Gas Prices Are Your Fault!

# Pharmacists With Agendas: The Pill Under Attack

Bathroom Graffiti # A 2.5 Million Dollar Funeral # Losing Life’s Luxuries Abroad

“My dogma ate

my homework.”

Collegian
The

Volume 17 Number 1 October 2005

Manifest
4
Features
Kiplin Hall 2005: The
Simple Life Goes to the UK
Megan Walburn and Jon Hartman

7
Drop That, Add This
Wes Schantz
The Collegian is published monthly by and for
the students at Washington College, 300 Washing-
ton Avenue, Chestertown, Maryland 21620
Local correspondence can be sent through cam-
pus mail. E-mail collegian_editor@washcoll.edu
or visit http://collegian.washcoll.edu.
The Collegian is designed on Macintosh com-
puters using Adobe InDesign and is printed at Ches-
apeake Publishing House in Elkton, Maryland.
The Collegian does not discriminate on any
basis. We reserve the right to edit submitted mate-
rial as we deem necessary. After this is all over, I
think you and I should get an apartment together.
...on the cover

8
Birth Control Battle: September 2005
Losing Options Volume 17, Number 1
Justine Hendricks Photo by Kaitlin Wedge

10
Still in Search of the
Gonzo Dream
Peter Knox
Departments
Rant: A Gas of a Tale 3
14 Lauren Campbell
Labored Graffiti: Round Robin: Round 1 6
Bathrooms of Reilly Joret
Philosophy
Will Grofic Music Review: The Realities of Rock 9
Lindsay Bergman
15 Poetry 12
Katrina and the David Finniss, Afton Woodward
Great Flood
Lyndsey Gibson Video Game Review: Guild Wars 16
Ryan Stiffler

17 Movie Review: Suspiria

Zachary Z. E. Bennett
18
Waiting for the Auditor
A Play by Johanna Schaeffer Endgame 20
Renée Farrah

The
Collegian
Will Grofic Additional Contributors Issue Photo Credits:
Gizmo Yeldon Zachary Z. E. Bennett Kaitlin Wedge, Emmy Hyde, Peter
Features Editors Lauren Campbell Knox, Alicia Henry, Megan Wal-
Renée Farrah burn, www.ppae.ab.ca, www.night-
Peter Knox Johanna Schaeffer Lyndsey Gibson mareongleimstreet.com, fervor.net,
Editor-in-chief Copy Editor Jon Hartman photos1.blogger.com, www.o-gee-
Megan Walburn Justine Hendricks paint.com, www.sciencemuseum.
Kate Amann Assistant Copy Editor David Finniss org.uk, www.cyh.com, i.cnn.net,
Layout Editor Wes Schantz www.clubic.com, www.dream-
Lindsay Bergman Molly E. Weeks Ryan Stiffler station.cc, my.net-link.net, www.
Assistant Layout Editor Business Manager Afton Woodward columbiacostumes.com, www.no-
Kaitlin Wedge lansmpc.com, gettyone.com, rock-
Alicia Henry Reilly Joret Emmy Hyde star.msn.com, amazon.com #
Photography Editor Distribution Manager
Rant
A Gas of a Tale
G
as prices. Need I say more? We all know
the insanity that has become our weekly
$50 fill-ups, the terror-stricken faces seen
at every local gas station, and our bitterness when
we part with half our monthly salary just to drive
ourselves to work. We break the bank trying to fill
our broken-down cars with gas so that we can break
our backs to earn money – only to spend the majority
of it wasting our paychecks. It’s a vicious circle.
Can it be that we were paying only $1.87 per gallon
in January? How have natural gas prices nearly
doubled in less than a year?
It’s ridiculous! It’s a strategic
ploy from the oil monopolies
to force buyers into spending
outrageous amounts of money
for something that should be
discounted by nearly twenty
percent.
In 1979, gas prices
averaged at $0.78 cents per
gallon, and since then prices
have increased at a rapid 13.3
percent each year! In 1987,
the year most freshmen were
born, people were paying
anywhere from $0.98 - $1.09
per gallon. How is it that, in
eighteen years (from 1987
until the beginning of 2005),
prices had only risen by $1,
but in the past nine months,
prices have increased by the
same amount? The answer – we allow it.
Although prices have dropped to under $3
in the past couple of weeks, it’s only temporary.
Traders at the New York Mercantile Exchange
amplified crude oil and gasoline prices last Monday,
fearing that Tropical Storm Rita would turn into a
hurricane and decrease oil production in the Gulf
of Mexico in the weeks to come.
Supply and demand shocks are what cause
large movements in oil prices, and the more oil
we demand, the more money we will spend for it.
Oil companies know that we need gas, and they’re
Vol. 17, Issue 1
Lauren Campbell
willing to charge us as much as we are willing to
pay. We seem to be willing to pay nearly anything
for our precious fuel. After all, we have to drive
everywhere: we need our cars! We couldn’t
possibly exist without a full tank of gas each week
– or could we?
It’s true that Senator Dayton, a Minnesota
Democrat, introduced legislation that makes it
a felony to raise oil or gasoline prices by more
than 15 percent during natural disasters or other
emergencies, but can we really endure gas prices
that increase by another 15 percent? Should oil
companies really have the luxury of increasing
prices while their more-than-loyal customers are
suffering unmentionable hardships? Thousands of
corporations rushed to the aid of Hurricane Katrina
victims, donating whatever products, services, and
money they could provide. And what did Exxon
and BP do? They increased their prices by fifteen
percent!
In looking for someone to point the finger
at, a myriad of people have laid blame on President
Bush, as though he would have total control over oil
The Collegian
companies. Maybe it’s not even about the control
that President Bush has over fuel companies;
maybe it’s about the subconscious control that oil
companies have over consumers, and the control
that consumers could (and should) have over the
companies themselves.
People, even I at times, want to blame oil
companies. The truth is that although the gasoline
monopolies are less than sympathetic, it’s not their
fault either. It’s the consumers; it’s our fault. And
it begins with us realizing this.
Sometimes I think we are brainless in our
methods. We complain about the price of gasoline,
we argue for its immediate reduction, and we
look for someone to blame – but we do nothing
to change the situation. We would rather whine to
someone else until we lull ourselves into mindless
complacency than to actually take a stand and
make a change. And the change begins with us,
as individuals! We can’t simply look to our friends
or neighbors to do it for us, or wait for someone
else to lead the way. We have to do something on
our own, we have to grow minds of our own (for
those of us used to traveling in packs and looking
longingly at someone else for answers, this may
be difficult!), then ACT. It’s funny how three little
letters can be so intimidating.
So, what can we do? If you just can’t live
without your car, try to conserve! This means
rolling down your windows rather
than opting for the air conditioning,
buying gas in smaller amounts or
only when needed, not topping off
your tank, and trying to use your
car less often. Ditch that Hummer
or F250 and choose a more fuel-
efficient car, like the Toyota Prius
or Hyundai Elantra.
Some of us, after doing
some serious soul-searching, have
come to realize that a car is not
always necessary in a small town
like Chestertown. Sometimes we
can just take the initiative to bike
somewhere, even if we do look a
little silly sometimes, or just use
the good old-fashioned method,
walking. Traveling home can prove
to be difficult, however. Making
fewer trips may be a solution for
some of us, or taking a bus may be
a better alternative.
The less gas that we use, the less demand
there will be, bringing prices down more quickly.
The solution to gas price inflation is in our hands.
We can change things more easily than we may
realize. So get off your butt and walk somewhere!
Bike your way into town. Tell Mom you can’t
come home this weekend. Do your part, or stop
complaining! #
3
 three sets of bunk beds in a room the size of my
dorm room freshman year and, in order to keep the
showers flowing, we must hold down a pull-chain

Kiplin Hall 2005:

for the duration of our shower. We were not told that
my then-casual acquaintance Caitlin and I would be
sharing a bedroom and bathroom with the only two
male students on the trip, or that we would have no
access to television or internet for three weeks.

The Simple Life On June 18th, I made my way through

the Philadelphia airport with only a backpack, a
windproof fleece jacket, and the one regulation-
sized suitcase we were allowed to carry. I left behind

Goes to the UK my cell phone, makeup accessories, and my entire

wardrobe except for hiking gear and two pairs of
jeans. As much as I did not look forward to wearing
the same outfit for three weeks, I noticed immediately
Megan Walburn how much easier it is to transit through airports this
way than to haul around extraneous luggage. I quite
literally left behind my excess baggage.

