important facts. So, what is there to know about UT at Austin? Just a few lessons I’ve picked up…
Lesson One: Everyone Loves The Horns
I’ve discovered that the people in Austin, though initially quite friendly, are also extraordinarily horn-happy. No, I’m not referring to the rather disturbing community obsession with Longhorn paraphernalia; I speak of the above-average tendency of Austin drivers to honk incessantly. The people in this area seem to find any excuse to lay on the horn. If I drive even slightly below the speed limit, people honk. If I don’t accelerate immediately as the light turns green, people honk. If I turn the wrong way down a one-way street, people honk. Now, really. Give a girl a break. I suppose Austinians are more high-strung than I was led to believe.
Lesson Two: Football Stinks
I am a not-so-proud resident of the Jester Dormitories. Jester East, to be precise. It took me about a day or so to realize that East was assuredly the “lesser of the Jesters”. But it took me about four days to discover one of the exact reasons why.
Jester West is not only larger, nicer, and adjacent to the food court, but it also lacks, for the most part, one of Jester East’s main drawbacks: a concentration of football players. This may sound odd, coming from an eighteen-year-old girl, but I have absolutely no desire to be surrounded byagaggle of well-built, athletic guys. Why? Because, for the majority, what they obtain in physical prowess, they lack in brains. It’s often absolutely true what people say about jocks. Have they nothing better to do but party and make lewd jokes? Give me a geek any day. But, the most revolting aspect of living in the “football dorm” is the smell that permeates the entire downstairs lobby -- the smell of sweaty, piggy football players. It is quite a sad state that I must hold my breath and rush to the elevator, lest I accidentally breathe in, and consequently require myself to force down the gag reflex. In a single word: Ewww.
Lesson Three: Some Things Never Change
There are certain things which endure, no matter what the level of schooling. For example, there will always be boring teachers, students will always slack off on their studies, and educational systems will always require pointless fees. But, one of the most stable factors throughout one’s academic career is the pitiful quality of cafeteria food.
No two words in the English language can encourage a disgusted sneer like the phrase “cafeteria food”. Indeed, even on a large college campus, the dining halls provide food of a surprisingly putrid quality. I’d think it would be quite a task to make ranch dressing taste nasty, yet somehow, cafeteria food providers find a way. It’s just as bad as high school, although I am uncertain that the lunch ladies will grouse if a student refers to the popcorn chicken as “chicken balls”...
Lesson Four: Art Appreciation
The UT campus is adorned with many aesthetic additives: lawns, gardens, trees, and of course, statues. Lots and lots of statues. In fact, I can’t recall having ever seen so many statues and effigies all clustered in one area. It’s actually kind of unnerving. How much student funds went to build the heinously ugly representation in front of the Red McCombs School of Business? Or the funny, anatomically incorrect Running Men in front of the Undergraduate Library? But the fun doesn’t end there. There is also an array of historical figures. George Washington, Martin Luther King, Andrew Jackson, Jefferson Davis, all interspersed among the captured likenesses of UT founders: Stephen Hogg (who, judging by the portly stature, appears to have been quite befitting to his surname), William J. Battle, and many, many more. There are also a high number of animal statues. Miscellaneous horses. And a Longhorn statue, of course; couldn’t be without one of those. Or two of those, really. But, I believe my favorite statue has to be the one of E.P Schoch, musical director, which is oriented near the Art Building. Schoch is immortalized in fringed vest and cowboy hat, bearing his trumpet and looking, in my mind, like a tall and clean-shaven Yosemite Sam, his arm raised in an unnatural looking “Hook ‘Em Horns” sign. Yee-haw. Now that’s what I call art.
Lesson Five: Quit When You’re Ahead
I could go on, of course, but then, what would be left for the next issue?
Parking Illegally: A Guide to Not Getting Towed
Upon my arrival at UT Austin, one of the first discoveries I made was a most unfortunate fact: student parking is nearly impossible to obtain. Sure, you can purchase the overrated “C” class parking permit, that, according to seasoned residents, gives you the “license to hunt” for a free space, which places you on the other side of the freeway. Assuming, of course, you are fortunate (or early) enough to gain such a prized position. If not… well, you are out of luck. And the system does not care.
However, there are a few parking garages around the campus that do offer a limited amount of student spaces to be purchased (i.e. stood in line for and fought over). The drawback to this opportunity is the fact that by the time I had the sense to think about parking, most of these coveted spots were already in the hands of the few, the proud: the commuter students. Except for one garage.
I learned on the Friday of registration that on the following Tuesday, a select number of parking spots would be available in Parking Garage Five, should I choose to wait in line for them. Which, naturally, I would undoubtedly do. Yet, I was still posed with the immediate problem of where to place my car during the meantime.
For registration and move-in, I had been parking in a garage that was normally already booked, but vacated especially for the move-in weekend activities. The garage was a sort in which the parker pulls an entrance ticket, and pays a cashier for the parking time just prior to exiting.
It was my father, accompanying me on my college entrance, who first voiced the grand scheme.
“You can just park here,” he said casually, “until you can get a space at the other garage.”
