The Final Year

In response to a certain friend of mine’s list of things “she can’t tolerate” (ie hates, ie me) I’ve decided to make my own list, of things that I CAN tolerate. Things that most people find irritating, but that for some reason or other don’t really bother me.

Traffic - it gives me time to finally listen to all that music I wouldn’t normally get around to

Crappy Action Movies - all those ones that rely on explosions for dramatic intrigue. I’ll even pay to see them in theaters.

Crappy Romantic Movies - all those ones that rely on an easily explained misunderstanding for dramatic intrigue (ie ones that for some reason seem to star Freddie Prinz Jr.)

Technobabble - I like it, and get annoyed when someone says, “In English please!”

Bad Food - I honestly can’t tell the difference

Bad Water - While on that topic, I can’t tell the difference between waters either. Tap is ok.

People Who Can’t Remember My Name - Let’s be honest, I can’t remember yours either

People Who Are Shy - I’d rather be with someone who’s shy than someone who hides their insecurity with false exuberance

Nice Guys/Gals - There are ways to get what you want AND make those around you feel good

Nerds - They make the world go round. I wish I was one.

Blood and Guts - I think it’s really interesting to see how people work, and what they’re made of

Nice Pretentious Rich People - They’re a hoot

Guys With Overcompensating Sports Cars - Not to be confused with their evil twins, Guys With Overcompensating Pickup Trucks

People With A Passion For Something - Anything, as long as it’s not “Being A Republican” or “Killing People”

There’s more, but I just ran out of time. I have a paper due tomorrow, you know.
-C

I have a feud with a squirrel. It may not seem like a fair fight, but the damn thing more than makes up for its small size with cunning and great heaps of evil. It lives in an old oak tree on the UCLA campus near the music building. He (I’m going to assume its a he) is large, for a squirrel, with muscular haunches and a ragged tail. His fur is the color of harvest wheat, and the disgusting black slime pussing out of the corners of his mouth matches his wild, beady black eyes. The little bastard’s tree butts up against the roof of a vending machine kiosk that is a favorite hangout during choir practice break time. He is a common fixture around that area, and must be at least 60 years old. I’m not sure how long squirrels live, but he is probably one of the oldest.
He and I first became acquainted one blustery Wednesday afternoon while I milled about with friends during break. I say friends in that we knew each other pretty well, but there was one guy who was certainly NOT my friend. He was/is the classic jerk, always complaining, continually the center of attention. Anyway, he took exception to the squirrel standing complacently in the middle of the patio. With a cry, he lunged at the creature fruitlessly, and the little rat calmly scampered up his tree. We all gave the idiot disapproving glances, but smiled through our teeth placatingly as he became defensive and sullen (the lot of the fool). We returned to our conversations, the Santa Ana winds ripping through the leaves above our heads. I felt a sudden odd pelting sensation on my hair and shoulder, and, thinking that some oak leaves had fallen from the tree, I ran my hand up to make sure they were not still clinging. To my horror, I felt cold wetness where I expected sharp prickliness. I gaped down at my shirt, twisted anguish on my face. What had been ejected from the tree? Would it stain? Was it poisonous? I ripped my head around behind and above me, and almost fell down with shock. There, peering over his hands, black eyes afire, was the confounded rat of a squirrel. He had PEED on my HEAD. I can only now assume that it was in retaliation for the unprovoked assault by that aforementioned a-hole. I wiped the urine from my person amid uproarious laughter, while the squirrel chittered gleefully and disappeared.
This event would be amusing enough on its own. However, not two months later, I was in the area with my lunch (two small burritos from the on-campus Taco Bell). A friend of mine walked up and said hello. I naively believed that my food would be safe in its wrapper. Munching on the first burrito, I had left the second in its packaging on the bench next to me. The two of us chatted for a while, and it was time to attack B#2. As I turned, I heard a rustling like an obnoxious moviegoer with a bag of chips. To my dismay, I witnessed the same black beady eyes peering out over the wrapper of my lunch. He had grabbed the entire burrito, in its original packaging, and was gleefully dragging the haul back to his tree. I watched with fury as he managed with less difficulty than you might expect to lift the thing all the way up and out of sight. It was at that point that I decided I had underestimated this little demon.
For months, every time I went by that area I looked for my enemy, hoping to find some convenient way of getting my revenge. The problem with picking a fight with a squirrel is that they have very few personal possessions of any significance. It’s not like I could break into his nest and steal his money. I figured my best bet would be to wait until autumn and go watch where he went to bury his nuts. Then, when he wasn’t looking, I would go dig up HIS food and give it to some rival rodent. Or eat it myself. I couldn’t decide which was a more fitting punishment. Eventually, I lost interest, my mind on graduation and other more pressing issues.
But I write this today, more than two years later, because of an alarming development. I joined a choir a few months ago, and they too use space in the UCLA music building for practices. During break, I headed out with some choir-mates to get some food from the vending machines. Standing there under the tree, I felt a sharp *klak* on top of my head, as a hard fat acorn tumbled to the ground. Rubbing the spot, I lifted my head to see those cursed black beads, the world awash in his gleeful chittering. I smiled ruefully. “Touché, furry fiend. Touché.”

