The last 6 months as a CMC graduate have been fairly normal. I’m living in the smoggy, popsicle-melting sprawl of Mercedes and Trailblazer haters that you all know as Los Angeles – West Hollywood to be exact. I’m still maintaining the Dr. Evil hairdo, rocking skinny pants and vans, and continuing to cling to my absurdly strong fear of Spanish 33.  On most days I feel like this is the longest summer I’ve ever had, until I realized Halloween is over and I couldn’t go to Harwood. It gets dark at six, the nights are chilly, and I’m beginning to see a decline in booty shorts on men in my neighborhood. I feel funny. I wonder, is this real life? Did these people respect my Gaddafi costume as much as I know you would appreciate the Facebook pictures of my virgin bodyguards?

So, after having these thoughts for a few days I started writing down some reflections on my membership to a society outside of the Claremont Bubble: what is cool about being free from school and what makes me yearn for the Van Wilder experience (Aravind would be my assistant). I made a list to organize my thoughts and avoid transitional sentences. Here it is:

1. Every weekend I seem to have the same internal struggle: cocktails at a bar vs. a forty, a Red Bull, and a bag of Hot Cheetos at home. See, on one hand it’s fun to dress nice and go to clubs where girls dance in cages. Yet nothing beats drinking Two Buck Chuck in you own apartment for a fraction of the price. When you’re a baller on a budget in the real world (like me – future bankers don’t worry) alcohol consumption suddenly enters your monetary conscience. What I’m trying to say is I can’t just walk into a Green Beach dorm room and flash my titties for a shot. DoS doesn’t pay for my booze anymore; they refuse to preserve our post-grad drinking culture. And to be honest, I don’t find it ethical that one percent of those associated with Claremont occupy ALL the free alcohol, while the rest of us are just hung out to dry. #Occupyclaremont.

2. It would be super nice to walk across the street and steal an entire loaf of 7-Grain Wheat Bread without the fear of getting arrested. That may be what I miss the most about college: the dining halls. More specifically, I miss my little curmudgeon, Dora. That’s right, Dora. If you’re a skinny white freshman girl who forgets your ID card a lot she’s probably made you cry by now. But she’s a sweetie underneath the growl, I promise. Dora and I were like two peas in a big swimming pool, just floating around talking about Luther Vandross. I made her a mix CD with love jams once. It was titled: To Dora, From a Sexual and Mythical Being. She told me I was crazy. I told her she should give me a free to-go box.

3. Having a shower I don’t share with a ton of other boys is fantastic. Stepping in body fluids doesn’t even occur to me these days. I can leave my towel in the bathroom without the fear of someone’s girlfriend borrowing it: Here babe, use the blue one. Oh thanks, I’ll leave it by the toilet because I feel no sense of accountability on a floor with 12 dudes. I especially don’t miss watching a bunch of buff freshman walk around shirtless all the time, trying to make me feel bad about these sexy love handles (sex handles). You gotta love a man with curves, amirite gurls!? #Feelingoodaboutmybody

4. It’s cool finally living near a Church of Scientology. Claremont is so anti-L. Ron Hubbard it makes me sick.

5. I don’t have any homework this week, or next. I’m not studying for a midterm. I don’t have to meet with a group of people later this evening to talk about a presentation we’re giving tomorrow and haven’t started yet. Just think, while you’re writing a paper in Poppa, I’m chillin’ on the couch, sipping Malibu Rum from a crazy straw and taking shots of Bailey’s every time an overweight mom on Extreme Couponing gets their balance to zero. And you’re right, that sounds horrible. But guess what, it’s better than going to sleep at 3 am and waking up 5 hours later to print out an unedited first draft at Ryal Lab, jammed, South Lab, damnit, Poppa, sh*t, oh my God, I’m completely f*cked… #LTAFAIL

6. I don’t care how many times a week you have to walk to Pomona, trying to drive past a Journey concert at the Hollywood Bowl is a thousand times worse. LA is notorious for traffic. Everyone knows that. Actually participating in the crawl on a daily basis is a completely different beast. It literally drives me insane, turns me into a silent, deadly, scorpion-jacket-wearing driver. I put on snow gloves, turn the subs up for Nightcall, and sit, fuming internally, imaging Carey Mulligan staring into my eyes, saying nothing, falling in love. Then when I can’t take it anymore I just lay the horn on for every poor sonofabitch in a BMW slowly poisoning our atmosphere. UNITED WE SIT IN LEATHER AND AIR CONDITIONING!

