The McMaster Silhouette, November 11th, 1999
BY MICHAEL DOJC

Like most Humanities students, I don't like to get up early so I don't have any 8:30 or 9:30 classes. Unfortunately I do have a 10:30 class and that is still too early but it's OK because I've developed a system; or a ritual, but that makes it sound a little too exotic and believe me it's anything but. It's just my way of jumping out of bed.

7 a.m. My alarm booms out of my clock radio. A perfect slumber is cut short by the lush vocal stylings of Nick of the Backstreet Boys pandering to his pubescent audience, singing "You are my fire, my one desire." (I like to set my alarm on a crappy station like Chum FM so I'll have even more incentive to wake up). Let's just say I don't wait for A.J. and company to join in before yanking the plug out of the socket.

I know what you're thinking. Why do I bother waking up three hours before my first class? Well, I admit I have my neuroses but let me tell you, three hours is not nearly enough time.

After turning off my alarm clock I fall back into bed and turn on Howard Stern. A few minutes go by and I find myself drifting off again. It is an off-day and Howard is ranting about the shoddy equipment in the studio again.

9:30 a.m. "RRRing. Rrring. Rrring." I pick up the phone. It's Chris telling me to get up.

"Thanks man," I say, while hanging up the receiver. My buddies always come through with the save. My mussed up pillow hair greets the mirror and then it's off to the races. In a robotic instinctual manner, I groom myself, eat some grub and then it's time for school.

10:30 a.m. As I enter the room, my jazz class is already teeming with energy. Dizzy Gillespie is blasting out of the Togo sound system and Dr. Hartwell is grooving to the cool be-bop vibe. I quickly join up with my humanities posse-everybody in the program has one-and just lay back and enjoy the melodies. It's a very relaxed class, extremely conducive to light conversation and maximum chilling. I couldn't ask for a better way to start my day.

11:30 a.m. It's off to Mills and with the posse slightly depleted due to scheduling misfortunes, I opt to go on my own for awhile and search for a couple of journal articles I need for an upcoming assignment. As usual, the archaic book stacks of Mills offer me no salvation. My topic must be too hip to have been previously researched. I find an over-achieving high schooler's essay on the net that sort of relates and begin to jot the URL down in my notebook when a deep Eddie Vedderesque voice distracts me from my "studies."

"What you doing? What's going on?"

It's my friend Rob and he seems a little perturbed. It turns out that he was having the same problem as me. The next day the problem would be formally presented to the professor who would greet the news with a sympathetic ear. He informed us that he sincerely felt our pain but no remedy was offered. Such emotive discourse is typical in humanities courses and so of course nobody laughed except for a couple of adult students who are a little out of the loop.

12:30 p.m. I laboriously trudge up three flights of stairs in University Hall en route to my "pillow course." Lethargy sets in today earlier than usual. Just as the prof begins to speak, my lids begin blinking uncontrollably and they soon succumb to my weary state, closing fully for extended periods of time.

Talking is not really permissible in this class and the lecture hits me like a gravol. It's a two hour marathon and I suffer through it the whole way. In between periodic blackouts, I jot down the important stuff and in rare moments of lucidity I check my trusty wrist watch to see if the hands are still moving. When it's all over, the high I feel is incredible.

2:30 p.m. Chow time!

I've got a craving for a personal pizza and so it's off to the Togo cafeteria. After grabbing a pie, I scan the tables for friendly faces. Nothing, my reconnaissance turns up blank. As I am about to resign myself to a lonely lunch, I hear a familiar sultry whisper in my ear, "Do you know what I want to do?" It's Daniela.

She hastily leads me off to Bates; she has a doctor's appointment so there isn't much time. When we get there, Nupur and Stella already have the board out. It's time for some scrabble (I did warn you about my neuroses before). Daniela keeps on scoring big with those X and Z words. It's not really fair though, because she's in science.

4:30 p.m. I leisurely stroll over to the Arts Quad, pick up a Nestea, and wait around for some people to show up. Martha shows up a of couple minutes later all decked out in her Calvin Klein T-shirt with capri pants and chunky black shoes. An appropriate ensemble I think for a pop culture course. She likes to sit in the near the back so she can talk and so we settle into the end of a sparsely crowded row. I take the aisle.

Rob saunters in as the prof starts his intro and Rob seems a little cheery. He conquered the menace that is Mills and actually found an article in the book stacks that seemed to fit his topic. I'm impressed.

Today's topic is very Ally McBeal-centric which is great because it is my favourite show. The prof posits the many intricacies of the quirky court room comedy-drama and then opens the floor for discussion about the feminist issues of the show, a topic made hot by a Time magazine feature that made light of Ally McBeal as the new torch bearer of feminism. The rest of the class doesn't seem interested and only a handful of them even admit to watching the show.

I'm feeling brave so I raise my hand.

"I think that if you look at the supporting cast of the ensemble show you will find great strong female role models in the characters of Ling, Renée, Nell and even Elaine."

The professor pauses for a long moment, maybe to reflect about why I chose to leave out Georgia, and then he nods his head in agreement. For the benefit of the non-watchers in the class, the prof proceeds to give a detailed character sketch of each of the women I have mentioned. This class is also a two hour marathon, but I like this class; in fact, it's my favourite one.

6:30 p.m. I only have an hour to spare before my Spanish dancing class so I decide to go for a little walk to limber up. I leisurely stroll down Sterling toward Lipson's house. There is always something going on at Lipson's and today is no exception. Dave is barbecuing trout on the porch, Jay and Elliot are chilling to some C-Murder and Roger is playing games on his computer.

I mooch a piece of fish and settle into my place on the couch. I spoon some of the fish into my mouth and then quickly spit it out.

"Dave, it's fucking undercooked! Put it back on the grill!"

"Oh. Sorry about that."

7:30 p.m. Mambo time!

The boom box plays "California Girls" in Spanish and the instructors show their stuff. My partner Kristin and I watch with amazement as the two semi-pros prance about with expert precision, executing flawless turn after turn, after turn. We don't practice between lessons and so when the music is turned back on we clumsily fumble about, trying to imitate the instructors' complicated manoeuvres.

The move we are working on today is a variation on a basic spin-type turn which Kristin and I are quick to dub "the teapot." It is quite simple. The girl stands with her hands on her waist and the guy twirls her around with her elbows while maintaining the basic mambo step.

For once we pick up the move on the first try and I'm feeling pretty macho for a gringo. I turn her faster and faster, revelling in my newfound mambo machismo. Kristin is getting dizzy but I'm having too much fun so I twirl her around so hard, the momentum turns her a second time. I look around the room to see how everybody else is making out when an elbow hits me square in the balls. Kristin breaks out in a fit of laughter as I keel over in pain.