The Final Swig

Finish off whatever's leftover,because Tamir's already tanked.

Beresheit Bara Eloheem, et Hashamayim ve et Haaretz:

The Genesis
My first article was in a Tater Awards issue. I worked for hours on thething, and the issue was never distributed. I think it's kind of fittingthat my last piece will appear in an issue that will come out betweenspring finals and summer midterms to a very limited readership. Ashes toashes, dust to dust.

My One Regret: Where's My Baby?
Looking back at my career at the University of Oregon, I only have oneregret: I should have authorized the organization that administers thePSAT's to release my scores to interested universities. Because maybe if Ihad, I would have been recruited by the University of Oregon, instead ofjust randomly picking this place.

I didn't even know the damn place recruited until I was introduced to aself-proclaimed recruiter during halftime of a men's basketball gameearlier this year. She was 5'7", blond, with a great body, standingoutside of MacArthur Court with a 250 lbs. Goliath of a human being whodidn't speak much, but appeared to be enjoying his company. When asked whatshe was doing, she said, "recruiting."

Friend: "Aren't you going to introduce us to your recruit?"
Recruiter: "This is _______."
Friend: "What position do you play?"
Recruit: "Outside Linebacker."
Friend: "How do you like it here?"
Recruit: (Looking the 5'7" blond girl up and down, approvingly:)"It's pretty nice."

Most major athletic programs on campus have a section of their budgetallocated toward recruiting. Part of the recruiting budget is dedicatedtowards entertaining potential signees during weekend trips. Usually arecruit will visit with a member of the team-sleeping in their homes, goingwith them to classes, sporting events, parties, etc. Naturally, the teammember will be given a small chunk of change with which to wine and dinethe recruit. In many instances, a recruit is taken out for cheap meals sothat the hosting athlete can pocket the money.

Football players and men's basketball players seem to get a different angleon this recruiting process altogether. While they may sleep with potentialother female undergraduates, their official recruiters areUniversity-recognized 5'7" blond girls. These recruiters take the athletesout and show them the best that the University and its surrounding areashave to offer-and being that the school is underfunded, infested with "HateCrimes", and easy to get into, the best things are probably 5'7" blondgirls.

The idea that the University regularly whores out its females as recruitingbait for potential students is revolting. It sickens me to even entertainthe notion that many of our finest women have been reduced to strumpets,courtesans, harlots, and demimondaines under the guises of modest per diemsand legal recruiting budgets.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is: "Where's my 5'7" blond girl?"

I had a very intimate relationship with this school for nearly four years;I gave things to this place, I took things from this place, I carried ondialogues with this establishment, I got angry with it, I made up withit-in many respects, my relationship to this University was comparable to amarriage of sorts, and to think that I could have derived sexual pleasurefrom this relationship but was not afforded the opportunity only makes meill.

Some People: Good
I usually surround myself with around 8 good people. Sometimes more,sometimes less. Right now, it's more. Are you there?

1_2_3_4_5_6_7_8_9_10_11_12_13_

Some People: Bad
A lot of ugly kids out there. Stop being ugly. Also, stop being sosensitive. In conclusion, stop being so ugly and sensitive.

Who I Am: Being Held Back by the Man
I never got the sweet title. While Ed flaunted his title ofEditor-in-Chief, and Jon cavorted through the streets known simply as thePublisher, I was stuck with Managing Editor.

As in night manager, restaurant manager, middle manager, manager atMcDonald's. Or as in, "just managing to get by." Maybe even, "He's not allthat qualified or talented, but he'll manage."

What about baseball managers? Well, what about them? Tommy Lasorda is afat-ass who had a heart attack. Joe Torre has cancer.

Even the people that gave me the title knew that it sucked. Farrah Bostic,Andrew Oberriter, and Ed Madrid-three of the four directors that cursed mewith the ridiculous title-all held the title at one time. But Farrah andAndrew were promoted within a year of receiving the affliction. Ed, on theother hand, held the position for nearly two years-and now he's quittingthe magazine a year early, with all the bitterness of rancid horseradish.Further proof that my previous torchbearers knew the position sucked, lookwhere they placed me on the masthead. All year long, I have been directlyunder the Editor-in-Chief, and directly above the Publisher. The Publisherand Editor-in-Chief are the respective heads of the areas they monitor-abuck always stops with one of those two titles. There is no logic inplacing the Managing Editor above either one of those positions-the bucknever stops with me.

The position placement was the board's attempt at appeasement uponrealizing that they had relegated me to graduating as a fat,disease-ridden, hamburger-monitoring, middle-of-the-road lackey. I'm thefirst Managing Editor in nearly 8 years to leave the Commentator as aManaging Editor-do you realize how pathetic that is? Farrah, Andrew, Ed-allpromoted to Editor-in-Chief. The Managing Editors before them were alsopromoted to Editor-in-Chief.

In the end, though, I won. After all, I only used the Commentator as aspringboard to carry me to the ASUO Executive, and it worked. While my namesat on the magazine's masthead-albeit under a tainted title-my soul wasdedicated to achieving greatness within the hallowed halls of studentgovernment.

Have you ever seen Mitra-the newly elected ASUO Vice President-and me inthe same room together? No. Unscramble 'Mitra'. That's right, it spellsRimat-er... Tamir. I am Mitra Ano%#lDÁؽÝ-maviÝn. I am next year's ASUOExec.

Last Call: The Final Swig
At some point between "last call" and "final pick up," a man is left alonewith a warm glass of something that once was a well drink-the last swig,the farewell bonanza. A collection of backwash, mixer, and melted ice. Itis the essence of saying goodbye; it is the epitome of the last few momentsbefore departing.

In those last few moments, before the drinks are collected and people areasked to exit the bar, an equalizing hysteria spreads through the area-willthis buzz last? do I have anything at home? am I even tipsy?-and peoplestart grabbing at anything in the hopes of getting their alcoholic fix andmaintaining loopiness far into the night. Drunkards push themselves towardsvomiting and sober people appear pathetically drunk.

Alas, there is no alcohol in those drinks, only saliva and water. The finalswigs are hoaxes: the anger bringers, the cynicism builders, and thesuppliers of hate and anguish. For what it's worth, this is my final swigwith the Commentator family; this is my official resignation.

But I'm not bitter, because I'm not going out taking a pull off of thatfinal swig. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm already drunk. Right next to myCommentator glass of melted ice sits hundreds of other glasses. I've had agreat time at this school, and I've had a great time at this magazine, andnow, hearing "last call," I can smile, because I'm loaded. Go ahead folks,scrounge for my cups, drink my nut, soak yourself in aged ice and choicemucous. I'm done and I'm happy and I'm sorry for anyone out there who tookanything within these walls of academia seriously. You wasted it all. Goahead, drink my final swigs until they start collecting the cups. Go ahead.

Tamir Kriegel owns the names of both the Commentator and the Voice. He wasalso the Managing Editor of this damn thing.