7. Finally, and I know this to be true for many CMC grads, I miss being able to walk a few steps to chill with my friends. I miss watching the men’s golf team tear it up. Just kidding. But you know what I mean, being around a bunch of people all the time, not really planning on doing stuff, just going with the flow, maybe playing intramural sports if you’re not too hung over. It’s easy. And that’s great. It’s college. However, I am still curious about this real world business.

Now for my plug… I’ve been doing a lot of freelance work in LA so far, a mix of random shit until someone buys my new energy drink, METHWATER 2000. Seriously though, I’ve started a website with the help of CMC graduate Kevin Burke ’11. It’s called Cardboard Smile. Currently, I’m looking for content contributors, so if you’re interested in showing off a short story, art portfolio, or just think it would be cool to write for the blog portion, send me a sample of what you do. You can find the submission guidelines here, or email me at alex@cardboardsmile.com.

Want more Dear A Mitch? Check out his advice on “measuring up,” heavy drinking and making your dream boy fall for you.

When I first signed up for an Autism Center psychology course, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Thrust into an entirely new environment, I learned through practice and quickly gained an immense respect for the kids and families involved in the Center’s outreach. By the semester’s end, I knew I wanted to offer help on a larger scale. My senior thesis became an independent project geared towards documenting the Claremont Autism Center’s history, activities, and the stories of those whose lives are connected to the Center.

This documentary is the result from this commitment to heightening awareness about the Center. The original is a bit longer (23 minutes), but I think this shorter version hits the core of what the Autism Center does for its children, their families, and the students who contribute their time and care. It also fits on YouTube.

I created this documentary to inform you. But even more, I wanted to begin facilitating fundraising efforts. This center is UNIQUE.  It is one of the only clinics in the Inland Empire area that deals with children and their families…for free. Consequently, there is a long waiting list of families hoping to attend the Center, as well as an overabundance of Claremont students interested in taking the corresponding class.

If you are interested in donating, please contact Marjorie Charlop Marjorie.Charlop@claremontmckenna.edu. Cash donations are ideal, but as referenced in the interview, new toys and technology will be gladly accepted, and desperately needed.

Please enjoy the following video.

Note from the author: Alex apologizes for any typos, misspellings, etc… you guys get the picture.  Just watch the video!

You know that new “Plans” section on the Forum? Well, looking at it makes me extremely insecure. There is a lot of pressure here to have something impressive for this list and most of my friends are on it…but I don’t have a job. Tell me it’s all going to be okay as long as I’m doing me or livin’ my life or something else that Drake or Rihanna tells me to do.

Thanks,
Painfully Unemployed

Dear Future Vagabond,

I assume you are referencing the 35 people with jobs on the Forum “Plans” page? Of which two are freshman and one is John Faranda? Not to mention Brittany Taylor’s double clicked Oxford twin. I know what you mean though. Folks around here are skewing the post-grad unemployment rate like Scripps does 5C alcohol poisoning numbers.

I feel the same way pretty much daily. I ask myself, why can’t I get a job? I have some goodies. I’m bringing boys to the yard. Scary thoughts consume me. Will I just work at a nail salon my whole life in pink slippers and a silk kimono? I don’t know. Then the hyperventilating begins. I generally grab a plastic bag and put it over my head until I pass out like they taught us in middle school.

In the dream state of near death asphyxiation, the world begins to grow clearer. The clouds rise and there is CMC. Except, instead of Scripps standing beautifully across Ninth Street, large cement walls close us into a small fortress where everything is always perfect. I think, maybe kicking it around this joint a little longer wouldn’t be so shabby a life to live; a paper here, some drama there, the sun and Captain Getyoudrunk. But then the squirrels come. Remember this is a dream. A metaphorical dream, with squirrels.

They nibble at first, annoyingly, and then start fully attacking us. Then we’re running, grappling for solidarity. Some are lucky, they have their own ropes and pull themselves swiftly over walls and into employment. Career Services comes to help. They let us use their trampoline to bounce over into the workplace. Yet when I get close to jumping I read a sign that says, “FINANCE AND CONSULTING ONLY.” I sigh and turn away, then kick a squirrel out of frustration.

The dream ends there. I wake up and hypothesize the ending: I bazooka the wall down and walk silently into an unpaid internship. Which some people might say is not the CMC way to move into the job market. True. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to work 80-hour weeks and have an army cot in my own office for overnights, it’s just that I don’t have the same skill set. Fair enough.

