George Washington University - Cherry Tree Yearbook (Washington, DC)

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by Kent Ashworth “The George Washington University.” Might sound prestigious to flag waving prospective immigrants from Lapland. Is it as good a school as Georgetown? Ask five thousand disgruntled former poli sci majors what they sincerely think. Five Thousand unemployables insist “damn right.” Special M.A. tuition payment plan: eight years indentured service to the Arlington Red Top Cab Co. Sell out high, and Building “C” that award winning monument to gravel, may someday be dedicated with your name tin-plated on its life-giving air ducts. Consider the inspired educational priorities: 1. Pepco Building (Pepco Hall?) 2. Parking Garage (A New Slant) 3. Library (The old one becomes a colony for tropical dwarfs) 4. Fieldhouse (With alumni bathing in the forecourt) 5. Medical School (The Two Tone Stone) 6. $92 per semester hour (Think of the starving children in India...) There are a lot of questions to be asked. With two glaring bare light bulbs like flames below it, a GW professor’s tongue once launched 653 virginal Bic pens. They (the pens) had never been strapped to Leo’s meat sheer or wired to the clanking elevator doors in Thurston Hall. They were untried Bics, proven not by leggy ice skaters, but by twangy Hugh Linus LeBlanc, their shiny clear plastic chewed filmy in the dark secrecy of Lisner Aud. Which really were the gut courses? Did eighty-four hundred dollars just buy license to attend free-beer mixers twice a year, in between Ezra Pound and Kierkegaard? How about all those uniformed radicals and helmeted cops — were they put on by the brainstorming American Civ Department? They tell us, someday, somplace, the idea only WE learned will be needed, and we’ll be able to nonchalantly spew the recorded spiel. It will come verbatim from a paper painstakingly hammered out during our third semester, and we will be vaguely grateful. Saturday night!! Flickering hashpipes in every window create a postcard scene. As in Star Trek, people beam themselves down to the Rathskeller, pausing to freak out someone else’s grandmother for fun on the way. The human-wigged GW computer ends another week of programming and eliminating inhibitions; often, the wrong people change. People dancing seem to clutch at invisible handholds and grasp them fearfully, nervously glancing at their audience. Waitresses bounce through scary clusters of mirrored people and learn their most valuable college lesson. ..how to assuage a wiseass drunk. [Continued on p. 11] Dowd