by Cassie Vinograd

My ass has been asleep for quite a long time now. To be honest, it’s never been this bad before. Granted, usually after a full day of hung-over bumming around my dorm, the posterior feels a little tingly. Oh wait ... I live in Bobb. I guess it’s nothing to be concerned about, since like most who live here, I’ve been sitting on it for the past two quarters.

To the untrained eye, a look around Bobb might reveal some of the most dedicated and tough constituents to be found on this fine campus. There are more members of the Century Club here than any other campus-sponsored activity. The Boot N’ Rally team holds only a handful of coveted spots. There are nightly War Stories roundtables, and you’ll always see at least a couple residents nursing bumps, bruises and broken bones after falling down a flight of stairs or just plain eating it while stumbling home.

And while most of the female residents of Bobb are proud and active members of the tank top swap club, not everyone can find fulfillment in living the quintessential Bobb life. As exciting as it’s made out to be, living in Bobb is afforded so much supremacy on one’s schedule that it has become the only activity inactively engaged in by so many of Bobb’s residents.

Somewhere between high school and the high life, we have abandoned exactly what it was that got us into Northwestern. In high school, we were all a part of something: Student council, school newspapers, choir or debate...Being active was our lives. What is it, then, that caused us to abandon band costumes for bar attire? Activism for alcoholism?

I sure as hell hope it’s not the bittersweet taste of warm Busch light. No, there must be some tie between what Northwestern University saw on paper and reality. Since when does well-rounded mean able to go out, not just on Monday or Thursday, but Tuesday nights as well?

The residents of Bobb are in fact a part of something—an elite force of social strength, united for the common cause of finding a party.

The regulars at 1800 Club and the Deuce, we are the weak, the poor, the hung-over. Living in Bobb is its own extracurricular activity! While "Beirut Champion 2003" doesn’t look quite as nice as “[Insert Club Name] President for Four Years” on a job application, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone around here who couldn’t argue the roughness of life as we lead it. I mean, come on, we go to class, we drink, pass out, go to class…It’s tiring being expected to show up at every bar, every party, every event where alcohol is served. There are even some residents who feel that Bobb should have its own grading curve—how can we possibly be expected to compete with Shepard and Willard dwellers who have nothing better to do than study? We have appearances to maintain!

Riiiiight…Sounds silly, yes? But for a lot of us, Bobb defines who we are. Just as some might run for the hills when they hear the phrase ‘theater major,’ people can form an immediate opinion based on that one word—Bobb. Residents even form opinions about themselves, like how when they tell someone where they live, they do so with that sheepish little grin (you know the one I’m talking about). They more or less get off, solely from the feeling they get as it rolls off the tongue. Bobb denizens simply, yet unjustifiably, feel cooler than residents of SMQ, CCI, and Hinmann, who just aren’t able to induce such self-gratification with simple speech.

The truth of the matter is, Bobb is just another dorm. We seem to have bought so much into the notion that it is this mythical labyrinth of parties and all things social, that we have let ourselves abandon our other interests. Maybe more social and more outgoing people generally tend to live in Bobb. But is this really such a party dorm, or are we perpetuating a legend that already had its heyday? If we allow ourselves to be defined by four letters then we risk emerging as less than whole people.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but, while I enjoy partying as much as the next resident, I want to be more than Bobb. I know that my poor ass is itching, just tingling rather, to get out and go.

Cassie owns a really hot red tank top, but she refuses to swap with me. Convince her to let me borrow it: c-vinograd@northwestern.edu.

by Michael Feldman

When I filled out my housing form, I thought I knew what I was doing. Maybe South Campus isn’t quite as happening as up North, and maybe Willard isn’t the most social place on campus, but I was sure it would help my transitional period into college. I was sure it would provide me with the opportunities to meet people from all over campus.

I was wrong.

What really happens in the secretive, obscurely located Willard? There are actually fewer religious rituals and comet worship sessions than one would expect, but Willard is not without its eccentricities.

From the first moment I stepped on campus as a freshman, I heard about Allison Hall’s Virgin Vault, and of course, the Mole Hole. But Willard has its own vernacular, a set of terms that every resident is expected to know and use with ease. Three areas of all-male rooms are called “Lost Horizons,” the expensive and rarely used entertainment center in the basement is called the “Rat Trap,” and the weekly bathroom publication is appropriately named, “Conshitter This.”

Furthermore, Willard is the dorm furthest away from everything important on campus—the walk to the fraternity quads on a Chicago winter night is almost unbearable. Even if one is willing to make the trek to a party, Willard residents are rarely in the know about social events. Even if they were, few proud supporters of Frances’ Willard Prohibition policies mind staying in for a night (or 200).

Willard Residential College is more or less the cult of Northwestern dorms—an isolated compound that provides residents an opportunity to never leave their rooms. Outsiders are viewed with suspicion. Willardites themselves often wonder, “Why would anyone come to Willard to hang out?”

Naturally, freshmen search for their friends in their dorms initially, but Willard’s bond seems to be peculiarly strong. From regular firesides to dorm-wide Frisbee games, residents of Willard are constantly bonding. After spending only a brief amount of time in Willard, one realizes that the biggest faux pas is to not include as many Willardites as possible in every single activity. If two people from Willard do something, all 290 residents not involved should expect an invitation.

But, for all its social downfalls, Willard still has its perks. The people in Willard happen to be some of the nicest people I have met on this campus. Evanston is so close that drunk Burger King runs have become almost a nightly habit. Willard has further supported the Evanston economy by providing me with such limited social outlets up North that I have become a regular underage patron at various local bars.

The possibility remains that Willard is indeed a cult, with Frances Willard worshipped and prohibition plotted in the basement. The fact that outsiders are often shunned demonstrates that something strange could be going on.

Although I have heard nothing of any secret meetings, and actually enjoy being a resident, I myself cannot give any explanation for the closeness that is developed seemingly only by living and eating in Willard. Actually, eating in Willard is an experience unto itself. The food is some of the worst on campus, and the people in the dining room are always the same.

The strange actions of those fully involved in Willard culture doesn’t stop at the cafeteria. For about a week or so, the trendy thing to do around Willard was wear only a bathrobe. I strayed. I had always thought the cool kids drank booze, but apparently I was wrong ...

Bottom line: I still can’t explain why Willard seems to be so different from any other dorm. Maybe it’s the food or the description in the housing form, or maybe people just start freaking out because of isolation during a Chicago winter. I do know that it has been an experience that taught me about Northwestern, and forced me to find kids whose description of cool aligned more closely with mine.

So bring your bathrobe. Let’s party.

Michael Feldman was coerced into writing this column and should not be shunned by his fellow Willard residents. Send him nothing but love at m-feldman@northwestern.edu.