F
ox’s hit reality show The Simple Life rides the Romantic poets and my
along with Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie own journalism, I joined the
as they give up their cushy, socialite world group of eleven students
for a taste of life as working folks. The celebrity It- traveling England’s Lake
girls make their way through America’s small towns District and the Scottish
without their credit cards, stylists, or fancy hotels. Highlands from mid-June
TV viewers across the country tune in to see Nicole to mid-July. There was no
and Paris struggle through life “in the real world,” turning back.
finding satisfaction in their failures. It was not until
While our own society at Washington our spring informational
College is slightly smaller-scale than the Hollywood meeting that I realized the
celebrity scene, we are sheltered in many of the same conditions associated with
ways. With financially supported party lifestyles an overseas hiking trip and
and the occasional academic commitment, we’ve its youth hostel lodging
got it pretty good. As a self-proclaimed WAC social arrangements. For our two
butterfly, I sometimes feel that Facebook, Laguna weeks in England, we would
Beach, and Cosmopolitan magazine rule my life. In be staying in the converted
one of many attempts to keep some perspective, I stable house at Kiplin Hall,
undertook a Simple Life experience of my own this the estate that the state of
past summer. Maryland’s charter members hailed from. We were Arriving in England, our culture shock
Each year, English department head Dr. told that there would be two bathrooms and three extended beyond the expected tourist observations,
Richard Gillin, his spunky wife Barbara, and their bedrooms for the eleven of us, one telephone, and as our destination far exceeded tourist territory.
Irish mountaineer son-in-law Frank Fitzgibbon no clothes dryer. The Scotland hostel would hold We flew from London’s Heathrow airport to
lead a study-abroad summer Manchester, England before
program of about 12 students driving another three hours to
in the mountains of the our Kiplin Hall destination. Our
United Kingdom. The three- rural setting was beautiful but
week English program takes remote. I realized quickly that
students up and down rocks the region’s sheep population
and sheep pastures to trace the significantly outweighs its
landscape’s influence on the human population. There are
English Romantic poets of the no grocery stores, shopping
nineteenth century. centers, or even doctor’s offices
I am an English major within forty-five minutes of
concentrating on magazine either of our lodgings.
journalism, and I was eager to Our daily routine was
undertake this trip because I tailored to the lack of modern
can identify with the succinct, conveniences of northern rural
effective nature of both poetry England. Each morning, we
and journalism, and the return were expected to rise at 7:30am,
to Nature’s simplicity that find something in the kitchen
Romantic writers Wordsworth for breakfast, put together a
and Coleridge advocated. bag lunch, and pile into rental
When I received a Junior cars with enough hiking gear
Fellows Society scholarship to and Romantic poetry to last us
explore the connection between the day. We drove two hours to

4 The Collegian October 2005

whichever mountain was on the agenda that day,
climbing to the summit before sitting down for
lunch and a Romanticism lecture. Arriving back
at the hostel at around 7:00pm, those students on
“kitchen duty” scrambled to make dinner for 16,
while the rest wrote journal entries, reflected on the
day, or showered in preparation for a visit to The
White Heifer, the neighborhood pub frequented by
sheep farmers. Returning home from the pub just
before midnight, we went to sleep knowing that the
following day, we would repeat the entire process.
This lifestyle was drastically different from
the one I had left in suburban Maryland, where I
could drive three minutes from home and find myself
between two gas stations, a convenience store, and a
gourmet coffee stand. But as our time at Kiplin Hall
progressed, I began to notice something funny. I did
not miss my cell phone. A call with my phone card
every few days that said, “Mom and Dad, I am safe”
was sufficient. The absent TV also went unnoticed-
any really important news could be broadcast over
the radio in our rental cars. I got used to my daily
wardrobe of olive green Coolmax t-shirt and zip-off
khaki cargo pants; it was practical and it virtually
eliminated the catty
clothing competitions
that grace our Cater
Walk runway.
To me, the
most important
result of life without
luxury comforts is
the human interaction
that it necessitates.
Instead of spending a
day returning to my
computer dozens of
times to answer petty
messages that friends
have left on Instant
Messenger, I spent
my days climbing
alongside my peers.
Hiking for six hours the friends I have known since freshman year, and
with no entertainment but the landscape around us I have seen them at their best and worst moments.
forced me to engage in conversations that delved The simple act of face-to-face communication that
deeper than the polite “What’d you do Friday night?” we avoid here with text messages, instant messages,
conversations to which we are accustomed. We sang and Facebook messages, helped me to learn more
songs, talked about our families, about myself through the reaction of others.
even had political debates. Back The genius of the Kiplin Hall program lies
at Kiplin Hall, Frank introduced in Dr. Gillin’s method of teaching Romanticism by
us to a card game called Egyptian experience. The lectures and poetry readings are
Ratscrew, and we spent our merely standard procedure to make the trip seem
evenings huddled around the coffee academic. In undertaking the program, we actually
table engaged in fierce battles of undertook a modern reenactment of the discoveries
wit. We stopped relying on our cars that the Romantics made so long ago: It took an
as a mode of independent travel and extended period of time with nature’s landscape,
instead walked anywhere from one away from modern distractions, to teach me about
to seven miles to get around. human nature. The ultimate way to learn about a
I returned to the US in literary movement is to actually experience it, and
July healthier, more confident, and my personal Simple Life episode allowed me to
looking forward to spending the do just that. The Romantic journey that Dr. Gillin
year at WAC with the people that facilitated has made me a little less Paris Hilton, and
changed me. I realized that these a little more William Wordsworth. #
people know me better than some of

“Next Time Get an English Major to

I’m a history major, so let’s
just get that out of the way. I spend my
days neck deep in books about tsarist
Russia, nineteenth century America,
Roman history, or any number of
topics which I’m sure wouldn’t stir
the most minor of interest in most of
you. So you might wonder exactly
what the hell I was doing packing
the collected works of Wordsworth
and a compilation of Scottish folk
tales into a backpack and trundling
off to rural Britain to spend three
weeks reading poetry on hillsides. I
have no idea. And, to be honest, the
phrase “what am I doing here” often
ran through my head as I strained to
Do It”: A Different Look at Kiplin
raise one blistered and sore foot over
the other to climb some mountain
whose name I couldn’t remember
and whose peak kept seeming to get
higher the more I walked.
But then, we’d reach some
grassy spot a couple hundred feet
above the surrounding countryside,
and we’d all sit down and catch
our breath and maybe take a bite
or two out of the turkey sandwich
drunkenly manufactured the night
before. Finally getting a chance to
look around, we’d be confronted
with the most magnificently sublime
vista, something that I couldn’t
possibly describe to you with the
Hall
Jon Hartman
space I have here or even show you
in a photograph because neither of
them can do it justice. And then,
before you could really even take it
all in, we’d have class.
Now I’m a pretty pessimistic
person. I joke that I’m a history major
because I’ve failed at everything else,
particularly English, so naturally I
didn’t really expect to get a whole
lot out of the poetry other than some
pretty words. But sitting on these
mountainsides listening to a reading
of Wordsworth I couldn’t help but
space out and stare into the distance.
I want to say that the words “flowed
through me” but that sounds so
ridiculously cliché that I’m almost
embarrassed to have thought of
writing that. But, somehow, I guess
that’s really the best way of putting
it. Staring off into space I’d just
zone out and be off in my own little
world until a low flying RAF jet or
an overly intrusive sheep jarred me
out of it. Now I’m not gonna take
off into some metaphor-laden tirade
about how I finally understood what
Wordsworth meant, because, quite
frankly, I still don’t think I get it. But
I have to say, it was by far the best
classroom I’ve ever stepped into. #