So now, dreamless in Realityville, I’m writing this response to a good friend, and feeling like there are more people out there who have this stress resting on their shoulders – job or summer internship. Expectations seem to be the fear.

Many of us at this college are so used to having plans. We’ve had them our whole lives: do good in high school, get into a top college, perform with quality, snatch up a job easier than Foam Party diseases… and when that anticipation fails us, like anything one depends on, anxiety creeps quickly. Many of our lives have been built on the equation working hard = reaching goals, and within reason, I think this often holds true. Job competition is just tougher than what we’ve faced thus far.

You might have had a 15% chance of getting into CMC. Jobs and internships employ only one or a few people at a time for each position. Then add a fat recession and a nation of qualified applicants and your opportunities dwindle like virginities at TNC. I don’t doubt you are good at what you do and are working your ass off for the fruits of success. So are a lot of people, probably with more experience.

Even if you disagree with everything I’ve said in this article, hold onto this last point. We ourselves are our hardest critics. It’s easy to get flustered when what we expect doesn’t come with ease. We’re okay, though. These next few months, this summer, will not define our lives. We are not screwing up big time because we don’t have a job or an internship, whatever. Finish thesis, finals, college, chill the fuck out. Spend the summer looking for a job, or doing something fun that doesn’t involve becoming a slave to some shit hole just because the squirrels are biting. Make decisions based on their potential to make you happy. Believe it or not, we are still young.

I know I often tell you to change your emotions like some lame ass article on the Forum will relieve your worries. I wish you all knew how much I was writing this for myself, as well. It’s not a simple adjustment. But if you are confident in what you are capable of, then be confident that something good will come along. I assume you’ll be working hard in the meantime.

Love,

A Mitch

Anthem opening for Lupe Fiasco and B.o.B at Bridges Auditorium, March 5, 2010

It looked as if people were having a blast. I suppose being drunk would have helped. Maybe if I were rolling like the ecstatic, fur-laden lady in front of me, then I would have gotten into the music. As it was, I pumped my fist and went with the flow, wanting to be more than a napkin pole for the sweaty couple next to me. For all it is worth, I wasn’t there to see LMFAO. My expectations were low. And I’m glad – they played their whole arsenal in under an hour. It felt more like a Mardi Gras party than a concert with all the confetti and Party Rock promotional tokens. That’s what it was: an expensive investment in pleather pants and belts branding an inebriated experience, not quality music. I could go on but you get the picture, the Mexican Jumping Bean on stage did not pump my adrenaline.

I went to Bridges Auditorium Saturday night to see Anthem. You might remember the guy, maybe even kicked it at the apartments with him last year after he opened for B.o.B. and Lupe Fiasco. Surely you’re aware of the name. I wanted to hear him live again, hoping for the same sort of vibe he hit hard a year ago. That memorable night my good friend Austin Soldner ’09 (Asoyolo) spun the beats behind Anthem and I thought damn, we are witnessing the next big rapper right here.

Austin Soldner '09, also known as "Asoyolo," lays down the beats during Anthem's March 5, 2010 performance.

Anthem’s 2011 tribute to CMC was short; he played five or six songs, half an hour max, spitting with his standard skill in a white hoodie and v-neck. Drawing attention to the lyrics, not the flair. I saw him point to me midway through. His eyes said, “Sup A Mitch, glad you made it.” I was glad to be there, pissed at the lack of support from 5C students. Who could blame them though? The show started at 8pm. March Madness was on. Grandparents were still eating supper. I could tell when he left his enthusiasm was knifed down by the seat-abiding students, their energy nowhere near what it was last year.

I was bummed when I heard Anthem went back to LA for the night. I had this idea in my head that we’d kick it and drink. I’d been practicing my freestyling in the car so I could try to hang with his excellence. Making lyrical conclusions about CMC like, “The phenomenon of artistry is lost to likes at CMC / that’s why I do this verbally / I know you all have heard of me / read the words I speak / once more frequently / but I’ll bouncing quick / leave the language to the kids / so I drop an ounce of poetry so you know did – or maybe that I could / pushing through the campus under hoods…” then continuing on with more fragmented, self-righteous narcissism much less coherent than above. Why? Because I was excited to chill again, to feel close to some sort of genius I saw, and still see, standing on the verge of a fat rap career. Like when I heard Kanye’s Through the Wire, I know Anthem, Ant, will be huge.

