My B.F.F.

Having published fifteen posts of stunning originality, I believe I have fair claim to being the most compelling presence in the blogosphere in this new decade. Despite my fearsome intelligence, hunger for truth, and unflinching political commentary, I actively seek the company of others. In fact, I'm currently searching for a Best Friend Forever.

Sixteen fortunate preliminary B.F.F.s will be identified and whisked to the tip of Cape Cod, where they will spend the month of March in an unheated cottage. Each potential B.F.F. will receive a cubic-zirconium-encrusted cellphone with my personal coodinates entered into its memory.

All 16 contestants will be blond, extremely attractive, and younger than 23. I warn those of you educated (even privately) in the United States that some among your number will be products of British state schools and may, therefore, prove intimidating or at least more verbally adept. You will be evenly divided between men and women as I do not intend (at least initially) to bed my new B.F.F.

I plan to call each of you at random with a series of ever-escalating demands. I may ask you to run naked down a wind-swept beach with your mouth full of sand, to plunge into the Atlantic's icy depths, and then to grind sea glass or sharp, splintered driftwood into your sex parts. Why? As a test of loyalty and to determine if you are entitled to the moniker "B.F.F."

During your try-out or apprenticeship, you will use whichever bath products, consume whatever foods (even sea glass and sharp, splintered driftwood), and sleep wherever I decree (expect to spend several nights in an abandoned vehicle or tree). Your cohort of sixteen will be winnowed to four. The other dozen will be asked to return their cellphones promptly and to arrandge their own transport home (N.B. Provincetown airport operates on a vastly reduced schedule in winter and does not service the U.K.).

Finalists will then make their way to New York for a series of costly lunches with me on the Upper East Side (also at Savoy on Crosby Street). A few conversational guidelines: I am not particularly introspective and do not welcome intrusive, "psychologically acute" observations about my character. Don't inform me that I'm "parsimonious," "feel owed," or "have profound issues." Also, don't stare at me while I eat. Just keep your trap shut, allow me to discern if you can handle a fork in public, and when I tactfully excuse myself to "visit the gents'" at the conclusion of the meal, pick up the check.

Don't utter things you think make you sound interesting. Announcing "heliskiing is better than sex" won't make me want to try the sport, but will force me to wonder what sort of sex you've had (and possibly even to picture it).

If your parents or other relations own unoccupied properties in locales that conceivably could be considered desirable, by all means say so. Don't fail to inform me about a vacant flat because you blithely assume I "don't like London." I do like London. Especially South Kensington.

What I don't like is human selfishness. B.F.F.s share. Everything: popcorn at the movies, secrets, stock tips, and, above all, a sense that we're there for each other. Why else have I loaned you an encrusted cellphone? But if, let's say, you're worried about a promotion at work, ask yourself if I, as a matter of course, would be interested in this facet of your life. (If you labor in the financial services industry at a (pre-promotion) salary below $125,000, probably not. If, however, you work with people I went to high school or college with and happen to know their salaries (regardless of size), do give me a ring.)

The same applies to your personal life. Having trouble with a girl- or boyfriend? If you're gay (particularly lesbian), I'm all ears to any details you may wish to furnish. If you're straight, think things through before phoning me (particularly after 6 PM). Is the one with whom you're intimately involved "just a person," or does he or she have some allure that makes him or her worth discussing with me? (Examples: he or she is on the masthead of the "New York Times" (editorial; not business); owns more than three successful restaurants in Manhattan (museum cafes excluded); earned more than $3.6 million in each of the last five fiscal years or possesses a house in Amagansett or better (neither heavily mortgaged nor north of the highway); currently serves or has more than a passing acquaintance with someone who currently serves on the board of the Brearley School.)

After our series of lunches has ended, the two remaining finalists will accompany me to Central Park for a gantlet of sack races, tug-o'-war, bark-and-insect munching, and finally to a bed of hot coals on which each will be expected to tread for a minimum of 20 minutes. At the conclusion of this day, the most worthy will have been selected and my new B.F.F. and I can go out for a celebratory dinner. Probably to Savoy.