Vol. 17, Issue 1 The Collegian 5

 I
t had been too long. Stories of the Aeneid and
Round 1
Odysseus kept piling up on my desk, and I
couldn’t seem to stand on my feet anymore.
How did I get here? Piles of unread mail and cryptic
messages written by some forgotten hand. I lost
track of who I was, thinking the whole time that I
Reilly Joret knew. It’s miserable when I am forced to remember;
I am lost in transition between lives.
Round Robin I went to meet them older at the station,
expecting something different. Or maybe I was just
expecting something different from myself, instead of
the same old shit. But as train times filtered out to me
from overhead speakers
on the platform, my
expectations faded into
thoughts of old friends.
I remembered their
faces so quickly—
pulling them out of
memory, from scenes
we acted out in a
very different theater,
on a very different
stage—but I failed
to recall the way we
once had talked. I
imagined getting up to
where they were and finding how easily they talked
amongst themselves, but would find it hard to squeeze
between the lines. It was that fucking transition—a
difference between lives—barring the conversation
and nothing else. What else could? What could stop
high school friends from talking into deep hours of
the night with nothing but instant coffee and packs of
filtered cigarettes to keep them going? I remembered
oh so well...all those conversations, how they veered
into everything—dabbling in the humanities and
ending up in social science. We talked as if we were
born to be in that basement at that time with parents
and siblings sleeping upstairs. We played music at
low volumes, crowded around the speakers; it was
music we all knew, but the rest of the country wasn’t
listening to and we knew that we were cool in at
least an esoteric way. And there was passion in our
voices, slightly cracked from smoke and exhaustion,
but more importantly: there was no tomorrow. There
was only the future we created for ourselves, but
somehow it never happened…I’m not sure any of us
ever expected it to. Nothing stays the way things are.
There is no present; before you realize anything has
happened there is another second of life gone…the
past has come. The present has just been by. Is it
dizzying? Yes, of course. But that is the nature of
life and it is mandatory.
I grew uncomfortable. The whole thing was
uncomfortable—tentative plans always put me on
knives. I shuffled across the parking lot like bricks,
hands in my pockets, thinking about my father for
no particular reason. I shook my head to chase the
thoughts away and concentrated on walking straight.
The winds came then—cold wind, burnt
face—just as the clouds said it would. I pulled my
threadbare suit jacket tightly around my body and
dragged my knit cap lower on my face. My eyes
watered and stung, remember this cold? How cruel
6 The Collegian
to ask me that now. I never knew October could
be so cold, but maybe it was just the isolation and
I didn’t know the difference. I thought about my
depression, nagging and unflinching, holding onto me
as a nun holds onto God. Perhaps we are both being
strangled, the nun and I. If only it would rain—a cold
rain, I thought—then I could look like James Dean
on a New York street, wandering aimlessly past the
bars and intersections, looking like I wish I did, but
probably feeling exactly the same as I do. There is
something there between us that I imagine and create
constantly. God, help me; I am looking for a way
out of this. Born in the
wrong decade. I feel
like I have burned my
life and watched the
flames die; now there
is nothing left except
ash, long past the point
of revival, charred
and gray, unable to
be stoked. Should
I turn around? My
friends haven’t seen
me yet. I stopped and
stared at the platform,
wondering when the
train will come. I thought about how I looked to the
people in the steakhouse next door. Do I look a fool
standing in the cold, bundled up in clothes that are
too thin for this cold snap? What do all the other
people think of me? Do they see James Dean, or me
for who I am? To them I am just a lonely boy with
no friends and perhaps no destination whatsoever.
Some of them must think I am fucking scum, not
good enough to ride along on the bottom of their
shoes. They see the scruffy face and faded, ill-fitting
clothes and cannot see beyond, but who are they to
blame for what is but a thought in my head?
But my moment was over, my feet continued
to walk toward the station. I heard the hiss of trains
and the voice of the automated woman. The wind
rose and closed off the sound from my ears, filling it
up with whispers of something a little more earthly
and a little less American. Still, I hesitated. Is this
what I want? To come back to this town and these
people—these faces—and pretend as though nothing
has happened? Everything has changed. I am older,
so much older. I felt the black rings under my eyes and
rubbed my nose too hard. It’s tough being privileged,
I thought. I have everything I need, but everything
feels like shit. Everything has changed; I felt it
deep within my soul, but it was out of my control. I
remembered when I was a small child, my body used
to ache from growing pains. My knees would hurt
like an old catcher, those old football injuries acting
up...war wounds. Little did I know that the scars
from growing pains would never be revealed on the
outside. My body would not betray the war wounds
that I carry with me. And as I stepped up onto the
platform and waved to those friends who stood
waiting, I felt the war wounds from growing up, all
that scar tissue, creating gaps between the collective
conversation and spinning us into complacency. #
October 2005
C
lass- who doesn’t appreciate it? It’s like
style, but kindlier. Like elegance, but
approachable. And it’s very far from
swagger. It can be learned, but probably can’t be
taught. But there are lots of other things class can
be. It can be something you’d want to go to, for
example. If you have an idea for a class, something
interesting, something that no one has ever thought
of teaching, let’s hear it. Submit it however you
like: as a simple description or as a dialogue like
you might hear on the first day. You could even get
really crazy and make a syllabus. You’re in school
because you want to be- let people know what you
want.
Here’s an example to get you thinking:
“Cognizant Sensation” is one class I think I’d like.
What is it? Well, it’s a 300-level in the English
department, and it’s where you’d go to learn
advanced techniques of description. It holds close
to what a wise man said, “The unexamined life is not
worth living,” although maybe it isn’t exactly what
he had in mind. There’s nothing very flowery about
Cognizant Sensation (in case you couldn’t tell that
from the name). It holds no truck with metaphors
or the like. The class is closer to a research lab than
a bohemian café. But it isn’t a science any more
than English itself is, and it certainly admits much
poetic-type thought.
Cognizant Sensation mostly deals with
things, not things for which there are no words, but
things for which the words aren’t well known. Take
colors, for instance. One of the primary resources
for the class is the Benjamin Moore website, where
there are swabs of paint of every shade known to
home-decoration. Want to know just what colors
compose that sunset? Simply train your eye to pick
out Soft Pumpkin, Sweet Naiveté, Barely Yellow,
and so forth. I’d suppose this course would also be
very helpful for art majors.
Senses of smell and taste would be similarly
evaluated. After a few weeks you’ll be discoursing
on food and wine to beat any restaurant review. And
the next time you smell it, you know, that smell, that
one you really love but just can’t place, well, you’ll
know just what it is. You can impress your friends
when they say around a mouthful of the Salisbury
Vol. 17, Issue 1
Drop That,
Add This.
Wes Schantz
steak: “Mmm! This is really good.
I wonder what all’s in it.”
There are many other
applications, too. Consider:
those names of plants and trees
and birds you read in Victorian
novels, from when people still
knew such things—you learn
them. When you’re walking
around campus you won’t have
to go up to the trees and read
their nametags anymore. And
all the emotions that play on
the edge of your conscious mind,
various cousins of loneliness and
hunger and pleasure—you learn
their proper names and put them
in tidy declensions. It’s really
a very helpful thing to know,
even if you aren’t going into
Psychology, since everyone feels
things beyond “happy” and “sad”;
There is always the outside chance something
even trickier ones like “melancholy” are pretty tame
you ask for will actually be made into a class. While
compared to some of the really convoluted, specific
officially creating a new course- one that will appear
ones you eventually learn.
annually in the list of offerings- requires navigating
The course also deals with descriptions of
several layers of bureaucracy, it is fairly simple to
things for which no words exist. Consider: trying
have a “special topics” course instituted. These run
to describe things there aren’t quite words for- all
for no more than three semesters in a row, which is
the intricacies of love, or thinking, or grief- people
fine if you want to test the response to a new idea,
usually end up sounding stupid or pretentious
and in most cases they award credit like any other
unless they have a rare talent and a sympathetic
course. All that you need is a professor willing and
audience. Cognizant Sensation figures these stupid
with the free time to take it on, and the approval of
or pretentious-sounding people might be going
the department head. #
about their descriptions in the wrong way. In
this class, when you want to describe things, you
invent words for them. You must have heard of the
Thanks to Professor Olsen for the info.
famous example used by scholars of the great Saint-
Submit your ideas, earnest and otherwise: collegian_
Exupery: “leyellowscarf”? Or this one, a favorite of
editor@washcoll.edu.
those who write theses on Dante: “beauatrice”?
But students don’t get to make up their own
words for a while; that’s really something saved for
an advanced project or final exam.
* * *
The Collegian 7

