One More For The Road

As belated as this is, this was my final piece in student newspaper The Breeze. This article appeared on Thursday, April 27th, and comes slathered in nostalgia, free of charge. In other news, I have gained the ability to fly and bend metal with my mind. The job hunt should be easy.

After two semesters, thirty-six articles, and 25,274 words of varying size and strength, my time as your faithful opinion writer has come to its end. I would feel bereft if I did not take this opportunity to give credit where credit is due and give one last good-bye and good luck to all those who have read (and occasionally enjoyed) “Lover of Women, Conqueror of Nations.” Due to some graphic nostalgia, reader discretion is advised:
First and foremost, “Lover of Women, Conqueror of Nations” would not be possible without my parents engaging in sexual congress in the living room of our Alaska home, and the springtime snowstorm that kept them inside with nothing to do. Further, I am well aware that literally thousands upon thousands of people (many of them Irish) became intimate with each other so that I would be alive today, and I send my gratitude to them as well. Such foresight by my ancestors may be highly unlikely, but I’d like to think that at least some of my brethren said, “We’ve got to do this, or those people in the new millennium will never know Bobby McMahon.”
Beyond my conception, many people working at The Breeze are also deserving of thanks. Domo Arigato to Molly Little, my first opinion editor, for bringing me onboard and giving me the trust, the freedom, and the word count to develop as a writer and explore unorthodox and peculiar ideas (Jerry Kilgore as a dolphin killer, eating Mexican people and the greatness of Frank Whaley). Thanks also to my second opinion editor, Brian Goodman, for keeping the ball rolling and giving me the go-ahead on more serious and controversial topics (ASB’s and SafeRides, respectively). Muchos Gracias to Graham Neal, the editorial cartoonist for The Breeze, who added depth and humor to everything I wrote and effectively became the Scott Hall to my Kevin Nash, the Simon to my Garfunkel and the John Oates to my Daryl Hall. If you know him, high five him for me.
Most of all, I sincerely appreciate each of you who take the time between the Darts and the Pats to read my work, especially those who have sent a letter to the editor, darted, patted, poked, IM’ed or emailed me. Writing a column often becomes a very blind endeavor, in that I have no idea if the readers are responding to my ideas or laughing at my jokes. Those who have bridged the gap from reader to writer made my job exceedingly fun to do and you have my utmost gratitude.
As I’ve become increasingly (and somewhat painfully) aware of my dwindling time here, I’ve started to reflect on what I’ll miss most about JMU. For starters, I’ll miss my favorite restroom and water fountain on campus (2nd Floor Maury and Hillside Computer Lab, respectively) as well as my favorite cup of coffee in town (The Little Grill Collective: Where the Coffee Tastes like Justice!). Despite the fact that it's utterly terrifying, I'll miss the gut churning feeling of having absolutely no idea what I'll be doing in a year, a month, or even six hours from now, and the freedom that comes with having no commitments for the foreseeable future. I'll miss the nervous energy of the first day of classes, the hushed reverence of a Saturday morning breakfast, and the caffeine-fueled mania of finals week. I'll miss playing Frisbee on the quad, walking around campus on warm April evenings, and watching 17 underclassmen meander up Port Republic Road like a herd of confused cattle.
Most of all, though, I'll miss my friends, for without them, these places and these experiences wouldn't mean nearly as much to me. Truly, my experience has taught me that while the classes and details of our time at school will soon collide and congeal in our memories, the people we have encountered here will stand out in our beleaguered minds as reminders of what it felt like to be young and full of possibility.
As this jaunt through Memory-Town comes to its close, I will leave you with words I believe ring truer each passing year. On the road of life, there will be dead ends, potholes, and road kill, and there may come a time when you must eat the road kill to survive. Yes, even the skunks. Life at its heart, though, is a journey and not a struggle, so breath, enjoy the world and if you’re not going to eat that, save some skunk for me. [Click Here to Read More]