I read an article in the paper today that struck me. Three separate groups of anthropologists were given plastic reconstructions of King Tut’s skull, made from the images of over 1700 CT scans of his head. Each group was told to make a best-guess mold of Tutankhamen’s bust. One group, from the United States, was not told what skull they were working from, while the other two, one from France and the other from Egypt, knew. The results were interesting, if only that they showed clear preternations toward a likeness corresponding to the nationality of the sculptor. When presented side by side by side, it is immediately clear which group did what head. What struck me, however, is the enormous amount of effort towards a study of this young boy, who was only 19 when he died (was murdered by his steward, actually). If asked, I would bet that the average American would name King Tut before any other as the most famous or important Egyptian Pharaoh. Of course, the former is true, now, but the latter could not possibly be more false. No current layman would argue for Ramses II, who ruled for over 80 years and whose death at 97 plunged the region into chaos (He had outlived the entire population, which meant that no soul in Egypt could remember a time when Ramses was not ruler. They literally thought the world would end.). No person on the street today would proclaim the prominence of Hatshepsut, whose temple is still regarded as one of the most remarkable and influential structures ever built. No one would even mention Chefren, whose monument-tomb would hold the title of tallest man-made object until the dedication of the Eiffel Tower more than 4000 years later. Each of these incredible Egyptians, gods among men in their time, has been completely eclipsed by a murdered boy, weak of chin, buried in a hole in the desert to be forgotten. What makes King Tut put all of the most powerful Pharaohs to shame? Pure chance. His was the only tomb in the Valley of the Kings to survive un-plundered to the modern age. Yet because of our current remarkable ability to disseminate information, King Tut may well remain the most famous of all Pharaohs until the end of civilization.
Living in Los Angeles gives me a skewed insight on fame. In a sense, the video camera has replaced pyramids and statues. Perhaps less permanent than its geologic brethren, the camera nonetheless has garnered more fame to more people than any monument ever could. It is no coincidence that Tut’s fame came about in the age of the camera. It could not have occurred at any other time. Our obsession with the captured frame has dramatically altered how we as humans behave. Otherwise we perhaps would not spend thousands of dollars and hours poring over the long dead countenance of a once forgotten child.

Here’s the thing. I recently found out that the proximal 3.5 years of my future are set in motion. There is no deviating from the path, I will be an architect. Have you ever found one of those movies at your rental business of choice that you desperately want to have seen? It is well regarded, incessantly talked about, and of a topic that interests you. However, I say “want to have seen” because for some reason, you do not wish to actually watch the thing. You just want to have it in your brain to recall, and be done with it. These movies, for me, are often those historical epics that are so pervasive, violent, and depressing, yet consistently garner the appreciation of critics and moviegoers alike. They often feel like a three hour beating, one you inevitably feel better for having endured. I look ahead to September as would a dog hearing the word “vet”. I want desperately to clamber into my doghouse and whimper out the coming years. I suppose that analogy is not perfect, because in actuality I believe that architecture graduate school will be at least rewarding (if not thrilling) and I realize also that I will not be required to wait until it is over to reap those rewards. I have been told that these graduate programs usually want to quickly get rid of those not fit to be there. I do not know exactly how they come to this judgement, but I suppose they wait for bright-eyed enthusiasm to turn, over some telling period of time, into either breakdown or grudging acceptance. Those that breakdown soon leave the program. Those that breakdown later often bring down those around them as well. The common student will attain their grudging acceptance sooner rather than later. It is therefore the rare gem that can hold on to their initial exuberance for a long while, perhaps even into the working years (though, I am told, a few months of THAT will strain out the last of any respect for the field). My goal has never been to be a common student, despite my past record. I therefore see a great battle ahead of me, the crux of my fears and apprehension. Whether it will be a fight between myself and the program, or a more grueling chess match of my general positivity against the demons of forfeit I cannot yet predict. I can only be glad that my immediate future will at least hold many strange turns, and that I will be able to spend the days until it is over with my favorite pastime.
*Sigh* You have something in your teeth.