The Deserted Bandwagon

Author: MATT KUNZWEILER

Every once in a while, I or someone I know asks the question, "Why do we do this to ourselves?" This question is usually posed over Sunday scrambled eggs and seasoned potato cubes - "hangover brunch." I might try to justify my previous evening's carnivalesque B.A.C. by saying something along the lines of,"But how could you ask me to control myself when André Champagne was on sale at such low-low clearance prices?" Or, "When I heard the new Beck, Jay-Z and Pharrell Williams version of 'Frontin' on Debra,' autopilot just took over. I can't be held responsible."

This doesn't really answer the initial question, which I believe is an important one. Slews of students are downright celebratory about temporarily lobotomizing themselves on a regular basis. "Dude, I drank so much last night I acted like a feeble child!" Such a claim is met with the hearty response, "I know, it was bitchin'!"

Don't think I'm trying to take the moral high ground here - I'm as guilty as anyone. But can we look at the above example for just a second and acknowledge that something is wrong here? Alcohol is the acknowledged social lubricant, and when used properly, it might just produce the following equation - alcohol = friends. But the college tendency is to push the buzz to its most ridiculous extreme, a state characterized by slurred speach, fleeting consciousness, making out on the McCullough dance floor and violently shaking vending machines. Middlebury College students willingly let their autopilots take over, and many of these autopilots are scheming, amoral alter egos.

When I was young, my autopilot was a wild card. If I drank too much, I was handing the reins over to a maniacal hedonist. He'd get me home in one piece, but this was usually accomplished with some degree of heedless creativity.

One New Year's Eve, a cop approached a 16-year-old version of me, and with handcuffs drawn, offered to find me a place to rest. Realizing that he was talking about the drunk tank, my audacious autopilot commanded my body to sprint through three lanes of traffic and into the woods. I made it home safely that night, but it took me half an hour to clamber up my steep and icy driveway. My father, who has an interesting sense of humor, quietly witnessed this sad episode from the deck of our house. The next afternoon, while I was in-between dry heaves, he asked me to write an essay reflecting on my poor judgment.

"Dad, I think you need to take me to the hospital."

"I think you need to finish that essay."

"I'm begging you."

Despite the acrostic I slipped into my essay - the first letters of each line spelled out DAMN YOU BILL YOU THINK YOU'RE SO F***ING CLEVER - I think Bill won that one.

But I learned a valuable lesson by writing the essay. My depraved autopilot does not have my best interests in mind - he'll have fun with my body and then leave me catastrophically hung-over in front of a word processor - just where the bastard left me this morning.