the bitter angels of my nature

I took a stoll over to Wheately Hall yesterday afternoon to see if the vending machines in the lobby had a better selection than the ones closer to my office had. Trapped between the double doors at the entrance to the building was a representative example of a certain breed of freshman which flocks to the campus at the start of every semester.

Dressed to the nines in the latest "hot" celebrity fashions, they look like they're headed out for a night of high-cover charge clubbing rather than a rousing 8:30 AM session of English 101. For them, the college experience isn't about pedagogy as it is about being seen, a rather sad attempt at prolonging the superficial bullshit of the high school experience. A few of these kids eventually smarten up and knuckle down, but the vast majority barely make it to midterms before quietly departing to work at the local Tello's store.

This particular example was sporting a Posh Spice-meets-Kim Kardashian-meets-South Shore mallrat ensemble, complete with oversized sunglasses, an unnaturally black dye job, and an uneven spray-on tan. I guess she tried to slip between the doors as they closed behind another student, but wasn't quick enough and got pinned between them halfway through.

For most folks with a modicum of common sense, it wouldn't be a big deal. The doors are on the heavy side and have really bizarre centers of gravity (especially if you're a southpaw, like I am), but not so much as to cause more than a slight inconvenience. This aspiring scholar, however, was having a tough time of it, due to the fact that she was holding the requisite giant cup of coffee in one hand and was fantically texting on her cell phone in the other.

She was so fixated on the latter activity that she could barely summon more than a slight wiggle, and even that was for the sake of getting a closer look at her phone's display screen. Maybe she was typing in the last string of a chemical formula that could cure cancer, solve world hunger, and provide an eco-friendly alternative for fossil fuel, and the urgency of the task was so great that she couldn't put the phone down for fifteen seconds and lever the doors open with her shoulders...but I somehow doubt it.

After watching this sorry display of obliviousness for a couple of minutes, I wondered if I should perhaps give her a hand.


Good Andrew thought: "Well, gee, sure she's an idiot, but that doesn't negate your obligation to do the right thing and help her out! Such small acts of basic kindness are what make a random and uncaring universe tolerable for its residents!"








Evil Andrew thought: "Anyone that fucking stupid deserves exactly what he or she gets."





Guess which side won the moral debate?

Pete Townshend - Let My Love Open the Door (from Empty Glass, 1980) - Or let my profound disgust make me circle around to the back entrance of the building and leave the idiots to wallow in their idiocy.

Note: I almost forgot to mention that there's a new pronounced WOO-BIN post on the subject of parenting, Woobin-style.