A Final Toast to New York

"If you don't have the time of your life these next four years, I'll kill you."

Thirty-five years ago, my grandfather told my father that, and three-and-a-half years ago, my father told it to me. And if you've met me even once over the past four years, you know that there's absolutely no chance of my pops doing 25 to life anytime soon.

As my fellow members of the class of 2007 can attest, the last six weeks or so have been a time of reflection. We're remembering the good, the bad, and the ugly. The parties, the all-nighters spent in Butler, the all-nighters spent at O'Connell 's, the, um, classes ... look, all I'll say is, as great of an academic institution as this place is, few people come to Columbia for the classes. Sure, there have been more than a few enlightening experiences (Profs. Delbanco, Seidel, and McKenna come to mind), but I know that, at the end of the day, I came here for one reason and one reason only: New York City.

Without this overwhelming, intimidating, and incredible city, and this neighborhood in particular, I can guarantee I would have gone batshit insane at some point over the last four years. But I didn't, and, in fact, I had about as good a time as anyone here. Every time I've looked up at the graduation countdown clock at O'Connell's over the last month, I get a little wistful. Sure, I'll stay in touch with most of my friends, stay in New York City, and be able to come back for Baker Blast, Homecoming, and Brownout, but it'll never be the same.

However, there's nothing I can do about that now, except enjoy these last few weeks as much as humanly possible. Look, all I'm saying is that I want to look back and say that I did the best I could while I was stuck in this place. Had as much fun as I could while I was stuck in this place. Played as hard as I could while I was stuck in this place ... dogged as many girls as I could while I was stuck in this place.

Seriously, though, about three-and-a-half years ago I staggered out of the first two weeks of school and realized that I needed to do something with myself (other than slam Natty Lights, play Madden, and yell at people from the steps outside of Carman). For some reason­-probably Bill Simmons-I decided to e-mail Nick Summers, then the sports editor of this illustrious paper, and ask him what I had to do to get involved. He had me send in a writing sample and, as he put it, "when you used the phrase schadenfraude in a sports column, I knew we were gonna be friends."

That was the beginning of a beautiful, if exhausting, long-term relationship with Spectator-a relationship which, I suppose, ends today. Through my years here I learned more than I could have ever imagined about journalism, writing, editing, the newspaper business in general, and, more than anything, long nights. I'd be remiss if I didn't profusely thank Nick, Theo Orsher, and Anand Krishnamurthy for guiding me through the last four years at Spec; John Mascari, Steve Moncada, and Nick Klagge for working incredibly hard on the 130th corporate board, and the entire Spec sports and business staffs for putting up with all of my antics.

But it wasn't all hard work, line editing, and drinking in the office. No, as I said before, I had as much fun as I could while I was stuck in this place. For that, I'd like to thank the couple hundred or so brave souls who venture out to Morningside bars four (and sometimes five... or six... or, you know, seven) nights a week, despite an overachieving culture that seems intent on driving all of us either insane or into the arms of Butler Library. Without you people, I'd be adrift in a sea of Thursday-night paper writers, MCAT studiers, disgustingly pretentious "protesters," and pathetic hipsters. I guess in the end, we're all overachievers-some of us just choose alternative venues in which to succeed. Thank you, for making my life not only livable, but a ton of fun.

On that note, thanks to the best goddamn group of friends I could ever ask for. From that first agreement to split a bottle in the Carman hallway to the inevitable final Jack rocks at O'Connell's at about 7 a.m. the morning of May 17th, thanks to the people who were always there for me when I needed a friend or, more often, drinking buddy: MC, Rabe, the G, CDoc, Bars, Abes, DP, Chaz, Schulte, Manny, Naga, Tubby, Glavs, JRod, Dazzle, all the fine gentlemen of the Sigma Chi Fraternity, and, of course, Mike, Dennis, and Ash. I salute you all.

Finally, the biggest thanks of all go out to my family. The Connecticut Olsons always provided me with a place to get away from the hustle and bustle, and I'm eternally grateful. However, this whole show wouldn't have happened without Dave and Ruth, the best parents on earth. Thank you for cringing through my drinking references, ignoring my grades, (mostly) refusing to send me more money, and being so supportive, helpful, and loving. You guys really are the best.

I'm staying in New York after graduation, which makes this time of year feel less like a "goodbye" and more like a "see you around." It's been an incredible run here at Columbia, at the Spectator, and I'm not quite as ready to get out of here as I should be. In fact, if they offered me the opportunity to pull a Van Wilder and stick around until my early 30s, I'd jump at the chance. At which point my dad probably would kill me, but that's beside the point. After all, Dad, you were the one who told me to have the time of my life. And I did.