By contributing writer Michael Sarko
I live and go to school here in Columbus, Ohio, or as the local pissant collective is wont to call it, “The C-Bus.” We here in the land where, apparently, Venetian explorer Christopher Columbus parked his flagship, are possessed of many points of pride. We have a massive field of giant concrete corn phalli, we have the above-mentioned replica of the Santa Maria (which would make a rocking pirate ship if Municipal Planning would ever get off its cow-town ass), and even…wait, what am I forgetting? Oh, yes, now I remember. We have riots of temporarily insane scarlet-and-gray fanatics at least once a year. Of course, they only do this because the only professional sports team we have are the douche-capade Blue Jackets. I know, I’m thinking it, too. I never thought something with the initials B and J could possibly suck without being fun.
But for all the riots and atrocious corporate art, C-Bus and its many universities seem to be lacking a definitive style. See, I’ve lived in this town since 1987, yet the years of construction and gentrification (or as I like to call it, “The Parade of WASP’s”) has failed to push this town in any definitive direction. All the other cities have character, so why can’t we? New York gets to be big, smelly, and dangerous; Los Angeles gets to be expensive and comically ludicrous; for God’s sake, Chicago is known expressly for its goddamn WIND.
Even the weather in Columbus, Ohio doesn't do anything exciting because we are positioned squarely in the empty zone between two jet streams.
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Now, like any self-respecting college student, I believed the void inside of me resulting from this town’s lack of place could be filled with a generous kiddie-pool of alcohol caressing my liver like a long-lost lover. My journey for purpose began one night several weeks ago when a friend and I decided to attend a little soiree of the plastic red cup variety.
It’s a well-documented fact that all great adventures are beset with Tribulation, and this night was no exception. We walked in the cold rain of an Ohio October, dodging Columbus’s notoriously uncourteous drivers, losing our way in the nondescript side streets as our hopes for inebriation whittled away like blocks of wood in the hands of so many farmers sitting on their patios… um… whittling?
Lo and behold, we did arrive at the party, drank our fair share of cheap-as-free Beast, and stood out on the roof evacuating our bladders onto an unsuspecting pickup truck below.
But this isn't just a tale of mindless self-abasement and careless hedonism, no. You, too, are familiar with these scenes. I mean, just read Simonne’s column. It is likely they reflect your experiences to the T. What does it all mean? How does it solve the riddle handed down to all gray passengers on the C-Bus to purgatory?
I’ll tell you what it means.
If this over-inflated college town is full of the exact same personalities and events and narratives as any other American institute of higher learning, then that means Columbus is not only the center of Ohio, it must be the Center of the Universe as well. That’s right, a cultural nexus with no weight or substance of its own, forced to incorporate the various sundry cogs and machinations of its more complete counterparts around the country.
I look at my campus and see ALL campi. I look at the student body and see the psychological construct facsimiles of ALL student populations. Here in this staggeringly unoriginal demi-metropolis, I am forced to question my very own existence as a contributing writer to a college humor website. Could it be possible that I am some crude piecemeal engagement of all things Sullivan, Cullen, McKaig, Rebello, Blumenfeld, Beech, Faerber and *shudder*… Canadian? Am I, are we, are all college students just the lump sum of each other’s libidos, alcoholism and lust for XBox? The overwhelming probability of such disturbing concepts is enough to drive a young collegiate to insomnia… which most of us already have.
Fuck Sartre… just… just fuck him.