The Game

The Princeton Football Association committed to a special fundraising effort that improved the...experience of attending a Princeton Football game. The PFA raised $500,000 to reimburse the University for the state-of-the-art scoreboard; which is unmatched in the league--December 2009 letter from Anthony P. DiTommaso, Jr. '86, President of the Princeton Football Association

It's been a difficult year for America and particularly for our Tigers. Just as many in our nation are hurting, our team also suffered some tremendous setbacks with numerous injured players and tough losses on the field. When a restaurant has problems, it seeks a new chef; rest assured, we have begun the search for a new head coach.

This is our final solicitation of the year and I would like to take this opportunity to remind you why supporting football at Princeton should be your highest priority. How often has someone remarked in a tone of astonished delight, "You went to Princeton?" (Particularly if that person is also an alum.) Some of the highlights of my life have been spent in the elevator at the Princeton Club on West 43rd Street reminiscing about all that makes our alma mater such a distinctive place: eating clubs and the bickering process by which prospective candidates are excluded from them, old Nassau Hall, and of course, football.

Show me a young man who can kick a pig's bladder between two uprights from a distance of 45 yards and I'll show you a future senator. Show me a running back who can carry for 37 yards on 4th and eight and I'll show you a future president. Show me a quarterback who can thread the needle and find an open man in the end zone amidst a swarm of Dartmouth defenders and I'll show you someone who will someday put this entire planet in his back pocket and sit so firmly upon it that the noise released from this collective human whoopie cuishion will blow the biggest of holes through the ozone layer.

Hunger is important; health care is important; housing is important. But what's truly important? Princeton Football! Who bleeds black and orange? We do! Who wants a new coach pronto? We do! We're going to provide our coaches with the enhancements necessary to compete for student-athletes and get the Tigers back to the top. We're going to fund spring recruiting and opponent scouting. We're going to furnish program enhancements for players and coaches. We're going to enhance the Bejesus out of all seven other teams in the Ivy League.

The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. And that's just a high school! The CEO of an average S&P 500 company earns 319 times more than a production worker. The mean compensation for a Princeton grad in such a position is 412 times greater and the amount earned by a Princeton-educated CEO who played football on campus is 586 times greater. Are we building leaders or are we building leaders?

You're at the Game: Princeton vs. Yale. You care more about its outcome than any future verdict you'll help render while serving on the Supreme Court, any inoculation you'll patent, any museum you'll design. It's pouring rain; the field is a pit of mud. The distant stands are a sea of blue and white umbrellas held by the wimps from New Haven. We wear our black and orange raingear but we do not protect our heads. We show solidarity with our warriors on the field: men with noble Princeton names from the heart of Pennsylvania coal country: Maliszewski, Iacavazzi, Vuono, and Avallone.

Our soldiers are on their own 16. All odds are against us when a slow roar begins to build, a deafening chant of commitment and determination: Tigers! Tigers! Tigers! A completed pass. You squeeze the arm of the gorgeous woman next to you: raven-haired, dark-eyed, from a prominent Houston family. You will someday marry this woman and inherit one of the leading liquor distributorships in the Southwest. All made possible by a chance encounter during Freshman Orientation at Princeton! But you do not care: all is dross. Another completed pass, quarterback sneak, out of bounds, the clock is stopped.

The clock is stopped because Princeton players are agile, swift, and tough, but above all, Princeton players are smart. When we're behind by two points and there are 34 seconds left in regulation time, we stop the clock. (Of course, we are playing Yale so they're intent on our not stopping the clock.)

Your chest is pounding. There are 2,783 institutions of higher learning in America, four of which are any good. You're at one of them! You are at (given the high incidence of TAs at Harvard) the best! But it doesn't matter: if we lose today, we're doomed.

You glance at the raven-haired creature beside you, at the woman you adore and you cannot remember her name. You're in a trance. Pick-up of six. Lateral pass: gain of eleven. Your face is wet: rain, tears, sweat. This is your Waterloo. Nine seconds left. We're on their 24. Out comes Blaschewski. First name or last? You're not sure.

