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In This Issue

• Stephan Vincenzo: 2 Legendary 2 Die
• Columbia College Graduation Replaced by Job Fair
• Confessions of a Poppy Seed Eater
• Senior Wisdom: The Adventurous One
• Senior Wisdom: The Nostalgic One
• Senior Wisdom: The Old One
• Warning: Social Ruin May Occur
• "39 Steps" to Successful Comedy
• A Letter to the T.A. Currently Fellating Me
• Bored at Butler
• God Ashes on Europe
• YEEAAAAHH
• got meth?
• Letter From the Feditors
• They Watch
• The Staff of the Federalist

I woke up this morning at eight o'clock, sweating in the unseasonable heat. Such had been every morning for the last week. "Can't fix it, sir," the man had said about the air conditioning in my Broadway bungalow. "Best keep your windows open for now." Truly, April is the cruelest month (cf. T.S. Eliot).

As I reached for a bottle of water, I remembered what needed to be done today. A man named Gold had given me some math problems that he wanted solved. What use he had for them was anyone's guess, but one does not trifle with men like Gold. He has been in this land for many years, and the natives respect him as they would a god (cf. Joseph Conrad).

Nearly four years have passed since I came to Columbia from up the river. When I learned of the expedition to study the native people of this strange world, how could I pass up the chance to apply? The opportunity to explore new lands, to meet new people-it drew me like the sirens' song (cf. Homer). I have regrets, but surely my voyage on the "Columbia College 2010" was not one of them.

I got dressed. Was it time yet for breakfast? Living here seems to have altered my sense of time. Many of the natives lead an unusual, practically nocturnal, lifestyle-they would not be waking for some time now. I left my quarters and stepped onto the street, dodging a broken bottle on the sidewalk. Yesterday, I recalled, had been an annual bacchanal that marks forty days to the end of the working year. The natives do not handle their liquor well; they traipse about like fools and fall into trouble with the governing authorities. Truly, they have earned their reward (cf. New Testament). My thoughts were interrupted by a flock of pigeons that narrowly missed my head-the pigeons had become so much more brazen over the past several years. Surely, they would not hesitate to steal the bread right out of my mouth.

"Birds winging up above." Who just said that? I looked around; there was no one to be seen except a lone deliveryman. Had I uttered it out loud? I must be in fine poetic form today. I quickly took my telephone out of my pocket in order that I could pretend I had some purpose in speaking. The deliveryman nodded, I nodded back. I noticed a tattoo on the man's left forearm: a common profanity, spelled out in block letters. He gave a knowing grin, and I hurried off to find breakfast.

"Birds are winging up above/ Neither sparrow nor the dove/ Bids farewell without a tear/ Ush'ring in the freshest year." I repeated these lines in the solitude of my room. The rhyme was sound, but what was the meaning? Absolute rubbish, that's what. What had the man outside my window said last night? "Hallelujah, I love you!" (cf. homeless guy). Such platitudes did not interest me. The profound interests me, or at least I hope it does.

I had not yet found any interest in the math problems that Gold had requested I solve. Nor would I soon, for here was my neighbor asking me to join him in some video-games. Video-games are a peculiar vice: might not one better spend his time contemplating the follies of war than to reenact the bloody spectacle, writ large, in the comfort and safety of one's room? Yet for all this lofty talk, it is hard to resist the lure of simulated gunfire. "Careful about picking up enemy weapons, Roach" (cf. Call of Duty). Indeed, indeed.

I awoke with a start. What had happened in the last several hours? I racked my brain. I recalled sitting down in my neighbor's room for our simulations. But now I was in my own room, was I not? Evidently I had eaten lunch, for I felt neither hunger nor thirst. Ah yes, it was all coming back now. After the video-games, I had bought and eaten two slices of pizza. Later, I passed some time at the pianoforte. The weight of the food in my stomach and the lull of the music conspired to make me powerfully tired, and I slept until now. Looking over at my desk, I saw the scrawled note: "Math homework." I laughed at the peculiar phrasing. Sometimes my work did seem to resemble the pedestrian "homework" that the natives occupied themselves with. I conjured up within myself a sense of urgency, and began to work.

Within an hour, I had finished. Sweating with pride, I went to rinse my face in the bathroom. As I walked back towards my room, I saw something most peculiar. One of the natives was walking down the hallway towards me. I recognized his face; I had interviewed him just a few days ago. What was he doing in this building? He spoke in that guttural dialect that they use: "Oy now, did ya finish the math ‘omework yet?" I was startled. Did he just address me? And why was he asking about math homework?

I rushed back into my room, shaken from the encounter. Surely, he must have been talking to himself, or to someone very far in the distance who I did not see. All the same, perhaps I had imagined the whole thing. Yet he had looked me right in the eye! I needed to bring my homework-no, not homework!-to Gold; surely he was waiting for me. "Stop daydreaming," I told myself, "and go."

I took one last look out my window: night had fallen, and the streets seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness (cf. Joseph Conrad).

N.B.: "cf." is short for "confer." P.S.: "N.B." is short for "nota bene," though I can imagine it also stands for "now you've proven bunk."