His mixtape, Manhattan Music Vol. 1, is almost there. His style is eclectic, moving from the type of song you’d pregame to (God of Joy), to the gritty illness that sounds reminiscent to mid-nineties Nas and AZ (Inception Intro and Manhattan). With Kanye’s beat from Devil in a New Dress, Ant kicks down the backdoor with an internal monologue of personal fears on Note to Self. I’m not an annotative wizard when it comes to breaking down the complexities of music (leave that to Dan Evans), but I know that when it feels good, it feels good. And the fluidity of his flow, the intelligence behind his lyrics, drops my head into a rhythmic nod. It feels good.

How do I know he’ll be there on a stage making millions? I don’t. But I see something in him that I see in CMCers every day: an intense motivation to be successful. To work relentlessly for something, like you did in high school to get to this school. CMC might not have the most artistic atmosphere, but a certain creativeness has gotten you to where you are now. In an interview with Aleksis Psychas ’10, Ant said, “I’m not the best at what I do, but no one’s going to outwork me.” People who succeed are those who fight for it. And this, what Anthem has, what you all seem to have, not only impresses me immensely, but concretes my estimations of your future successes.

So is this a concert review, an Anthem pump up article, a corny, inspirational message? I guess all of the above. I wanted to tell you about Anthem, the man has an interesting story. Some have already told his story though (you can find Leks’ here, and Lewis’ here). Maybe I just felt inspired – that’s what creativity is anyway, right? The difference is between those who follow inspiration, and those who leave it decaying in the past. Whether it’s leaving a prosperous Wall Street job for a career in rap like Anthem, or writing an article with only the goal to make someone act differently than they would have before reading it, success is wholeheartedly following a vision.

Nothing’s given, gotta take it like you own it / I may seem flagrant in the moment if you want it / I ain’t the opponent that you wanna f*ck with / pardon me b*tch can’t you see that I’m carving a niche / the beginning, but I can’t rest on the seventh day / ’cause at that pace I know my records will never play. – Anthem
.

His music is here.

I’m in a great relationship and I truly love my boyfriend. He’s a fantastic person to spend time with.  Although we are a bit away from graduating, I can foresee us being together after college. The only thing I am somewhat concerned about is the fact that he’s a little sexually conservative. We have sex, but I often get bored with what seems like the same process every time. I need some more sexual creativity in my life. Got any ideas or ways to approach him about this?

-Not Starving , Just Wanting

Freak Nasty,

Yes. I have a yoga poster with tons of ideas: The Raven Swoop, The Mellow Horse, Downward Facing Antelope, Stir the Honey. I’m not sure if every move is physically possible and I think you have to be pregnant for at least one of them, but if you want to borrow it until Missionary style is retro cool, feel free. It’s tacked up in our lounge so the freshman
are reminded daily of their pledge to please women (or men) – a pledge of hope and courage, of commitment and resilience.

So you have some sexual complacency? Dang. I remember when a good old necking would suffice. Now everyone needs a Nimbus 2000 and a gallon of Astroglide to lubricate their love. Before marriage too. And that’s the real problem; sex before marriage. Unless you’re doing oral. Or anal. Then it’s cool, I think. If you were a homosexual man you’d be fine except for the whole homosexual man thing. God has all angles covered. Which you should too. Did I tell you about this poster I have?

I don’t think I’ve ever met a guy who doesn’t have strange fantasies about what they want to do with a girl. Actually admitting to these yearnings is another story. You’re not alone. There is this underlying anxiety that your partner will be put off by your requests, which is a valid fear. Not everyone is liberal in their love-making and no one wants to be that weirdo who tried to introduce a double headed dildo to their boo. Nevertheless, if this is important to you, you have to show him why.

I’ve said this many times, and I believe it to be fairly true (at least among the perverted characters of my thoughts): sexually dominant women are undeniably enticing. Whether you’re at an Ath dinner or sitting in Poppa lab, a whispered, “I’m going to fuck your brains out tonight” is a resonating sentence. Like a short story, a heavy dose of tension makes for an exhilarating climax. So you say something similar…

Now you’re in bed. Striped Target sheets are warming up beneath your bodies. You’re envisioning the well-charted next step, the usual route to comfortable contentment. Then you brake, do “the move less practiced,” and give him something you haven’t before. Guide his hands to the spots you crave them, relaying how amazing this shaking means you feel. Don’t be nervous, passion should be the only vibe swimming through your mind. Ask him what he wants. Be generous. If he tells you he doesn’t know, respond with hot breath on his neck, and delicately taunt him like the exhausting thoughts now dampening your pants as I write this erotic novel.