Then your eyes turn to the most beatific sight on God's earth: Princeton's new state-of-the-art scoreboard. They ain't got one of them in Cambridge. Through the pelting rain, you note the nostril-width of the Yale fans. They actually resemble bulldogs.

The name flashes on our glamorous new scoreboard: Czeslaw Blaschewski. Go Czeslaw! Make us proud! Boot that pig's bladder through the goal posts and ensure your future in global arbitrage at one of the three remaining Manhattan investment banks. The ball is snapped, the bladder is booted, and like the perfect ending to a much-loved fairy tale, the ending is oh, so very happy. You kiss Daphne (you've remembered: Daphne Huntington) and wrap your arms around her. Christ Almighty, life is good.

Missing Missing Me

My main regret about the fact that I must die some day is that I won't be present to hear the posthumous praise others will have for me. I truly will be missed in my small community in Missouri, where I have been a fixture for the past sixty years.

What is so special about me? Many things. I'm tall, athletic, an avid lover of art and literature, and possess a wicked wit. Truth be told, I often prefer my own company to that of friends and neighbors. My daughter says that's because I live in the Midwest ("broad lawns and narrow minds"), but I think Gary Boone at the post office put it best when he told me, "You're always thinking about something."

Am I more interesting than other people? Probably so. Of course, with the flood of computers, hand-held contraptions, and what-not, the populace has become increasingly dull, but, nonetheless, even when compared with members of my own generation, I do hold a certain fascination.

I think of myself as a baby who enjoys having sex with grown women. This image is jarring, but bear with me. Despite considerable success as a businessman due to undeniable savvy, I have retained a sweet innocence (what the Italians call dolcezza) and naivete which makes me all the more appealing to the opposite sex.

My son once brought me up short when we were walking down Main Street, our arms loaded with packages. "Dad, look at all this stuff you've bought me," Robert said. "Do you even know what today is?" I shook my head no. "It's your birthday, Dad. And you've spent it buying me gifts." True story.

I suppose kindness is simply second nature to me. While I can't claim to have invented the $10 SMS for aid to Haiti, I can tell you I was the first one to reach for my cell phone when this method of donation first flashed across the screen during an NFL broadcast. "You exert so much energy thinking of others that you have none left over for yourself," is a comment that could well be uttered with reference to me.

I don't know how many of you are familiar with the riad. Some may confuse this word with foreign currencies (South Africa's rand or Iran's rial), but it is actually a sort of Moroccan townhouse built around an interior garden.

In Marrakech several years ago, I was with my family at Les Jardins de la Koutoubia (The Gardens of the Koutoubia), an upscale hotel with two swimming pools. My brother Henry (a mid-level employee for the State of Arizona) had joined us with his brood. Unfortunately, they were staying not at Les Jardins de la Koutoubia, but at a riad in the medina (a confusing and somewhat frightening warren of lanes thronged with Arabs selling almonds, dates, and pounded brass).

I could see that Henry's children were terrified to be in the midst of the medina and also knew that a bothersome problem with the plumbing meant that their riad stank of fetid sewage. I therefore took it upon myself to arrange for my brother and his children to spend the day with us around the smaller of the two pools at Les Jardins and to partake in a traditional Moroccan luncheon buffet (delicious!) entirely at my expense.

Bountiful, beneficent, open-hearted, magnanimous: these adjectives will see heavy use at my funeral. V.S. Naipaul was once told something of immense importance by a cab driver: "Always pleasure the woman first." Before I die, let me say, "Thank you, V.S. And please extend my gratitude to the cab driver if you are still in touch." Thank you from me and the numerous women in this area who have found fulfillment in the bedroom of this humble widower.

There are two ways to do things in life: in a brusque, brutal manner (the firing of Jimmy the Greek from network television many seasons ago), or with charm and dignity (the gracious tour of the White House George and Laura Bush provided to the incoming Obamas after the 2008 election).

Once my wife and I decided to rent a small outbuilding on our property with unusually low ceilings (5'4") to a young, unusually short family from El Salvador. We preferred, however, that they not trespass on our lawn on their way to and from work, school, etc. Margaret wanted to post a "Keep Off The Grass" sign on their fridge. I counseled restraint and penned the following: "While you are free to view our lovely garden, we ask that you and your offspring kindly restrict your movements to the driveway. In this way, you will have the best of both worlds: you may enjoy the splendor of the lawn while not troubling yourselves with its maintenance."

