Misty: The End of History

I am (finally) graduating, which means: a) from now on I will be acting responsibly in bars in a different section of town; b) I am getting nostalgic for conversations I had yesterday; c) this is the last appearance of my column and horrible column photo—so it is time to clean up this mess.

I will begin with some common misconceptions. For example, it is generally supposed—among those who remember this at all—that once upon a time all first-years were required to wear beanies. False—exceptions could be made, per a 1917 Spectator marriage announcement for alumnus Kingdon Gould (grandson of the robber baron Jay Gould): “Mr. Gould entered Columbia in 1904 and brought the wrath of the sophomore class down upon him because he refused to wear a freshman cap. The sophs started to force him to do so, and in the mix-up that followed, Gould drew a revolver and by firing over their heads put the sophomores to flight. Mr. Gould studied mining engineering.”

Nor is it true that Alma Mater has always gazed out with the same benevolent countenance. Initially a luminous oxidized green, in 1962 she was bronzed, to generally horrible reviews. University President Grayson Kirk contemplated repainting her even though, as someone inevitably told Spec, she looked “like a real piece of brass.”

Obviously some of the most interesting things about Columbia’s past exist only in memory, such as my favorite student quasi-organization, the meta-protesters of the Pacifist Anarchist Bisexual Psychedelic Conspiracy. While the PABPC could—and perhaps should—be resurrected, it seems unlikely that circumstance will create another John Vardill. A King’s College alum who later joined the faculty, as a student, Vardill was the visionary behind the libelous cartoon that I discussed in an earlier column. As a professor, he was a spy for the British during the Revolutionary War and managed to dupe old college pals John Jay and Gouverneur Morris into giving him intelligence. After the war he sued the crown for the salary he lost when King’s College shut down because of the war. He did not win.

But Spec is more or less the same, although the ads for radium hair cream, Colt 45, or Railway Express, which solved the “laundry problem”—just send it back to your parents’ house on a train—have been replaced by the many fine products and services offered by our current advertisers. In any event, I have read a basically infinite number of articles attacking various incarnations of the Core Curriculum or predicting a CC merger with Barnard and/or GS.

My favorite headline—just edging out “Do CU Guards Drink Too Much?” (on the job, the story explains) and “Porno Flicks: One Way to Pay Tuition,” both 1975—is “Students Stab Each Other After Philosophical Dispute” (1962). Unfortunately, the article does not provide the most important information—stabber No. 1 “took violent issue with his opinion on a philosophical matter whose content ... [stabber No. 2] could not remember.”

I find this omission genuinely troubling, because writing this column required me to rely heavily on past issues of Spec—perhaps to an extent that is, at best, foolhardy. And I have no excuse, because until last semester I was a Spec copy editor, which is like being a surgeon in the Civil War—usually all you can do is hack off the most gangrenous part and hope for the best. Still, it was worth it, because I got to meet the people who, somewhat inexplicably, have also chosen to devote their free time to this vortex/newspaper, all of whom deserve more praise than my insufficient number of contractually guaranteed shout-outs can offer.

I will use initials, because all of these people deserve to be Googleable on their own merits rather than in association with this sordidness: EW, for luring me in and tricking me into accepting a moderate degree of responsibility. DD, who, after appearing in Bwog personals, is easily the bravest person I know. MG, BG, SG, and FD, who made my columns better. EPG, PB, TT, and JF—space constraints—ineffable excellence. ALS, who proved that it’s possible to know grammar, destroy the MCAT, and still be interesting. LWK—all of New York City misses you.

My only regret is not having more conversations with ICB. Despite glaring shortcomings in musical appreciation and his assertion that I entered my “late, mannered period” at some point in November, he is full of such insights as “It’s not technically a party until someone gets CAVA’ed.”

Looking back, I think I’ve done some things well—e.g., using the word “bitchcraft.” But I might be proudest of the fact that I was able to defy all my expectations and refrain from pointlessly quoting either The Simpsons (how do I know so much about history? I pieced it together, mostly from sugar packets.) or random song lyrics, which was like hypnotizing chickens. Conversely, my various shortcomings, both in the column or life more generally, are all either my thesis’ fault or a post-post-postmodern device—sorry, haters.

Thank you all for reading.

Robert Ast is a student in the school of General Studies studying English and comparative literature. Columbia Babylon runs alternate Thursdays. Opinion@columbiaspectator.com