Losing Options:
Birth Control Battle
A
s college students, we’re at the age where
we like to figure things out on our own.
We don’t like people telling us what to do.
When our parents tell us not to get that tattoo or
to stay home instead of going on spring break, it
usually doesn’t go over too well.
So how would you like it if your parents
told you who you could or could not have sex
with? What if someone else made the rules about
your sex life? Because sex is such a personal topic
for so many people, I don’t think too many of
us would be happy about others sticking their
noses in our business.
Now, what if I told you the government
was trying to do just that? I’m not talking
about the highly publicized controversies over
Roe v. Wade and emergency contraception;
I’m talking about something as simple as
birth control.
Since they became legal for single
women in the 1970s, birth control pills have
become a part of everyday life for many. But
now, with ultra-conservative politicians in
power and under pressure from the religious
right, “the pill” is under attack. Recently, there
have been an increasing number of reports of
pharmacists refusing to fill prescriptions for
birth control because of their own moral and
religious objections.
Statistics at www.feminist.org show
that 95% of American women will use birth
control at some point in their lives. Not all women
on the pill use it for contraceptive purposes. Use
of the pill can help regulate the menstrual cycle,
alleviate menstrual cramping and premenstrual
symptoms, and reduce severe acne. It is also
prescribed to ease the symptoms of menopause.
The pill is 92-99.7% effective in preventing
pregnancy. It uses hormones similar to those
produced by a woman’s ovaries to prevent the
ovaries from releasing an egg (ovulation), and by
thickening the cervical mucus to prevent sperm
from joining the egg. Birth control does not harm
future fertility and may reduce the risks of ovarian
and endometrial cancers and osteoporosis.
With all the advantages of the pill, why
8 The Collegian
Justine Hendricks
would pharmacists seek to keep women from
taking it? Many pro-life advocates contend that
life begins at the moment the sperm and egg meet,
and that any interference with conception is wrong.
For them, the only way to avoid pregnancy is to
avoid sex.
When a pharmacist refuses to dispense birth
control because he or she is personally against it,
that pharmacist is discriminating against women.
Denying timely access to women’s healthcare is
not only a sexist policy, but it could also lead to an
increase in the number of unintended pregnancies
and ultimately, an increase in abortions.
Perhaps the most infuriating aspect is
the pharmacists’ imposition of their beliefs on
others. Some have not only refused to dispense
birth control, but have also refused to return the
customers’ prescription slips, preventing them
from getting the prescriptions filled elsewhere. I
can tell you, if my pharmacist dared to do that, the
pharmacy counter would not be enough to hold me
back.
Some people don’t believe in contraception;
that’s their choice, and they do not have to use it.
They should not, however, interfere if a woman
and her doctor have agreed she should be on birth
control. She should be commended for making a
responsible decision about her health and sexual
behavior rather than prohibited from obtaining her
prescription.
Some “Pharmacists for Life” disagree.
Catholic pharmacist Erik McClave wrote: “Even
though I did not prescribe the medication or force
the woman to take it, I still feel guilty for providing
it...I feel as though I am causing these women to
sin by providing them with the means to do so.”
Several national legislators feel it is not the
pharmacists’ decision to make. In April, members
of both the House and Senate introduced the
Access to Legal Pharmaceuticals Act. It protects
the right of individual pharmacists to refuse to fill
a prescription but requires pharmacies to fill all
prescriptions, even if another pharmacist has to do
it.
Rep. Carolyn Maloney (D-NY) said: “If
a doctor gives you a legal prescription, no one
should be able to stop you from getting it filled
– it’s as simple as that. Access to birth control is a
women’s health issue and a private matter, not to be
tampered with by a pharmacist with an agenda.”
Birth control pills have been “legal
prescriptions” since 1961, when the Supreme
Court ruled, in Griswold v. Connecticut, that
the Constitution implies a right to privacy
encompassing a married couple’s decision to
use contraception for family planning. The
Eisenstadt v. Baird case in 1972 extended
these to protections to single women. A
single woman’s right to birth control has only
existed for a few decades. When our mothers
were our age, it may have been illegal.
A National Family Planning and
Reproductive Health Association poll found
that 88% of respondents supported a woman’s
access to contraceptives. Even 80% of those
who identified themselves as Republican or
pro-life agreed that women should be able to
obtain contraception. This is encouraging, but
unfortunately, a small number of opponents
hold positions of power and are unwilling to
back down.
We need to be active to stop pharmacists
from abusing their positions by refusing to
do their jobs. Guys, this affects you, too. If
your girlfriend can’t get her birth control
prescription filled, you could be screwed, and
not the way you’d like. We wouldn’t want our
parents telling us how to handle our sex lives, and
we definitely shouldn’t allow strangers to control
them. #
October 2005

ROCKSTAR: INXS = AMERICAN IDOL FOR
MUSIC SNOBS
What constitutes sacrilege? Could it be a show that
puts moderately talented singers in a mansion to
create needless drama while searching for the new
lead singer of a band who lost its original lead singer
to a dubious death? Well, hot damn! Put me on the
next bus to hell, because Rock Star: INXS has owned
my life for the past two months. All the stress over
the next elimination, the foul language my television
had to endure, the shrieking my floor had to tolerate—
all these concluded on September 20 when INXS
determined J.D. Fortune as
“right” for their band.
The crowning of J.D.
coincided with the release of
Rock Star: A Night At the
Mayan, an album featuring
the first performances of all
the contestants on the show.
Since the performances from
up to week 10 are available
on iTunes, it’s more advisable
to pick and choose the best ones rather than buy this
compilation. Plus, now that INXS is once again a full
band, they announced a November 29 release date for
an album and a world tour starting in January 2006.
These dates seem hopeful, but since J.D. is used
preparing and arranging on such a short turn around
thanks to the weekly performances, and INXS has
new material ready to go, they should be set.
One scary aspect that you notice if rockstar.
msn.com is your homepage is that they’re already
considering a second season with this formula. It’s
fun to speculate what band it might be. Rock Star:
Blind Melon? Rock Star: Nirvana? Rock Star:
Queen? Rock Star: The Doors? Seriously, Mark
Burnett, you can only go so far…
COHEED &
CAMBRIA: Goodd
Apollo, I’m Burning
Star IV, Volume One:
From Fear Through
The Eyes of Madness
The word “epic” seems
to be the common description for Good Apollo, I’m
Burning Star IV, Volume One: From Fear Through
The Eyes of Madness. Those who already adore
Coheed & Cambria have doubtlessly waited for this
album, and probably had it within seconds of its
release. Well, you all can skip this, because I’m not
going to do it justice. Those who refuse to buy a
Coheed & Cambria album because it’s “conceptual”
and tells a story need to suck it up and listen to Good
Apollo because, quite frankly, this album is what rock
music should be. It has its climactic songs and its
calm songs, and if it’s on shuffle, the fact that it’s a
“concept album” is simple to overlook. “Keeping the
Blade,” the introductory track, is an eloquent rendition
of a hook used since their debut. The hints of Led
Zeppelin, Metallica, Rush and large-scale rock bands
Vol. 17, Issue 1
Review
The Realities of
Rock (and more)
in tracks like “Welcome Home” make it impossible
to classify this album as “emo.” Even if Coheed is
not your bag, after Good Apollo, it’s difficult not to
respect them.
THE DANDY
WARHOLS:
Odditorium or
Warlords from Mars
Odditorium or Warlords
from Mars attempts
to return to that old-
fashioned stoner charm
found in their earlier efforts, but lacks the standout
tracks that fit so well on mix CDs. Even Welcome
to the Monkey House, a departure from their typical
style, had its own gems. And although everyone
loves a good 10-minute track now and then, the long
songs on Odditorium lack the substance necessary
to keep a person from hitting “skip.” Songs such
as “Smoke It”, in what may be a meager attempt
to be catchy, are more obnoxious than appealing.
That said, there is always the chance that it just may
take a few listens before the deeper meaning of the
Dandys surfaces. Odditorium might be the perfect
album to accompany a few drinks and some quality
time staring at the ceiling, although an album with
at least one song that lives up to “Not if You Were
the Last Junkie On Earth” would have been more
appreciated. It’s worth checking out, but only worth
the $14 if you are a true Dandy Warhols addict.
I AM THE
AVALANCHE: Self-
Titled
Sometimes a girl just
wants to dance around
her room like an idiot
while getting ready
for class. The debut
The Collegian
Lindsay Bergman
self-titled from I Am The Avalanche is perfect for
that. Vinnie Caruanas’s vocals are reminiscent of
his former band, The Movielife, but there’s a new
maturity there. Obviously, his hiatus provided him
with plenty of time and inspiration for harder tracks
like “I Took a Beating,” where he sings about the time
post-Movielife to present. Then there’s the classic
inspiration of bad relationships for songs like the first
track, “Dead and Gone,” a catchy tune which can
immediately suck you in, and “Green Eyes,” where
Vinnie waxes poetic. The hooks in “Murderous” will
stay in your head for days, and the closing song “My
Second Restraining Order” leaves you wanting more.
Despite simplistic lyrics and catchy bass lines, all the
songs are solid pop punk masterpieces; there isn’t
one that can be singled out as bad. And, in addition
to being a great pick-me-up before a 3-class day, it’s
a great driving album.
KANYE WEST: Late
Registration
Whether you love him or
hate him for his inability
to read a teleprompter,
you can’t deny that
Kanye West, like Jay-Z,
is “not a businessman,
he’s a business, man.” Teaming up with Producer
John Brion (former Fiona Apple collaborator and
Punch Drunk Love arranger) the highly hyped Kanye
West’s sophomore release delivers a broad variety of
hip-hop greatness, flowing through subgenres like
a well-written line. While the refusal to typecast
himself to a certain genre was successful as well as
admirably noted, it leaves a varied disc that some
hardcore hip-hop fans may even consider diluted. It
may not be a disc to play through for some, but a
few tracks off of this release will definitely rock any
party, as well leave you in awe of a truly talented
lyricist and producer. The couple of Jay-Z stanzas
on the “Diamonds” remix is worth half the purchase
price alone.
9
 Still ofinthe Search
Gonzo Dream Peter Knox