That family was with us 14 months and I like to think I still have a place in their hearts. For others who've known me longer, my absence will be a grave blow. Something in my character is so extraordinary that many have felt compelled to share their feelings about me in poerson. But as for those more tight-lipped, I just can't help wishing I could hear what they say when I'm gone.

Camp Bad Ass

Generally, the more money you have, the less time you're forced to spend with your adolescent children: there's boarding school throughout the academic year with ski instructors lightening your load during winter holidays. Students at independent day or strong suburban schools have a battery of athletic coaches, psychotherapists, SAT tutors, and private college counselors to keep them out of your hair. For some of you, however, the recent economic downturn has put a crimp in your plans to offload the kids this summer. Meet Camp Bad Ass.

You've all had the experience of chastising your child for low grades or shoplifting only to see him or her press the remote and channel surf in the midst of your lecture. And you've watched your offspring lose six retainers in four months and lie on the bed with their finger up their nose for hours at a time. Treat yourself this summer: let Camp Bad Ass do the heavy lifting.

For a fraction of the cost of traditional camps, we at Bad Ass entertain your teenagers from the minute school lets out until it begins again in the fall. We're far and away the most popular camp on the East Coast and are oversubscribed each summer.

Our counselors don't have years of classroom experience, lifesaving badges, CPR training, rock climbing certification, or Outward Bound qualifications. But they, unlike you, love hanging with teens. And they also realize your daughter's going to get a tattoo on her lower back, smoke dope, and date people from lower socioeconomic groups and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

We don't bake bread, press olives, or savor our homemade bread in hand-pressed oil. We don't lead nature walks, visit animals in their natural habitat, or identify moose droppings. Nor do we pick up litter on stretches of Maine highway as some sort of penance for living in Tribeca. We don't take kids out on a three-masted schooner, construct wigwams, or explore acquatic life in tidepools. The word "service" (eco-, community, or otherwise) is absent from our mission statement. We don't foster, share, or nurture anything. And above all, we never, ever try to "teach" your child, having conceded long ago the futility of such an endeavor. What is our ethos? Fun.

We have no dormitories, playing fields, or facilities whatsoever. We group kids by musical tastes, then pile them into brightly-colored buses tricked out with water beds, laptops, HDTVs, and killer stereo systems. We drive around for eleven weeks goofing off and getting to know each other. Think Partridge Family without shared chromosomes. And better tunes.

We have longstanding relationships with all major theme parks which allow us to enter the grounds an hour prior to other groups. Before the sun begins baking and just as others are starting to queue for their first ride on Ragin' Cajun, we've already been twice, exhausted Superman Tower of Power, and are on our fourth jaunt down the Xcelerator. In a given week, we'll visit Six Flags three times (twice at night), view four first-run movies (60% of which star Will Smith), and squeeze in a couple of Acqua Parks.

A typical day might be music, a breakfast Grand Slamwich at Denny's, a three-hour nap, a leisurely lunch at KFC, a flick, and maybe some late-night bowling followed by pizza. If we drive by a lake and people feel like a dip, fine, we'll stop, but there are no icy early morning swims, no archery, relay races, ghost stories, or other lame stuff.

We don't piously collect all cellphones the first day and keep them in a painted wicker hamper until "call home day." If our kids want to phone home, they phone home. (Don't worry, they won't: they'll be having too much fun.) Our campers are online, on Twitter, on their cells, or planted in front of some sort of screen most of the summer. We distribute BlackBerries to whoever needs one.

As for food, most of what we eat is fried. New England is fried clams. We're an all-steak camp, heavy on the breakfast meats, and all our meals are consumed in restaurants. We don't gather wood, build fires, cook together cooperatively as a unit, or do dishes.

In our 28 years' experience, we've learned one thing: hog the good times while you're young because they slip away real fast. No one wants to spend his or her summer "learning." That's why there's school.