“What?” I replied. “But, I’m not supposed to stay overnight here; I don’t have a permit…”
However, his plan was already formed. My father would make an excellent criminal, if he wasn’t so Catholic.
He divulged his idea to me, and I agreed. Perhaps it would work, I thought… A Guide To Not Getting Towed, Four Easy Steps.
And so I followed his advice…
Step One: Choose an Inconspicuous Locale. I drove my little silver-grey Saturn through the dim garage on Saturday, all the way up to the roof, where I artfully parked behind a raised slab of cement. From the stairway, it almost was like my car was not there, if you overlooked the glint of silvery paint. I sighed in futile effort. There was no way I was going to pull this off. Another of my father’s harebrained schemes. Thanks, Dad.
Step Two: Check Your Car Often. I was, understandably, terribly paranoid about the status of my illegally parked car, and I made long walks from the dormitory to the parking garage everyday, just to be sure that my car was indeed still located on its roof space, sans tickets, or car boot. Each time, I was reassured. Maybe, just maybe, this crazy conception would work out…
Step Three: Be Sure to Obtain a Legal Space in Time. When Tuesday finally rolled around, I arrived at Parking Garage Five, greeted by a line of other students just as desperate for a spot as I was. My shoulders slumped in defeat – I would never get a space, at this rate – and I claimed my place in line. A futile gesture, I supposed. I stood in line for several minutes, until I noticed the a parking garage employee strolling down the line of hopefuls, counting out people. He continued counting as he got nearer to my place. Perhaps I had some semblance of a chance? I prayed that I did.
He asked the couple in front of me, “One permit?”
They nodded assent; hooray, I was next! And then,
“All right. There’re no more permits.”
My jaw dropped in horror. “What?!” I demanded. “But I have to have my car to go home!”
The man shrugged. “Are you a resident on campus?”
“Yes!” I said, getting increasingly agitated.
“Oh, well then you get a space,” he replied casually, handing me the contract. I held it in my hands as though it might disappear, and, considerably happier, I continued to wait in line for my turn at the cashier’s desk.
Step Four: Escape Cleanly. Now came the hard part; I had my legal permit now, but I was still faced with the dilemma of escaping from my illegal space without serious fines, or a ticket, or tipping off the cashier of my little act of deviousness. I was not happy with the prospect of deception, but really, how much choice did I have? Steeling my nerve, I walked to the cashier’s station.
“Um, I lost my ticket…” I began lamely.
“Sure,” he replied, and whipped out a different ticket from his dispenser. “That’ll be seven dollars.”
I blinked. Had I really just gotten out of it so easily? I shelled out the seven dollars, and scampered up to my car which, I discovered, was in the same condition I had left it. I started my engine with a sigh of relief, and left to procure my perfectly legal parking spot.
What do you know, I thought with a smirk, a Dad scheme can work, after all…
Gone To Texas
It was a relatively uneventful Tuesday in the dorms. As usual, a majority of my time had been spent either making sure that I indeed had everything prepared for the start of classes the next day, or across the street in the library catching up on the computer. So, when the Resident Assistant, Eileen, came by my dorm room to invite us all to go together to the Gone To Texas event, I was naturally intrigued.
I had seen the signs all throughout the campus, advertising Gone To Texas, a Freshman-welcome event, but I was still unsure exactly what it was.
“What is this thing anyway?” I asked Eileen. She is a petite graduating senior of oriental descent, and a very nice person, if a bit ditzy.
She gave me a bright smile. “Oh, Gone To Texas is this thing they do every year, you know, to, like, welcome the Freshmen to UT,” she said. I already gathered that much, I thought, and she continued after seeing my raised eyebrows: And?
“And there’s, you know, music, and everyone gets together, and they give out free stuff, and stuff.”
Well, music and free stuff certainly did not sound like such a bad ordeal, to me.
“Sure, okay, I’ll come,” I conceded. Eileen gave me another smile and went on further down the hall to gather more recruits. I meanwhile traipsed out of my very tiny dorm room, to congregate with the others on our floor who would be attending this thing.
So, I stood, blandly, making idle chitchat until the entire group was assembled, and we made our way downstairs and across the campus to the main building, under the clock tower, where this Gone To Texas business was taking place.
There were a number of chairs set up beneath the twilight shadows of the orange-illumined clock tower, sections marked by colored flags representing each separate college within the UT system. Our considerable group from Jester East nosed into the College of Education’s assigned seats, procuring the area for ourselves with the promise that we would scream loudly when “Education” was mentioned. There were two makeshift stages set up on either side of the gallery of fold-chairs, and one stage boasted a group playing some odd African beat music. I settled into my chair, yawning, and awaited the real music, and the free stuff that had been so advertised.
It was about ten minutes before I realized that I had made a huge mistake. I think it was the inflatable “Bevo” that tipped me off at first -- the plastic effigy of the school mascot is never a good sign -- but it was the arrival of the mass of upper class students, all bearing giant orange “Hook ‘em” novelty foam fingers and yelling “Texas, fight!” that cinched my suspicions.