When the going gets weird,

the weird turn pro.
Hunter S. Thompson

10 The Collegian October 2005

T
he Woody Creek Tavern was so crowded I was just trying to stay out
of the way. I had been here the night before drinking and eating where
Thompson had once done the same. After pissing in the toilet I’m sure
he once used, I told the bartender that I had come in search of Thompson’s
dream. As he poured me another Thompson classic, a Chivas Regal on the
rocks, the dried-up football player behind the counter confided: “I knew him
for a while. You know his public image? How people thought he could never be
that much of a drug-addict? Well, he’s a hundred times worse!”
Back to the overwhelming scene on August 20th, 2005 at the Tavern
– the cannon is supposed to blow Thompson’s ashes into the sky by 9 p.m., and
here I’m waiting to get my first meal of the day! Due to my urgency, I accepted
the only meal they could serve outside of the designated eating area, chips and
salsa, and retreated to the garden space in front of the adjacent Tavern shop.
Following my unsatisfying appetizer (in comparison to the burger I had last night)
I continued to journal-write among hordes of Gonzo-ites like myself. There
was guitar-playing, documentary-
filming, newspaper-interviewing,
and general excited talk about the
day’s events. Here we gathered
from across the nation, merely
a few miles from the very same
“fortified compound in Colorado”
that the late American author’s
bio always mentioned.
To think that a little more
than a year ago I was reading a
book soon to change my life, and
now the Denver Post is inquiring
as to my thoughts, opinions, and
journey concerning the life and
works of the Good Doctor Hunter
S. Thompson is by itself overwhelming. “Fear and Loathing isn’t just
a drug-induced nightmare; it’s great writing” was the pullout quote
some editor used for their Sunday Edition. It was also how I felt after
my first taste of Thompson’s literature – I wanted more. To be able to
read and truly enjoy reading the writing of an author credible enough
to be debated in a college literature class was one thing, but becoming
so engrossed in his breakthrough journalism (a genre labeled Gonzo)
that you are not only allowed to write an undergraduate thesis on the
man but are paid to attend his funeral is something else altogether
(here I will thank the C.V. Starr Center and the Comegys Bight
Scholarship, through which the American Experience is possible to
study).
After proving to be a worthy interviewee, I began the process
of changing into my suit – something required for most funeral
attendees, but something totally out of place at the Woody Creek
Tavern. As not to alert the security officer posted next to my car
(parking was tight and not allowed in many places) I keep reassuring
him that I was just getting stuff from my car and going back to eat
at the Tavern. Really I was trading my shorts and sneakers for a suit
and tie. Fully dressed, I resumed my spot in the garden, as the Tavern
was busier than ever. I collected my thoughts and my guts as I rose
to walk across the street and ascend a forty-foot dirt hill – in my formal wear.
My initial hope that the road to Thompson’s Owl Farm was just over
the hill was dashed against the barbed wire now ensnared in my expensive- and
dusty- suit as I stood between the hill and a rather large quarry. The next move
was to casually stroll along the ridge until I could stumble down the dirt hill
on the other side and climb up to the actual road. I had grossly underestimated
the proportion between the temperature in my black suit under the August sun
while at a 10,000 foot elevation and the distance to Thompson’s farm. Each
security officer I passed along the way would simply continue to point in the
direction I was heading, instead of tackling me to the ground and arresting me,
as I had imagined. Walking the first mile was almost inspiring as I have yet
to meet anyone else that would be able to share in the pleasure of walking the
solitary road to their hero’s house. The second mile, however, was without
Vol. 17, Issue 1
such zeal, and I embraced the opportunity a passerby in a blue car offered,
hitchhiking for only the second time in my life (both times were for Washington
College English papers).
Thanking the kind driver of the vehicle, I was dropped off outside the
front gates of Thompson’s infamous Owl Farm at 4 p.m. Instead of being on
the list as I had been led to believe, I was denied entrance to the funeral, leaving
me only five hours to try everything I could to gain entrance. Having gone
through the appropriate channels of security, I learned that if I wasn’t working
or on the guest list (despite my inside connection with an editor), I would have
to wait outside all night or leave. I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to see what
I came for. I took at seat outside the inner action and made friends with the
security guards, who snuck me a sandwich and a soda, God bless them.
For the next several hours I was privy to stand with the guards on the
innermost circle outside the funeral, less than 150 yards from the 150 foot
cannon. Juan Thompson, Hunter’s only son, took the famous “Red Shark”
Chevy convertible out of the gate, as did Anita, Thompson’s
widow and second wife, drive away in her white sedan. There
was a moment when two GMC SUVs drove slowly by where I
was sitting. As a tinted window lowered in the second car, Johnny
Depp appeared and my natural reaction was to give him the head
nod, which he respectfully returned before putting the window
back up.
Soon enough I was no longer alone as over thirty people from all
walks of life appeared outside the gates in homage to the man that
showed us another way to read and write journalism. There were
stories, music, and tattoos shared as dusk settled on the valley and
the strangely phallic monument was revealed in the crossing of
two spotlights. Beneath its two-thumbed fist clutching a glowing
peyote button atop a dagger (the Gonzo logo), a large black tent
had been erected to house the 250 invited guests (including Johnny
Depp, Benicio Del Torro, Bill Murray, Sen.
George McGovern, Josh Hartnett, and John
Kerry). Japanese tribal drumming began
the countdown to the launching of Hunter S.
Thompson’s ashes distributed through thirty-
four fireworks canisters.
At 8:45 p.m. Mountain Time, two
rounds of fireworks lit up the sky, and exactly
six months following Thompson’s suicide in
February, Thompson was home. I would not
have been anywhere else in the world at that
exact moment as the assembled outcasts of
the funeral gasped in awe and cried in respect.
Bob Dylan’s “Mister Tambourine Man”
played loud and clear over the valley, and
everyone had known that Thompson would
not have wanted it any other way. The walk
back to the bottom following the celebration
was easier physically (and I guess the bottle
of Thompson’s favorite whiskey, Wild Turkey,
didn’t hurt) and no one there felt alone. The
five shadows the Gonzo fist cast on the dark
sky were perfect. The word “Gonzo” is derived from an Italian word once
meaning “a shining path.” We had received what we came for, and it couldn’t
have happened any other way.
Author’s Note: The rest of the night, no matter how ridiculous, can only
be summed up in the phone call I made to the hotel following the discovery of
a $25 charge on my credit card: “Yes, I can see the charge right here. Well,
apparently the coffee pot had been missing from your room and it was found in
the pool the next morning. And there were several complaints of loud noise at
three in the morning, do you know anything about tha-” ::click:: #
It never got weird enough for me.
Hunter S. Thompson
The Collegian 11
 Return of the White Rapper
David Yo Yo D Finn is back in the hizzouse
Another phat beat y’all
Hey yo, hey yo

Finniss
We got more crackas up in this joint then a box of ritz
I bought some new pants but they don’t fit
Just when you thought that this couldn’t get worse
Here’s the part where I arbitrarily curse
Shit bitch ass cocksucker motherfucker sweet and low
Behold the end is near
These dudes want to make me over and I’m pretty sure they’re queer
Well I’m out of stuff so I’m just about done
I hope you all had a lot of fun
I didn’t write it to be hurtful
I didn’t write to be mean
I wrote for the heck of it and maybe it will be seen

A Dream That Will Go Unfulfilled

I am the wielder of the one ring
Poetry
The greatest weapon in the universe
With it, I preserve justice and peace throughout the galaxy
I follow in the footsteps of Jordan, Rayner, Gardner, and G’nort
I do my best to live up to their example
Unlike some I will not lose to some Silver pansy Surfer
And those who worship evil’s might will beware my power
Good lord I’m a dork

Writer’s Block
Ok, need to think of something to write about
Just close your eyes and envision…the darkness
This isn’t working, I got nothing
Stupid cursor, it’s just sitting there
Laughing at me
Like that dog when you don’t shoot the duck in time
I got it! I can write about..a raven!!
Wait no that’s been done
Hmmm, oh idea!!

12 The Collegian October 2005

 Poetry
A 200 Word Essay Entitled
“What I Learned in the Fourth Grade”
When they finally pulled me by my hair out of the bushes
I was expecting a SWAT team maneuver,
an international backlash
against an elementary school renegade
who defied the principal’s tyrant decree against
walking on the grass.

They saw me spiral

into a life of recess crime,
cheating at four-square
(All the kids did it,
but only I had to stay inside and write
I Will Not Try To Fit In
a thousand times
as punishment), and

spreading slander in detention:

Mandy dies her hair blonde
and gives hand jobs after school
(it didn’t matter—
no one knew what a “hand job” was, anyway).

It was only when they found out

I was the one who put the slug
in Mrs. McAllister’s chair
and threw the paperweight shaped like Franklin Roosevelt’s head
out the second story window

that they stopped clucking their tongues and saying

she just needs time to adjust
and they didn’t make Mandy
eat lunch with me anymore.

Nothing Has No Value

A buddha [lowercase b]

Fiestas in a foreign land,

siestas in the afternoon,
and at dinner,
tequila stains on your shirt.
You laughed at everyone who would
laugh in return.

Picture frame

Paper maché pulp

oozing from the hole in the corner
like frosting onto a cake

Afton
writing in squiggly lines,
“Happy Birthday to me.”