Diary of a Mad Housewife

Al Qaeda leaders in Iraq's Anbar province have imposed a prohibition on women buying cucumbers, deemed too suggestive of male anatomy--The New Republic

Being married to an Al Qaeda operative is most demanding. There are many dos and don'ts and lately, according to my husband Fawwaz, I am always doing a don't. These days he is more obsessed than ever with acquiring a dirty bomb. I have told him (for reasons of hygiene) that if he ever finds one, I do not want it in the house. Monday morning he burst in angrily, his face as red as a radish, and demanded, "Where is my surface-to-air missle launcher?" I told him: "Right next to the bed where you left it this morning. Why do you ask?" "Because, woman, I want to shoot down that unmanned drone above us whose low hum is driving me crazy."

Here I am, trapped at home day after day with the sound of unmanned drones constantly in the background, and Fawwaz claims it irritates him. Anyway, he will never be able to bring it down (he can't even see it and thus always misses).

At lunch that day, Fawwaz saw me peeling a cucumber and his face darkened. "Where did you get that?" he asked angrily. "The same place I get everything in our village of 46: the bazaar." "You are never to buy another cucumber," he erupted. "But Fawwaz, you love cucumbers." "I may love cucumbers, but I have a profound aversion to your buying them."

I married a man who speaks in riddles. I said, "I have two questions for you: What is meant by 'profound,' and what is meant by 'aversion'?" Enraged, he stared at me for a full minute. "You know the population of our village, but do not know these two simple words?" "I was forbidden from attending school, Fawwaz. Do not expect me to possess an impressive vocabulary." He then thundered, "Women are subordinate to men and cucumbers are subordinate to women." Ah, finally there is something subordinate to me in my culture!

Tuesday, more anger at lunch: "Where did you buy these carrots?" "Fawwaz," I responded, "if you want to know where I've purchased something, the answer will be the bazaar. Until, of course, we decide to move back to Karachi." "No carrots," he bellowed. "And no cucumbers." Obviously, Fawwaz has has not spent much time in the bazaar or he would realize that he's vastly restricting our diet.

Wednesday brought wrath like no other: "Woman, is this a sausage I see before me? Have you forgotten we eat no pork?" I informed Fawwaz that this was a newly available, low-calorie chicken sausage. "And you handle it freely?" he glared. "Yes, Fawwaz, do you expect it to find its own way to the pan?"

Fawwaz and his associates may have located a dirty bomb. I'm happy for him, but wish he hadn't thrown a tirade during yesterday's breakfast. "You no longer care for bananas, Fawwaz?" He sat in stony silence, then said,"I do not want my wife to buy bananas." "Are you suggesting I steal them?" "What I require from you," he announced, "is silence."

On Saturday, Fawwaz declared he had to travel to South Waziristan. "No wonder you've been grumpy," I teased. "Where will you sleep?" "In a cave," he answered. (What else is new?) "At least let me offer you something for the journey, perhaps a sandwich." "A sandwich is a symbol of Western decadence," Fawawz intoned. "Then just some bread and cheese?" I offered. He nodded his assent.

As he adjusted his turban, preparing for the journey to South Waziristan, I brought out his food. "What in the name of Allah is this?" he shrieked. I was distraught: "Don't tell me you're off cheese now." "Not the cheese, this blasphemy here on the table. What is it?" "It is bread," I stated simply. "In the shape of a serpent?" "Yes, Fawwaz, it is called a baguette. Apparently they're eaten in France." "Since when is that a recommendation?" he screamed, raising the baguette and striking me with it.

All is still now. I lie on the floor, the bent baguette beside me. I hear only the hum of an unmanned drone, which I actually find comforting. Eleven days without Fawwaz: I will not miss bathing his feet and then drinking his bathwater. In fact, I resolve to try Sprite. And to host a Ladies' Night here for Adara, Basmah, Firyal and the others. When they ask what they can bring, I won't hesitate to answer: zucchini.

You Can't Eat Prestige

I have made a number of sacrifices in my life for which I take full responsibility. As I sit at my aged desk, chipped coffee mug beside me, I stare out from my porch in the Berkeley Hills and ponder my future.