Deep breath. Swell job.

As you lay naked on a blanketless bed listening to the indie love jams from Kelsey Brown, relay exactly how astounding his performance was. Root his confidence deep so it can grow like a fine California vine around your body, coming to fruition with staggering intoxication.

Then you bask in what you’ve created; a stronger bond, a healthier mindset, better sex. Goodness in something already good. Be happy. Sex has incredible potential. Not everyone knows. Spread the word on condoms campus-wide.

Sincerely,

A Mitch

I’m lost in the repetitive life of CMC and I desperately need to find a way out. Every week is the same. Work hard all week so that I can play hard on Thursday night. Fight through hangovers on Friday and work hard all Saturday just so I can find a cute girl to dance up on me when the night rolls around. I’m done with it. All I want is a breath of fresh air, a new definition of “play hard” that doesn’t involve the same old shit, and maybe a cute girl to enjoy this fresh air with.

Sincerely,

Looking For Something New

Adam,

Tired of the Garden of Eden, eh? No more savoring forbidden fruit? What a horrible idea. God’s given you amnesty. This is a bare-bodied luxury only real people walk away from. And you cannot be real. Not at CMC. You’d be making a huge missssstake. Like a snake, get it?

Nevertheless, gardens aren’t always green. The CMC Style Guide condenses a lot of expectations into one routine. Study hard. Drink Relentlessly. Attempt to bang out beezies like Steven Hawking at a String Theory conference. It becomes an unfulfilling prophecy of blackouts and techno gyration–hardly the situation to develop real relationships. If that’s what your friends are doing though, well, just get wasted again? Okay. Cool. I’ll call you when we’re headed to Boswell.

Naturally, the friends we make at this school help chronicle our adventures. The CMC moniker says we are all leaders in the making. But we still follow at times, going with the flow of people we enjoy, especially as freshman. New students are vulnerably sewn into a group of friends through necessity. Loneliness is a cold trombone. Which is why we have WOA trips and new student events; let’s be best friends type stuff.

For those that have developed a schedule of partying, it can be hard to break the traditions we’ve come to identify as customary. Work – Booze – Try to get laid – Fail (too drunk) – Work – Booze – Get laid (too drunk but she was too so kind of successful, mostly a fail) – Recap absurdities at brunch – Work… It is a repetitive path to hazy memories resurrected by Facebook tags.

So you want out. What now? Tell your friends you’re better than them and head to Pitzer for a concert where you know exactly no one? That’s when it hits you: “How do I actually change the way I spend my time without ostracizing myself from the people who mean so much to me?” It’s a confounding challenge. But here is where you use all those so-called leadership skills you wrote about in your application essay on Ghandi or FDR (whoever came up when you Googled “famous historical leaders”).

Speak up to your friends. Make suggestions to do fun stuff like camping or going to events in LA. Or plan a game night that is open to people who want to drink, but doesn’t require one to be shwasty to have fun (Banangrams drinking game anyone?).

Bad ideas? Camping is for homeless people? Okay, fair enough. Maybe arrange to kick it with a friend from class and bring one of your mates along for the scene change. Meet Pomona girls you don’t have complete sexual history indexes (SHI) for. Find someone who dislikes top forty mashups by DJ In2ition. Force yourself upon their weekend scene.

Then follow up. If I had a dime for every time someone had a non-party plan that didn’t iron out, I would have a ton of dimes. And I’d chuck every single one of them at windows with empty alcohol bottles lining the windowsills. WE DRINK SO MUCH! NOW YOU KNOW! AHHHHH RAGE! My bad, regression. Follow up though, for real. Take the lead in making plans. Your friends might be reluctant to switch up their speed, but if you tell them with sincerity you need to do something other than wear half-assed, themed-costumes on Saturday night, they should understand.

If not, fuck ‘em. Not physically. I mean, you can, if you want. I guess not technically. They’d have to consent. What I should have said is, forget ‘em. Then shoot me a text so we can have a couple beers and chill out. Read poetry or something. Fly night kites. Make puppets out of our hands and get them wasted on thimble shots. Film it all and start a weekly comedy show on the Forum. Stuff like that.

As for the cute girl you seek. Rather, the intimate relationship. Please reference articles 1-20 of mine on attaining and keeping a girlfriend. Dos and don’ts, sex positions galore, weird material. It’s there. I have Spanish homework.

