by Donnie Feedbags

February of my senior year and it’s time to send out resumes to all of the suits who wouldn’t hire me anyway with this hippie-looking beard. Surprisingly, it doesn’t look half-bad. Let’s see, Northwestern, that’s good. Dean’s List, bonus. Spent last summer as a guide at the Met, that looks pretty sweet.

But I’ve got a big problem, that big hole on the sheet where you’re supposed to brag about all the trendy activities you’ve done so that you look like a well-rounded person. You know, you picket for Alianza. You participate in the Charleston dance club. You’re the guy who does the Triple Lindy for the diving team.

Physically I’m quite well rounded. In fact, some of my friends think I am starting to resemble a less purple version of Grimace. But in terms of extra-curriculars, I’m about as rounded as Shawn Bradley on Stacker 2’s. Let’s just hope any prospective employers can conveniently look past my activities section, where my only legit activity happens to be writing for this thrice-annual, holier than thou online magazine.

So what’s my problem? I can’t stand any of the people who do any of this club crap, or basically anyone who derives pleasure from going to campus for no real reason. A lack of causes, I suppose, kills my extra-curricular spirit. I mean, let’s face it: Suburban, upper-middle class, white history majors have very little to fight for, except of course for a job six months from now. And that’s what got me into this whole resume mess in the first place. So why do these people keep going to campus? And where is this “campus” of which you speak?

Being a guy doesn’t help much either. There’s no Dude Club. Sure, we have Vagina Day (what the hell?). But I’m not a candidate to play pin the douchebag on Peggy Barr or pubic shaving for dollars. Plus, participating in any event named for the vagina instantly elicits giggles. He, he, he, vagina. Maybe there should be Penis Day, Schlong Week, or the Boner Luther King Hour, where we get two hours off once a year so that male students can have a really painful ring toss. It’ll never work though. Damnit, if I only had some sort of vagina that I could wear from time to time, my social hermitism could be avoided. Or at least I could be a partner in some sort of elaborate sex therapy club.

Really, though, there’s nothing for me to do. I’m the ultimate American mutt, to the point that there’s nothing for me to fight for. And with Dubya at the nation’s helm, America doesn’t seem meaningful enough to form a club. I think its great that you should fight for a minor or a specific ethnic studies department; there’s just not enough Porto-Irish-German-Polish-Russo-British Jew/Christians out there to start up a new department.

I’m also stuck in a major that doesn’t exactly shepherd people to participate in anything. I’m not a theater guy, though on a number of occasions someone has told me that I’m “theater material,” which means I guess that there’s a plethora of parts calling for rocks, trees, or any other of my fellow lazy entities. Maybe I could play that big vagina in a stage interpretation of Return of the Jedi. You know, the one whose labia tried to pull Lando into its innards.

Anyway, history doesn’t really have any extra-curriculars. Hell, maybe they do but I’m sure not going to waste any time finding out. Since I study medieval history, perhaps I could join that gang of idiots who congregate on Deering Field dressed up as knights to beat the piss out of each other with fake weapons. Sort of like American Gladiators on acid, but instead of the tennis ball canon and Mike Adamle, there’s a styrofoam mace and Mike Adamle.

So where does this leave me, boring old bastard that I am? Nowhere really, except writing this rant, which I guess could be considered extra-curricular. I, of the low motivation and expectation. Well it leaves me to get drunk, which is what I’ll be doing tonight and from here on out on Thursdays at Norris. Wine tasting, of course. Now there’s a worthwhile endeavor. I don’t have to paint the rock. I don’t have to pitch a tent and yammer on about how Arizona Ice Tea blew up the Cherokees. Certainly no sweating going on while swilling some vino. Stop by and see me raise a glass. Here’s to sloth!

Donnie Feedbags collects wooden puppets. He can be contacted at feedbags@northwestern.edu.