It has been said that "A" students become professors while "B" students end up working for "C" students. This wisdom was shared by a self-admitted "C" student who occupies an 8,000-sqare-foot house further up Shasta Road from me. His remark rang true: I was that "A" student; I am that professor.

We Berkeley faculty have been asked to take furlough days amounting to pay cuts of four to ten per cent. These furloughs have increased the gap between the annual salaries of senior faculty and those at comparable private institutions like Harvard and Princeton (with whom we vie for professors) from $29,000 to $48,000.

If one is a partner at a Greenwich, Connecticut hedge fund and discovers that another partner has taken home $48,000 more in the previous year, there are probably no hard feelings. Neither knows precisely what he or she has "earned"; it's merely known to be seven or eight figures and $48K is acknowledged as a three-day weekend in Mustique.

But I earned only $142,000 last year and when I bring in my old Volvo for servicing, I must scrutinize the bill. I decided long ago that I could either be a nurturer or an exploiter. I chose the former and have never regretted it. But I do regret a pay cut. In fact, I resent it.

I don't teach at an Ivy League university: I labor in the public sector. I have faithfully offered students (many from low-income families) one or two courses per semester (not counting sabbaticals) for the past 27 years. I am now rewarded with a mandatory furlough. I don't want additional time off. Though I teach Turedsday and Thursday mornings and host an office hour Wednesday afternoon, I nevertheless find time to conduct my research and to write.

I wonder if my fellow cultural anthropologists at Stanford have their wastepaper baskets emptied once every two weeks. Such is the situation here at the University of California. The other Ph.D.s and I are often forced to compress the trash with our feet so that the bin does not overflow.

Yes, I'm fortunate to teach in California in the Bay Area at the state's flagship university. Yes, I appreciate residing in an airy, Japanese-inspired home which boasts rock garden, small ornamental koi pond, and many floral varieties. Indeed, the 335 days of sunshine each year are a balm to my weary soul. But an 8% reduction in pay? When all is said and done, those striking Yale clerical workers put it best those many years ago: "You can't eat prestige."

One tires of hearing how "lucky" one is every time one picks up the newspaper. Barack Obama earns $400,000 per year and has perks too numerous to mention, but I can assure you he doesn't tamp down his watepaper basket every other week. For eight years our president was a blithering idiot and Obama's arrival was heralded as manna from Heaven. "How grateful we are to have a brilliant president," swooned the press. Forgive me for saying so, but I am one of the few people in these United States who's actually as smart as Barack Obama. And yet I earn less than half his salary. Where is the nation's gratitude for my presence on campus, for my years of public service?

If I were to defect to Penn or Columbia or even (God help me, Austin), my department would never be able to fill the resultant gap. Not at less than $150K per year and ever-diminishing pension funding (my TIAA-CREF annuity yield is currently down to 3.15%).

Anthropology is a little-understood field (often confused with archeology by the unlettered). Allow me to clarify my achievements. I graduated summa cum laude (this means with highest honors) from Haverford College (an elite school on the outskirts of Philadelphia). I then did graduate work at Cambridge (the one in England) and my thesis was published by Oxford University Press (again, in England). Do you still believe I am worth less than 1/87th the average salary of an adequate major league relief pitcher?

Unfortunately, I'm a sentimentalist and know that I'm not going to find a koi pond in Princeton. Maybe on the Seward Johnson estate, but even there it would freeze over four months per year. I love the bougainvillea that tumbles down my hillside, being greeted personally by Alice at Chez Panisse, my wild rose bushes, my bonsai, teak outbuildings, and, yes, I love (a few of) my (graduate-level) students. Perhaps, I'd best just wrap my kimono tighter, grit my teeth, and stay.

Psyched

A resident in psychiatry at the Yale school of Medicine is on leave after he was charged with two counts of illegal possession of an assault weapon. According to the police incident report, he appeared to be intoxicated, was bothering patrons at the restaurant Dolci, and then "began yelling that he 'loved violence' and that he wanted 'to kill everyone.'" His attorney's explanation for the "arsenal of firearms, ammo, and gear/food items" found in his client's home is that he "grew up in the West and has an interest as a collector."--Yale Alumni Magazine

I ain't never fully understood my rejection from Harvard Medical School. The interview seemed to go mighty fine and I thought my personal essays revealed the complex currents that course through my personality. I recall asking the receptionist at the Harvard Admissions Office if I might photocopy a receipt for a sniper rifle and her asking for my full name and ten cents, but beyond that I have no insight.