I was voluntarily attending a gigantic pep rally.
Now, I had spent most of my high school career avoiding pep rallies. I hate pep rallies with an extreme passion, and will normally go out of my way to evade such abominable wastes of my good time. It was with a sickening lurch that I made the terrifying connection. I looked over to where Eileen was sitting, shouting furiously and making the “Hook ‘Em Horns” sign with both hands.
You lied to me, I thought. Where’s the free stuff? How about just freedom from this thing?
But, alas, any break for escape was more or less futile; Longhorn college students surrounded me, creating an impenetrable barrier of that infernal school spirit. I was trapped. Unhappily resigned, I sat down, resolved to at least not enjoy this blasted, deceiving pep rally in disguise.
The agonizing festivities continued for about an hour; administration and staff came to the podiums to give their exuberant welcome speeches, representatives of various student organizations, fraternities, and sororities stepped up to deliver their stuttering and (to me) very unconvincing thoughts on why all Freshmen should “be involved” with the school spiritedness that was quickly reaching a climactic energy all around me. What’s next, I thought, cheerleaders? Dance team?
And, sure enough, resplendent in their orange midriffs and tight black spandex shorts, the cheerleaders – oh, excuse me, the University Poms – appeared, leading the boisterous mob in a few enthusiastic, fake-smiled cheer routines. I groaned inwardly, thinking that if I never heard the words “Texas, fight!” again, it would be too soon.
The Poms were followed by representatives of a few individual dance clubs, including the illustrious drill team. I sat in a glazed stupor, trying helplessly to tune it all out.
“Will it ever end?” I remarked sarcastically to my seat-neighbor. “I mean, how many dance routines do we have to sit through?”
The girl next to me gave me an appraising glare, taking in my decidedly un-Texas Depeche Mode shirt and my sarcastic attempt at humor. It was then that I noticed her own shirt, proudly emblazoned with an orange Longhorn. She narrowed her eyes, and positioned her fingers in an unmistakable gesture, directed toward me in an unsuccessful attempt to encourage proper respect for the Longhorn Pride.
“Go Horns!!” she bellowed, raising the “Hook ‘Em” sign which she had just previously displayed to me. I noticed the football team, looking big and dumb, piling out onto the stages, and I sat back once more, slumping in my chair and yawning loudly for the benefit of all those standing around me.
A few minutes later, the crazed force of college enthusiasm had reached a critical point, and with direction from the man on the podium (the Vice President of the school, I believe), the clock tower was suddenly blasted with a bright Longhorn silhouette against the blinding orange lights, framed all about by electric green waves of lasers. My heart leapt; was this really the end? The blessed, blessed end?
The throngs of students flanking me on all sides effectively jumped from their seats, each waving their “Hook ‘Em” hand signs, and I heard the slow introductory trill of a rather familiar song begin to flow in over the loudspeakers. Of course. How could I forget? A UT pep rally was scarcely complete without the ritualistic group singing of “The Eyes of Texas”. I sighed, and remained seated, hoping no one would really notice me until it was over.
But they did notice. As the only person seated among the crowds standing, I stuck out like a sore thumb. In fact, I had even contemplated sticking out my thumb in the infamous Texas A & M “Gig ‘em” sign, just to see what would happen. I decided against this course of action, however; I seemed to be in enough trouble already. Those nearest to me slowly began to eye me with a morbid curiosity, as if I were some strange specimen of insect. A girl two seats away from me turned, giving me a suspicious glance, and asked, “Hey, how come you’re not singing?”
A few guys in front of me whirled around upon hearing her comment. They brandished their hand signs with an almost deadly force. “Yeah, don’t you have any school spirit?” they asked menacingly.
I considered answering truthfully: no. However, a number of people were now encircling me, and I stared up at a sea of young, determined faces. I could see that they would stop at nothing -- nothing -- to enforce their standards of truth, justice, and the Longhorn ways.
I didn’t want to do it. I wasn’t going to do it. But, I was unsure how much choice I had. A particularly bulky guy standing next to my little chair flexed his fingers, as though itching to force my own hands into the revered sign of our school. Permanently, even. I shuddered.
Slowly, agonizingly, I stood, and forced a grim smile onto my face. They still looked to me expectantly, waiting. Obediently, I extended my index and pinky fingers into the desired symbol.
“Hook ‘em,” I muttered weakly, and began to hum along to the final bars of “The Eyes of Texas”. An audible sigh of satisfaction went up around me. I had escaped for today.
Yes, I escaped for today, I thought later as I hightailed back to the relative safety of my small dorm. But what about the next time? I could not allow myself to be caught in such a vulnerable situation again. Clearly, I would have to go through extra measures to ensure my happy absence from organized UT rally-like functions.
But at least I’ll know better next time.
You know, I'm still proud of the first issue. "Gone To Texas" has to be one of the funniest things I've ever written, although I would like to state for the record that the students at the pep rally didn't really threaten me with hand signs. And I didn't really hum the "Eyes of Texas", either. Come on, I have some dignity.
| 10:49 AM |
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Who am I? I'm a twenty-two-