Flashlight

Blink, go the yellow lights

down Pine Avenue
and a moonbeam rides along
Woodward
the roof of a waiting police car
Vol. 17, Issue 1 The Collegian 13

Labored Graffiti:
Bathrooms of
Philosophy
H
ello Other People- Sartre” is seen in the
crevice between bathroom tiles above
the urinal in the first floor of Miller
Library (although, the Collegian, and this writer,
do not advocate the continuation of graffiti). I
begin to think while I stand there: did Sartre in
his existential prose ever relinquish his ‘me, me,
me’ battle over essence or did Sartre once stand
at a urinal and think, “There are other people, but
no god, so I must be courteous and
flush”? Right next to Sartre’s quote
is: “My dogma ate my homework.”
As the thoughts come pouring in, the
Miller Library seems only fitting to
harbor philosophical quotes. This
expression, wit, and contemplation is
a gateway to collegiate thought and
comes across as a lowbrow form of
art.
Sometimes, I think Auguste
Rodin sculpted the Thinker as the
model sat on the porcelain throne.
No matter that porcelain toilets
didn’t come to popularity until the
nineteenth century (and on a side
note, were called “ceramic water
closets” in their infancy), Rodin’s
masterpiece seems to depict Dante in
profound contemplation while on the john. And I
think I remember Prof. Cousineau (If I’m wrong,
sorry, Professor) say a quote from Samuel Beckett
about how he only wished he could “fart all day
and read Dante”. Beckett would have been pleased
with my transmutation, then. On our campus,
some of the most passionate statements have been
exhibited when a man has been in deep reflection
while seated and waiting.
I can tell this artist is plaintive, and its
pathetic because you know he had enough time to
think of the exact doleful wording. He has picked
the exact quote and the exact place where one
turns to unwind the squares of single-ply toilet
paper, everything is exact, and it is the execrable
bystanders that sit beside this quote that add to the
liveliness: those bystanders with their malapert
inscriptions that certain fraternities and athletic
14
Will Grofic
teams “blow” or “suck a big, fat (member)”. Picture
Norah Jones playing at the Blue Bird on a Thursday
night, and you can understand this entry.
The artist presents the graffiti clearly: “To
love without pain is to deny yourself.” One could
taste the sappiness in the air if only this wasn’t an
establishment used to expel waste. This mark emits
hurt and introspection and indicates that the torn
lover could either be commenting on the instability
of love or the peaceful heartache that needs to be
embraced before it can be dealt with. Who sits on
the toilet and wants the world to know such tragic
joy? Can you imagine a former lacrosse player
with shaggy hair sniffling as he scribes this eternal
insistence, or a WIGS gamer proud and triumphant
in overcoming a love loss and wanting to share in
his vindication? The anonymity presents any and
every option.
Under that melancholic quote an
observation reads: “Is that why it hurts for you to
wank it?” Immediately and without any eloquence,
this could be simplified as man in his most pure
form: the introspection and the mockery. There is
always the call of the lonely huddled behind the
machismo. It is apparent that men don’t console.
Here especially, there is no sorrow for another
man, and in such a place as the library, where the
The Collegian
plangent thuds of books are closed and a bathroom
break begins, men can further distance themselves
from one another and pontificate on their subject
matter at hand. And it is indeed the hand that men
continue to come back to.
Graffiti is given its polarity, and I begin
to understand why the library would harbor such
art. As quickly as one engraves the acronym NRA
on the basement bathroom stall, I see not more
than a paper’s length away the peace symbol at
the same longitude, taking up the same amount
of space. On inside of the basement door, “God is
Dead” is carved expansively across. It is written
so lavishly that “God is” stands above “Dead”, and
in the space between those two lines, someone of
faith has written “Alive”. The striking point to be
made is that this religious vandal didn’t cross out
the “Dead” yet merely squeaked in their opinion.
America, how sweet thou is. To the right of the
graffiti is an arrow, and the arrow ends at another
statement of “He Loves U!”. The arrow seems to be
pointing as much at God, Alive, Dead, or Is. Such a
staggering ambiguity in an arrow may have never
been seen before in bathroom graffiti. If it is God
that loves U, then it is just another religious zealot.
If Alive, then an optimist, if Dead, then a Nihilist
or pessimist or possibly a necrophiliac, and if Is,
then a Taoist. Remarkable when you think about
it.
Finally, when someone tags
the wall with “MoMA”, you know
you’re not on a city block or a train
underpass, this is high end graffiti
acknowledgement. The Modern
Museum of Art (MoMA) in New York
City houses such masterpieces as Van
Gogh’s Starry Night and Salvador
Dali’s Persistence of Memory. Just as
those two masterpieces battled with the
paradox of timeliness and timelessness,
graffiti will always cultivate the mind
and further the jumbled disunity of our
ideas. The next time you see a “for a
good time, call …” remember that “the
first known example of ‘modern style’
graffiti survives in the ancient Greek
city of Ephesus (in modern-day Turkey)
and appears to advertise prostitution, according to
the tour guides of the city.” 1
Such a Thinker would have enjoyed these
ruminations. #
(Footnotes)
1
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graffiti_art
October 2005
D
espite mankind’s superior engineering
skills, there are times when nature defies
our efforts to contain it and screams out
its presence. Hurricane Katrina, is an example of
this. A horrible disaster that has claimed the lives of
hundreds, it is a prime example of how destructive
nature – or God, depending on your beliefs – can be
when it truly wants to. With the city underwater and
salvation coming in the form of boats, Katrina is a
modern day version of the flood myth that is found in
almost every culture and religion.
The most popular of these myths is the
biblical tale of Noah and his ark in which God warns
Noah of the impending flood and commands him to
take two of each living creature aboard a giant ark.
The rain falls for forty days and forty nights before
finally abating, covering the world and killing every
living creature. After several months in the ark, Noah
releases a dove, which returned when it could find no
place above the water to rest. Seven days later, Noah
sends out the dove again, and it returns with an olive
leaf in its beak, signifying that the waters have begun
to recede. The third time Noah releases the dove, it
does not return at all.
The Babylonian legend, found in the Epic of
Gilgamesh, is perhaps the oldest of the flood myths
- $ 3 0
t P r i z e
F i r s i z e - $
n d P r
S e c o
all entries due to
collegian_editor@washcoll.edu
by October 28
sponsored by
The Writers’ Union and Broadsides
Vol. 17, Issue 1
Katrina and the
Great Flood
and the one most similar the Bible’s. In this version,
a man named Utnapishtim is warned by the gods to
build a ship large enough to hold a male and female
of each species of animal, and to store enough food
to sustain them for a long period of time, for soon, the
earth would be flooded in order to rid it of wickedness.
The rain falls for six days and six nights, and afterward
Utnapishtim, like Noah, sends out a dove to see if the
waters have retreated. It returns, as does the swallow
he releases next. Finally, he sends out a raven, which
found dry land and so did not return. Utnapishtim
then determines that it is safe to leave the ship.
The Kenyan variant changes the story
somewhat, but the basic elements are still the same.
Legend says that the ocean was once contained in
a clay pot, which was placed in the care of a poor
family. As the story goes, the man warns his family
never to touch the pot, but his daughter-in-law is a
curious young woman and cannot resist. When she
picks up the pot it slips and shatters, releasing the
ocean and flooding the entire world.
Such legends exist in almost every culture,
religion, and country. In China, it was the family of
Fuhi who saved humanity; in Greece, Prometheus’
human son Deucalion and his wife Pyrrha repopulated
the earth after Zeus flooded it. The Ojibwe Indians of
North America tell the story of how Waynaboozhoo
The
Collegian
2 0
presents
The Second Annual
Insert Witty Name
for Contest Here
The Collegian
Lyndsey Gibson
survived the great flood by floating on a log with
various animals, and the Aztecs glorify Tapi and his
ark as the salvation of humanity. In Australia, the
flood myth is called the Dreamtime flood. Noah is
the hero of this legend as well, and survives the flood
in the Ark Gumana with the Aborigines and animals.
India, Hawaii, Egypt, Italy, Russia, and Peru also
have similar myths.
Despite the differences in the cultures, flood
myths all share several fundamental characteristics,
including a warning about the imminent disaster, the
use of a ship or ark, and the use of birds to determine
the water level. In each myth, it is the immorality of
humans that causes the flood, and the entire world
that suffers for their hubris under a sea of cleansing
water.
This wasn’t exactly the case with New
Orleans. Floods are a natural part of life in Louisiana,
and hurricanes are common along the shoreline. The
city was inundated, and most of the refugees were
saved by boats, but Katrina did not wipe out life as we
know it. Though the hurricane was not as devastating
as the great flood, we could certainly learn a lesson
from it. No matter how technologically advanced
we are, Nature will always be stronger, and not even
our levees and dams can save us from her should she
truly wish to flood the world again. #
15
Review
Guild Wars
A
ddiction. One would probably associate this
word with drugs, alcohol or pornography;
however, Massively Multiplayer Online
Role Playing Games are a new addiction plaguing
our world, and oh, am I in deep! I personally love all
RPGs, but nothing excites me more than the really
big ones; I find that I get almost “dangerously” deep
into them sometimes. I have played two very different
MMORPGs, each of which had a unique quality that
made them memorable to me. However, each also
had a different level of “suck-you-in” power; or as I
like to think of it, a “high.”
The first, Guild Wars, I would classify as a
“gateway drug” into the MMORPG world. The plot
of the game is very basic: you are a human in a land
that you must protect. You select a starting class,
appearance, and sex, and you’re off into the world.
The professions that you can choose are your
typical picks, with a twist here and there: you have
your warrior-healer, archer, or magic user (I found
both the Necromancer and Mesmer profession both
to be interesting and fun to play). The Necromancer
can use the life of their enemies to feed their powers,
as well as summon undead pets to fight for them,
which is not new, but is always fun.
The Mesmer is the most unique profession
I have found in this game.
Though they do not exactly
deal direct damage, Mesmers
have the ability to use their
enemies’ own powers against
them. For example, a Mesmer
could cast a spell that would
force an enemy to receive the
same amount or even more
damage than they deal on
the Mesmer. This, coupled
with another spell that would
return life to the Mesmer
every time the enemy would
take damage, shows the
prowess of this profession.
As you progress in the game,
you can choose and second
professions to complement
the first; however, only the
16
Ryan Stiffler
first profession you chose can be taken to its full
power. So, one could be a healer, or, in this game,