Just the other day, while working with post-traumatic stress disorder patients at the Veterans Administration Hospital in West Haven, I emphasized that the human psyche is an extraordinarily fragile mechanism. Then I got Larry, who has a plate in his skull, to set off the metal detector in the Proctor Wing while Stevie and I raced to the cafeteria and shot soda bottles, three windows, and a food service worker in the arm (luckily for her (and unluckily for us) she ducked). I may not get another crack at her now that that tattletale of a bartender at Dolci called the cops on me.

So I breached the peace? So I carried a pistol without a permit and toted a firearm under the influence of drugs and alcohol? So shoot me.

Where I'm from in Texas, gettin' rowdy's just all part of a Saturday night. Yale's damn lucky I'm from the West. If I was from the East (as in Middle East), this'd be all over Twitter: "Whooee, we got us a terrorist down on State Street!" The whole University'd be in lockdown: bullhorns, flak jackets, the works.

These people out East are wusses: gotta have a fern by their heads to drink a beer. Act like they ain't never seen a gun. I grew up with guns: ate my damn cereal with a Luger in my lap. And I been collecting right up until the day I aced the MCATs: .45 Long Colts, 5.56 NATOs, .38 S&W Specials, .357 MAGs, .38 Supers, .22 LRs, and .455 S&Ws. Not to mention 45,000 rounds of ammo (a good part of which is hollow-point).

Do you know those cowards didn't even have a warrant? Nobody touches my assault weapons without a warrant. Last time somebody did that, I blew up her cat with a bicycle pump. She boo-hooed plenty but I later heard she sold the critter for vivisection to the psych. lab.

You know what New Haven needs? A tank. Not a sensory deprivation tank where you can lie in the dark and think violent thoughts and focus on events from movies like a tongue bein' ripped from a live person's mouth, but a real, honest-to-God tank. The kind you see rollin' down the aisles of a Wal-Mart in east Texas on a Thursday afternoon and nobody bats an eye. The kind we're deploying to Iraq, Afghanistan, and, hopefully, Haiti.

I never realized how much I hated preppies till I came to New Haven. My medical school advisor told me: "If you accept a residency spot at Yale and become a psychiatrist, most likely you will run across some preppies." Run across is right: in my tank. I'd love to flatten a few of them as they scurry like rats, fumbling with the Davenport College gate combination locks late at night. Especially the ones who use the escort service. You mean to tell me you're Mr. Valedictorian/Swim Champeen who's climbed Mount Everest and you need a ride 'cause you're scared? A guy like that back in east Texas? We stick a pole up his ass and roast him. If I see one more goddamned building covered in ivy, I'm gonna blow it up. And not with no bicycle pump.

You know what I'd like to do with those wimps at the Drama School? Waterboard 'em in cow piss and then make 'em watch an entire season of their "work." Since when do face painting and ballooons have a place in theater? And if I want to see a nekkid lady, I'll get me a "Penthouse" or pick up some gal at Dolci.

Now they done put me on administrative leave. Didn't even have the guts to tell me in person. Sent me an email asking me to turn in my ID and lab coat. I wrote 'em straight back: "Say it to my face."

But they all scared 'cause I drank a tad too much and said I wanted to kill everyone. They actually take me seriously. How am I gonna kill everyone? Six-and-a-half billion people? I ain't even got enough ammo for the lobby of a hotel in China.

And now my lawyer's telling me we gotta work on my psychological profile. "We"? I'm a goddamn psychiatric resident at Yale. I think I can do my own profile! I'll just have me a dip into the "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" and give myself a platter of auditory hallucinations, paranoid and bizarre delusions, and a side order of disorganized speech and thinking with significant social and occupational dysfunction.

