Tulane University - Jambalaya Yearbook (New Orleans, LA)

Page 29 text:

v , tales by jim dalfares illustrations by rusty Josephs In recent years. Tulane has been most adept at at- tracting certain students who seenned to have formed definite campus cliques. It is not our desire here to in- form the world of the characters Tulane seems to be currently plagued with: on the other hand, they cannot simply be ignored. We imagine that the preemment success Tulane has had in this regard is a simple case of build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door. And you might catch a few mice while you ' re at it. For despite rumors about rats deserting a sinking ship. it is known that several species of rats are currently still attending the University. No immediate cause for alarm. but we think we should perhaps pause now and reflect on who plagued the universities of Europe in 1349 with their mysterious black death . (Sounds like the title of a Flash Gordon thriller, doesn ' t it?) It is now. of course, de rigueur to attack such a clas- sification of campus types. After all. isn ' t everyone now doing his own thing, and doesn ' t doing your own thing preclude doing it like everyone else? We think not. though we admit we might well be forced to defend our essay with all the fierceness and tenancity of a cor- nered rat. The world-renowned scholar Arthur Koestler. in his book The Ghost in the Machine, attacks what he calls the philosophy of ratomorphism ' . In previous times. man committed the error of anthropomorphism — or at- tributing to animals and objects human qualities. With the present emphasis of psychology and behavioralism however. Koestler feels that the opposite fallacy is coming to the foreground — ratomorphism. or at- tributing to humans only animal characteristics. Thus. Koestler deplores the fact that Pavlov counted the drops salivating from a dog ' s mouth, and from this, dis- tilled a philosophy of mankind. Certainly we would deny a desire to support a belief in such a Kafkaesque metamorphosis. In a true sense however, all Tulane students are caged rats in an ex- periment, and it is not by any means unpredictable that so many will turn out to be neurotic, to have behavior pattern fixations. They have perhaps been constantly conditioned to act so. having no more real freedom than a citizen in 1984. And Winston Smith in that novel perhaps realized, in his absolute horror of being placed in a cage full of rats, that he was no more free than they. So. on we persevere in our attempt to depict several easily recognized campus species, knowing all the while how easily we might be proved guilty of not being completely serious in our endeavor. At the same time, we hope only that our voices are not as completely quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass or rats ' feet over broken glass in our dry cellar ' . P. GE 25

Page 28 text:

the rat of the tale of tales PAGE 24

Page 30 text:

the dorm-ouse When awake, usually between 6 p.m. and 6 a.m., the Dorm-ouse feels safe within his womb, hiding in his room, encased within his tomb. College is to while away four or five or six years learning how to be a slob. Class is that rare ritual of diversionary activity — finding another place to rack out occasionally. Registration is to schedule your classes between one and three in the afternoon, and to see that you never have to walk up a flight of stairs or cross Freret Street. Luckily, Eddie ' s is just on this side of your self-set territorial limits. In any case, you don ' t go outside at all if the temperature is below 60° or if it looks like rain. You just remain inside your room — your pride and joy, your warm mother, your lover, your wife. Your new lady friend lives in. She has ample knobs and she ' s colored. Her name is Zenith. When you ' re bored with Zenith, you go and console your friend General Electric, who really likes to open up. The General is full of the good things in life — like food. Or 500 hits. And last, but not least, is your bed, with whom you share your most intimate moments. She says you talk in your sleep but only use four-letter words. If you can manage to stay in bed all day, you figure you ' ve just about broken even with life. Life is also an all-night bridge game. You do emerge from your cocoon to fly high every Friday and Sunday night. No matter how bad, boring or bloody it might be — come rain, or sleet, or dark of night — you cannot miss seeing a free flick. As everyone knows, the show must go on. At least until you light up. You ' ve been in the same room for five years. Advisors come and advisors go, but you live on. Tacked to your door is a sign stating, I am Who Am. People walk by silently and reverently. . They respect you and occasionally come to you for advice. Especially at registration time. You know the secret love life of every professor on campus. You can get a freshman ' s car registered, a library fine erased. You know when the next bust will be. The Greenie cops call you by your first name, the ladies at Bruff give you an extra helping, and Herbie knows you well enough to grimance as he walks past you. You are a lurker. If you are up during the day, there is nothing better to do than to go over to the U.C. and lurk for five or six hours. Your booth is the second from the jukebox, unless you retire to one of the tables to play bridge. You know Fast Freddie and Manny down in the pool hall; they reserve table five for you. Basically though, you are a child of the night. You love dark corridors, gloomy skies, hard blues. Your favorite book is Dracula. Other people on your corridor don ' t know your real name. They refer to you by silently shaking their heads. You do have a nickname the whole dorm knows though, pointing out your peculiar idiosyncracies. It might not be Birdman or White Rabbit or The Alien , but it is recognizable enough. 10:30 p.m.: Pretzels and beer and It Takes A Thief. PAGE 26 L