a Monk, and complement that with the skills of a
warrior or an Elementalist (a magic user). The choice
is yours, and this is where the customization aspect
of all RPGs comes in: you can only go into battle
with eight different skills, so you would choose the
best skills that work with all the other skills to make
the best combination possible.
In terms of game play,
the environments and graphics
are some of the best I have
seen in a MMORPG; they are
truly stunning. However, with
the choppy game mechanics,
the pretty stuff losses its effects
quickly. One major problem that
makes Guild Wars less gripping
to me is that it stresses too
greatly on the group play aspects
of MMORPGS. It forces you
to group with other players to
complete certain quests. I like
the option to play in a group,
obviously the reason to play a
MMORPG, but to be forced to
play in a
group for every single quest
after level eight is ridiculous.
I personally feel that the
developers didn’t realize that
people still like being a lone
hero in a huge world. However,
I still find it an ok escape from
the real world, being that after
the store price it’s a free game.
Take crack, weed, and
three shots of heroin and you
will understand the additive
nature of the only drug-I mean
game- that I play anymore.
World Of Warcraft has literally
captured the MMORPG world
and now feeds off of millions of
player around the whole globe,
From the US to Asia to all of
The Collegian
Europe and even Australia. The plot is complex,
considering the ten years of Warcraft games are all
just prequels to WoW (World Of Warcraft); but to
sum it all up, the land of Azoroth is war-torn because
of the bitter hostilities between the noble Alliance
and the Barbaric Horde. And with the Armies out in
distance battlefields you must now stand and fight to
protect your land, king, and way of life.
To start your life, you first choose a side, be it
with the horde or alliance, then choose your race, sex,
appearance and name. Finally you choose a class.
There are a few more interesting classes in WoW than
in Guild Wars, such as Warlock, Druid, or Shaman.
The Warlock is a Summoner and keeper of demonic
creature. He strikes fear into any player. The druid,
with his mastery of shape shifting into animals and
adopting their natural powers, is well suited for any
situation. Finally there is the Shaman, who uses the
power of Mother Nature to fuel his totems, which
can give power, life, and destruction to anyone in the
vicinity.
The game is perfectly balanced with solo
and group playing, and one can play most of the
game alone. On some nights, however, you have to
take on the much more challenging and rewarding
adventures with four buddies, or even later on in the
game, with 39 other players, taking on huge dragons,
powerful warlords, and other fanatical creatures in
climatic battles for riches beyond your belief.
Of course, there’s still the problem of the war
between the two factions, the horde and the alliance,
and you must deal with that too. There are certain
areas in the game that are considered contested:
inside these areas, anything goes. This makes the
community a lot stronger and closely tied because of
a banding together to defend their land.
With all this and so much more, MMORPGS,
namely WoW, have successfully sucked me and my
wallet dry. That’s why, if you wish to keep your
life and a checking account stray away from these
games, because once you’re on level 9, you never go
back..#
October 2005
Cast of Characters:
CAP’N SALTY: A pirate
LARS THE MIGHTY: A Viking
RECEPTIONIST: A receptionist
Setting:
An income tax office. The office is garishly lit via
overhead halogen. Blue plastic chairs line the wall
facing the audience. The RECEPTIONIST’s window
is positioned stage right.
CAP’N SALTY is already seated, his sword on the
seat beside him. He fidgets uncomfortably, adjusts
his peg leg, grunts uncouthly. It is an utterance of
both discomfort and relief.
RECEPTIONIST: The auditor
will be right with you, sir. All
you have to do is wait here.
CAP’N SALTY: Wench, I’d
be most grateful if he’d show
his scurvy hindparts. I’ve got
nothin’ te hide.
RECEPTIONIST: Of course
you don’t, sir.
Enter LARS THE MIGHTY, stage
left. He is carrying traditional
Viking accoutrements, spear
and long-handled battleaxe. He
crosses to the RECEPTIONIST’S
window, she hands him a form
on a clipboard.
RECEPTIONIST: You’ll need to fill out your
profession and your name.
LARS THE MIGHTY: Profession?
RECEPTIONIST: What you do for a living.
LARS THE MIGHTY: I rob and pillage.
RECEPTIONIST: So you’re a pirate. You practice
piracy.
CAP’N SALTY (to himself, but audible): That fur-
wearin’ flea-nuts ain’t no pirate.
LARS THE MIGHTY: Well, I farm too.
RECEPTIONIST (reaching for clipboard): Well
you can check this box for “pirate” or this one for
“farmer”.
LARS THE MIGHTY: Maybe I’m more of an
explorer.
Vol. 17, Issue 1
CAP’N SALTY (to himself, audible): Looks like
we’ve got an overachieving landlubber in our midst.
LARS THE MIGHTY(to RECEPTIONIST): Excuse
me, Madam. (Tuns to Salty, brandishing axe): I’ll
have you know, you pungent sea-pigeon, that our
Waiting
for the
longboats are far more seaworthy than your tar-
covered, stolen ships will ever be.
CAP’N SALTY (with surprising agility, rising to
Auditor
his foot and peg and drawing sword): Avast thar!
Nobody insults the Cap’n! Prepare yerself fer a taste
of cold steel!
LARS THE MIGHTY (raising axe overhead; ceiling
tiles crumbling to the floor): Odin, god of war be
with me, and also with the soul of this ignorant cur as
I send him into the afterlife!
A Play
RECEPTIONIST: Sirs, please. Mr. in one Act
Mighty, you haven’t yet completed
your form. Why don’t you both Johanna Schaeffer
have a seat? The auditor will be
right with you.
CAP’N SALTY: Woman, know yer
place before I smacks ye with the
flat of me blade!
LARS: For Freyja’s sake, sit down
and stop threatening the lady.
CAP’N SALTY (sits, grudgingly):
Pagan.
LARS (seated): Cripple.
CAP’N: I was attacked by a shark!
By God, it was six fathoms long!
LARS: I’ve gotten quite a few war wounds myself.
CAP’N: Ah, that’s nothing. Why I once keelhauled
a British Admiral!
Play
This here (exposes a huge scar on his hairy, burly
forearm) was when we were invading Nova Scotia.
I was hit with seven arrows, but killed just as many
men.
LARS: Once we burned ten villages in a fortnight’s
time.
CAP’N (admiringly, chuckling): I guess I can
appreciate a man like ye. Ye’ve probably got more
pirate in ye than half the bloody ignorant apes on me
crew. One of them scurvy dogs shanked an albatross
on our last voyage. And I’d bet my last piece of eight
ye don’t pay a dime of income tax.
LARS: By the gods, no.
CAP’N (laughs raucously): And look where it got
ye!
...continued on page 19
The Collegian 17
Review
Suspiria:
Italian Horror
At Its Best
U
nless you’re a cult horror movie aficionado,
you’ve probably never heard of, much less
seen, the 1977 giallo classic, Suspiria. You
need to.
“Giallo” is Italian for “yellow”.
The giallo subgenre of horror descended
from the hard-boiled detective stories and
murder mystery pulp novels of the 1930s
and ’40s. These pulps were printed on low-
quality yellow paper in order to cheaply
mass-produce them. Hence, “giallo”. In
cinema, the subgenre’s core component is
stylish ultraviolence, emphasis on stylish.
Edgar Allan Poe once wrote that
“the death…of a beautiful woman is,
unquestionably, the most poetical topic in
the world.” I agree completely. Poe and
I are Romantics, and so is the director of
Suspiria, Dario Argento. Argento has said
that Poe’s writings were a chief inspiration
for his filmmaking, and the influence is
easy to see. But Argento has an advantage,
because whereas Poe depends on the
reader’s imagination to conjure the wild
images he describes, Argento doesn‘t have
to. He simply brings his macabre vision
to life before us. His use of color is the
most vivid I have ever seen. The first time
I saw Suspiria, I found myself thinking,
“This is what ‘The Masque of the Red
Death’ would look like on screen.”
To supplement its nightmare
dreamscape, Suspiria has a soundtrack
by the little-known synth-rock group
Goblin. It is without a doubt the most
haunting score I have ever heard. Loud at
times, but never abrasive, the music is an
added assault on the senses. There’s no
subtlety here. This is foreground music,
not background music. You’re constantly aware of
its presence, but that only enhances the viewing
experience.
The plot is not well-developed, but in
Argento’s world, substance takes a backseat to style.
Feeling and sensation override everything else. The
basic story is: Girl goes to ballet school in Europe.
18
Zachary Z. E. Bennett
The night she arrives, two students at the school
are killed in grisly fashion. Girl comes to realize
that said ballet school is run by a coven of witches.
More mysterious things occur, including more grisly
deaths. Finally, Girl must confront the witches and
defeat them. All this is little more than a device
for Argento to showcase his striking camera angles,
otherworldly color schemes, and luridly beautiful
death sequences.
The death sequences are, I should add,
extremely original. No meat cleavers in the back or
The Collegian
predictable decapitations here. At one point, one of
the girls at the school, fleeing a pursuer late at night,
climbs a wall and goes through a small window,
only to land on the other side in a pile of razor wire.
And keep an eye out for the sudden, and ridiculously
contrived, rain of maggots from the ceiling. Good
stuff.
But Suspiria isn’t all splatterpunk and
gore. This movie has heart. In one scene, we get
a nice close-up of that heart, and a knife stabbing
it repeatedly. Seriously though, there is a distinct
artistry to it all—an artistry that is enhanced by
some fine casting decisions, including Joan Bennett
in the role of the dance school’s headmistress.
Bennett, longtime star of the gothic soap opera
Dark Shadows, plays her part to the hilt. She is
simultaneously elegant and sinister. Being an avid
fan of Dark Shadows, I found her performance to
be a special treat. We never doubt her duplicity,
but hey, she is the headmistress, after all. Isn’t she
supposed to be evil?
Some have accused Argento of misogyny,
but those claims are only knee-jerk slander. It’s
true that he has directed many gruesome
scenes of female victimization, including
directing his own daughter, Asia Argento,
in a rape sequence for another film, The
Stendhal Syndrome. But when I watch
Suspiria, I am always struck by the fact
that all of the major characters, both the
heroes and the villains, are female. The
male cast is relegated to supporting roles at
best, window dressing at worst. Ironically,
this is exactly the reverse of what so many
“mainstream” films do. Importantly, the
main character finally defeats the witches
through her own actions; she isn’t rescued
by any knight in shining armor. Far from
being misogynistic, this is the essence of
feminist filmmaking.
Loosely based on the essay “Suspiria
De Profundis” by Thomas De Quincey,
Suspiria is a fitting homage to surrealism
and the high art of the unconscious. But
more than that, it is the first installment
in Argento’s yet-unfinished trilogy of
“the three mothers” mythology. Mater
Suspiriorum (literally, the “Mother of
Sighs”), is the ancient witch whose evil
permeates the ballet school where Suspiria
is set. She doesn’t appear until the final
minutes of the movie, but when she does,
she makes an impression! As the original
tagline advertised it, “The only thing more
terrifying than the last 12 minutes of this
film are the first 80”. It’s true.
Halloween will soon be upon us, so
what better time to see this masterpiece of
Italian giallo? You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll scream
in terror. A good time will be had by all..#
October 2005
 Auditor, continued from page 17
CAP’N: Well, let’s go.