In the meantime, I'm gonna get me a slick suit for my arraignment. Probably that sharp pin-striped number down there in the window at J. Press.

Hostages

June 11th--Junior year of college finally over. Am excited to begin work as a counselor at Give Peace A Chance Camp. This amazing initiative, founded by Mr. and Mrs. Saul Berkowitz, brings together Jewish teenagers along with their Palestinian, Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian, Lebanese, and Saudi peers for a summer month of living and learning. Couldn't agree more with Mrs. B.: "Children are our future and their hearts are much less hardened than those of their elders." Am keen to make new international friends, spend time in rural New Jersey, and to possibly get a strong personal essay for law school out of this experience.

June 14th--Counselor orientation has been a blast. Learned tonight that there may be some flight delays from the Middle East (specifically, Royal Jordanian, Egyptair, and Syrianair). Can't wait to meet the kids.

June 15th--El Al flight arrives 25 minutes early at JFK. Israeli contingent has an impressive command of English. Other counselors note with concern that the group is choosing cabins that may be considered most desirable.

June 16th--Gang's all here (almost)! Evening Meet & Greet a great success. The Berkowitzes lay on quite a spread. I eat way too much falafel. Syrians arrive tomorrow.

June 17th--Team-building exercise doesn't go as planned. In an effort to shatter preconceptions, we encourage kids to cite stereotypes people harbor against Arabs and Jews. When Egyptian Na'ima Malouf offers, "Jews hog everything," Atir Brennerman responds, "Yeah, like Nobel Prizes." Na'ima counters with: "I was thinking of my great-grandfather's olive groves and your cabin facing the lake."

June 19th--I notice at breakfast that Israeli campers tend to take their meals in the center of the dining hall surrounded by Arab teens. I suggest re-arranging furniture in a more inclusive way. Head of food services loses patience: "There's only so much I can do with six tables and 48 chairs."

June 23rd--Have taken an ardent dislike to Atir Brennerman and believe he is somehow responsible for Egyptian students' decision to boycott today's tug-o'-war.

June 25th--Two Israeli girls join two Palestinian boys on a rowboat excursion, but when I attempt to videotape them, they flip me the bird and contort their faces. Still, trust is being forged between campers, if not between campers and staff.

June 28th--During sharing session, Na'ima asks if Jewish campers realize she and the other Arabs will be returning to bleak futures in dusty, backward towns while they return to Israeli prosperity. When I mention that Na'ima's father holds a high government post in Cairo and that she will be spending several weeks with her cousins in Newport Beach at the conclusion of camp, she calls me a Zionist and storms out.

June 30th--Reports of a scuffle in the Aikido studio. Atir again. I feel like knocking the crap out of that kid and the kibbutz he rode in on.

July 4th--Four Israeli kids announce they want to perform as a string quartet, claiming, "We're classically trained and we brought our instruments." Mr. B. does not think this a good idea and suggests, "Let's just celebrate Independence Day listening to CDs." During S'mores, Na'ima declares independence is an alien concept to most Arab campers and circulates flyers in support of Palestinian statehood.

July 7th--Am not taking a shine to Na'ima, who insists mattresses of Israelis are higher quality. Am tempted to push her in the lake. Or boiling oil.

July 9th--Those Lebanese sure can play wiffleball!

July 12th--The alteration on the dining-hall chalkboard at lunch ("Intifada Enchilada") seems to be the handiwork of Atir.

July 14th--Reports of stones thrown at Israeli cabins; outing to the Mall at Short Hills cancelled. A shame, as many of the campers were looking forward to getting their tongues pierced and I was hoping to pick up some jeans.

July 16th--At final sharing session, Sa'dun Assaf speaks for the first time. Says he resents the way morons (his word, not mine) Atir and Na'ima have held the rest of us hostage this summer by stirring up trouble while purporting (my word, not his) to speak for others. "Actually," he says coolly to them, "you speak for no one." Receives a standing ovation from all but two campers. A fantastic moment of catharsis for us all. I'm deeply indebted to Sa'dun for standing tall with bold defiance, for seizing on a vital truth that bedevilled his peers and elders, and for giving me the topic of my essay for law school.