The Lush Gots nothin' This Week

Due to censorship, The Daily editorial staff has replaced expletives with "cowbells." Contrary to the popular belief of my roommates, friends, parents, the occasional professor, and most likely anyone who glances at the column each Thursday morning in the Daily, preparing for my duties as the Travelling Lush is not as easy as you would think. Despite the common assumption that I simply "drink and write about it," the formulation of a column that explores the world of social interaction at Tufts through the prism of an empty beer bottle or a delicious cocktail entails far more intellectually creativity, organization, and plain old energy than one would ever think.

The process is simply not as easy as heading down to the beer store, picking up a six pack, getting silly, and then transcribing the events of the previous night into a Word document. On any given weekend, the entire ordeal usually includes almost all of the following: an early morning (or afternoon) trip to the gym to prepare my body for the beating I'll put it through that night, the consumption of the proper liquids and foods that will provide the perfect combination of ability to soak up alcohol without killing a serious buzz, an extensive itinerary organized to get me enough places to fill an 850 word column, a back pocket to house both a ball point pen and manila notepad to record the insanity, the right state of mind that will remind me not to have that extra one -- knowing quite well that it is inevitable that I will lose that manila notepad and pen and be forced to actually write the column from memory, and the foresight to remember to stock up on an exceedingly large amount of Advil and Starbucks expresso's, essential for the writing process the day after (have you ever tried to write with a hangover?).

So, you can imagine the horror I experienced when upon waking this past Tuesday at 1:30 p.m., not hungover, and realized that despite my utter lack of festivity throughout the past week my deadline for this week's column had come and painfully gone. What's worse, I had nothing to write about. *Cowbells* How could I have done it? I had taken my responsibilities as Lush so seriously in the past that my readers had journeyed with me to the depths of the basement of the fraternity Zeta Psi, we had gone across town to sing a bit of Karaoke, enjoyed the unique atmosphere of the best Chinese place this side of Beijing, and even headed off to sangria in Spain and debauchery in Panama City, Florida. I had spent laborious hours in front of my computer screen describing my memories of an unforgettable spring break, the sheer ecstasy of getting my own column in the Daily, and even the sentiment of an entire country on the eve of aligning itself on the side of war.

But this Tuesday morning I had awoke to the viscerally painful reality that I was skirting my responsibilities as the Travelling Lush. I had spent the previous weekend preoccupied with nagging research papers and the unfriendly job search while I sat in front of MSNBC and watched the America's newest form of reality TV. Sure, I had a few brewskies and even participated in the early stages of a one-on-one Beirut tournament, but never did I have the slightest intention of transforming those activities into quality literature suitable for the pages of this newspaper. For shame.

*Cowbells*, I thought. My editor is going to kill me (editor's note: MacGregor watch your back). Even more devastating, the slight respite from the onslaught of "nerd" jokes that I constantly receive because of my strange affinity for the library would be gone. I had worked so hard to cast off the image of the studious Tuftonian. I had tried to pretend that I actually was a Lush -- that my weekends were really filled with mid-morning Sam Adam's and vodka-tonic nightcaps. Had it all been for naught? Did I have to accept the fact that my remaining weeks at Tufts would be filled with more trips to the reference desk than to the bar? I was still a senior, wasn't I? How in the *cowbells* had I let this happen?

Distraught, I glanced at my watch again. 1:37 p.m. 1:38 p.m. I was already eight minutes late for class. This was it, the absolute moment of truth. My next action would determine whether I lived out the rest of my undergraduate days confined to the reputation of that studious Tisch General that I had worked all too hard at maintaining for the past three years, or if I would act upon my own words and let my life imitate my art....

And so I did the only thing I could do. I threw on my glasses, strolled into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, poured myself a dry gin and tonic, and sat down at my computer to write.

In the words of "Pardon the Interruption's" Tony Kornheiser, "We'll try to do better next time" (the royal "We," that is).