LARS: Well I don’t suppose you’re here because of LARS: No.

Next month...
your law-abiding practices:
(...maybe)
CAP’N: Why not?
CAP’N: It’s a simple matter, really. (Unfolds a piece
of parchment). I buried me last year’s earnins on an
island, here, only we got becalmed and between the
LARS: We’re waiting for the auditor. Scotland:
grog and that albatross, and then the skinny wench
who smuggled aboard in the muzzle of our six-pound
LARS: Are you sure it was this office? One Confused Junior
cannon… I forgot where the treasure be. But there CAP’N: What?
be more than one sense of the word “booty,” I can
tell you that. LARS: In which we were to wait?
English Major Tours
LARS: Well, use your intelligence. I’m sure you’ll
Toll Science Center
CAP’N: Nay, I don’t remember…in between the
recollect it presently. grog and that albatross…

(CAP’N SALTY uses his intelligence.) LARS: Well, let’s go. On The Road
CAP’N: I recall the spot now! Three degrees three CAP’N: Yes, let’s.
With Fall Out Boy
seconds to the south of the island that looks like
crossbones! Well matey, I humbly thank ye. (Sighs). (They do not move.)
Well, here we are, the two thieves. Wonder which of To A Parked Ford Truck
us will be saved, and which will be…
CURTIAN
Outside SuperFresh
LARS: I hope the auditor crucifies quick. I’m afraid
I’m about to get me comeuppance for me life of
crimes: extinction. Poems By
Celeste Stanley

BOOKPLATE Working At Roses:

The Inside Story, Cheap!

Dr. Gillin Climbs Everest,

112 S. Cross Street Back In Time To Teach
Chestertown, MD Romanticism
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Vol. 17, Issue 1 The Collegian 19

 Endgame Renée Farrah

M
y mom’s birthday beach trip was cut short so we could turn around and go north to Warren, Ohio. My
great uncle, Joe, had died, and we had to attend an early family reunion to say goodbye (and hello) one
last time. At the viewing, there was a memory board; apparently an entire life can be pinned to a cork
rectangle. It was somewhat unnerving that the man I had known my entire life had gone to Lebanon and Egypt, and
had also fought in a world war, when all I knew about him was that he loved popcorn and pie.
After the viewing, we went to the location of the first house my family had when they came to America.
Though the house is now torn down and there’s a CVS in its place, some of the surrounding buildings are still
present (albeit not in good condition). My uncle Mitch was with us, showing us what he could remember: where the
house stood, where they played as kids, etc. Then, we went into the CVS to see where the bedrooms used to be, and
to find Dramamine for my car sick sister. All we found, however, were more of my relatives. Everyone finds their
way home, even if home has changed.
My dad took my sister and me to see my great grandparent’s graves after seeing the house site. We were
uncertain of the location of the grave, and all the help my Uncle Mitch could provide was the presence of a bush next
to it. The three of us split up and wandered around looking for the grave. I looked at the endless gravestones- the
only object telling the living that deceased rested under their feet. Large squares, obelisks, statues- my eyes blurred
with the varying shades of gray dotting the live green grass. Some graves had the name of one person, some four;
families, couples, children, siblings; some had black and white or even color pictures on them, or marriage bands
engraved between the names. There were names that sounded like they were from Italian, Polish, Indian, Arab, and
Irish families.
All I could think of was that I was standing in a field of people who know what happens when you die. I
thought I saw the word Nader, the name my great grandparents chose to be their new American name, engraved in
a large rectangular stone. I ran across the most ethnic cemetery I’ve ever seen, trying not to step on anyone while
I sprinted down the row. I’m not sure why I ran; perhaps I thought I would lose sight of it if I took too long and it
would vanish like ghosts are apt to do. I got closer and saw “Emilie and Nassef” engraved on a stone with a cedar
tree next to it, paying homage to Lebanon, not a bush, and called out to my dad.
We gathered around the grave that bore the names of the people who brought my family to this country.
I’ve never met them; I only hear stories. So I stood there staring at names that match faces I’ve never seen, with
dates next to them I never lived in. Then I realized that one day I’ll take my kids here, to Uncle Joe’s, Aunt Louise’s,
my grandfather’s graves and tell them of people they will never meet. And if I don’t take them there they will never
know where part of their family is, and it will be forgotten.
The funeral mass was conducted in the same church that Great Uncle Joe had his first communion in and
was confirmed in. He and his brothers had spent their entire lives in this neighborhood. As adults they had moved a
mile away from their parent’s house, now the CVS. It really hit me how close my family is and how it is our choice
to be this way.
During the funeral The American Legion gave a 21-Gun Salute, and also read a poem that I really enjoyed.
It was called “How You Spent Your Dash” referring to the dash on a gravestone between the date of birth and death.
An entire lifetime is symbolized in an inch-long crevice. The only way your dash can be more than a dash is through
the memories of those that are around you, your friends, and family. They can make you immortal with their stories
and pictures. Taps echoed through the cemetery. The sound waves were ricocheting off the stones of the dead, guns
were systematically firing, everyone, living or deceased, now knew of the tribute my Great Uncle Joe made during
his life.
As the summer drew to a close I came to a greater realization: I am part of a new generation. It is my duty to
pass on stories of those that cannot tell them themselves, to pass on to my younger relatives how amazing it is that
so many of us are still so close. So much can happen in one day, and after you’re gone, all you’ll have is a dash. So
often you hear about seizing the day, but it’s true- if you do nothing no one will talk about you when you’re gone,
and that is the only way to have more than a dash attached to your name. This Halloween, be with your friends, your
family, whoever makes you happy and helps you have a great time. Make your dash something to talk about.