Love,

A Mitch

Classes are starting slowly for me. There are eleven seniors who also put off Spanish 33 until their last semester. We are together, with Professor Altamirano. I am sure she could smell the vodka seeping from my pores the first day of class. But this is CMC. Where else can I wear a flowery-embroidered nightgown to an exclusive lingerie party?

When I look out of my window, the tough California grass begs me to commit myself to a book and a Green Beach blanket. I used to live so close to those distracting bikinied booties. I’m no longer the pervert pretending to read, just the pervert with binoculars in a Fawcett single.

I put in my contacts so I can wear a pair of Ray Bans I found on the ground outside Pitzer’s dining hall. I am wearing a tank top with increasingly unfit arms and tattoos I never would have gotten if I weren’t such a badass in middle school. My bike tires are flat and The Black Keys have me feeling like a freaking rock star as I meander through wafts of air 40 degrees warmer than Portland raindrops. Some California oranges and a hand job are all I want in life. A trip to Sprouts with Terrence will always suffice.

Then I go to the first basketball game of the Semester, CMS v. Pomona-Pitzer. The crowd: rowdy. The Stags: winning as usual in a thick, intoxicated smog. My shirt soaked in other peoples’ perspiration. David Oxtoby will not be pleased when he sees the You Tube video of President Gann chanting, “it’s all over” to the phallic Sagecocks behind her.

I could go on forever about this place.

Time, nevertheless, is fleeting.

As a senior, this is semester number eight. I am getting nervous about the future. Uneasy thoughts surf my nerves daily. Will I get into graduate school? Does Career Services have more than three writing alumni I can contact? I expect no, and no, respectively. The stress builds.

I’m not just worried about what I will do for work or school. I’m bummed at the thought of leaving you all. I wonder about the friends we’ve made here. Is it inevitable that we will only communicate via technology after leaving Claremont? Will we ever hang out again? Who knows? And that frightens me. So I ask Dear A Mitch. What should I do?

“Buy new hipster jeans,” he says. “Be sexy forever.”

Done, and done. Thanks A Mitch. That wasn’t too comforting, however, it is easier to see my dick outlined in denim when I sit down in these jeans. Much respect for the knowledge, friend.

See, I’m not as nonchalant as Dear A Mitch. My worries for the future are genuine. For so long, our lives have been loosely scheduled around school for nine months of the year. I know a lot of who seniors already have a stable plan, but I also know there is a lot of uncertainty for many. And for everyone, a major lifestyle change is around the corner. Spells of anxiety seem unavoidable at this time.

While all these stresses are real, it is exciting to be on the bridge of something new. I think the feeling is similar to the sensations I’ve had this last week – a mix of sadness for having to leave my family once again and the undeniable thrill of a new semester. New classes. New people. New ideas. Maybe it is the potential for something different that is so deeply enticing? It pulls my thoughts from the depths of relentless job applications. Everything will be fine, I tell myself. So will you. This college has not prepared us for failure.

When I started writing this article I didn’t plan on reminding the seniors we are graduating in four months. My mind kept floating to the topic though. In the end, I am glad this was the product. As Ice Cube would say, “We’re not there yet.” I think the reminder is timely: be appreciative of our daily reality. It will soon be passing. The glory years, they call them. I’m not sure if these will be our glory years, but whatever this time in our life is, it is blossoming. Take in the beauty before it’s gone.

I’ve fallen for someone I met this summer.  The feelings are mutual.  We stay in touch often.  This person is everything that I have been looking for (and more) and is truly remarkable.  The problem is, we live on different continents, and it doesn’t look like this will change any time soon.  Should I give up on having a relationship with such an amazing person, be patient and hope for the best, or sort of half-ass it somewhere in between?  It’s worth mentioning that meaningless hookups disgust me, and this isn’t infatuation.

Best,

Clueless in Claremont

Dear ridic_1@gmail.com,

Note: I am writing as if you are a heterosexual male despite my suspicion you are a girl who likes boys.

Mah Sir, I imagine you a classy man. Maybe it is the disgust you have for meaningless hookups. I agree with you. After all, sex is for reproduction, and babies are for eating, so going around accidentally producing un-Kosher baby meat is, as you said, disgusting. It is a disgusting world we live in, a land flooded with sexual overtones. I threw up in LA yesterday when I walked past the American Apparel store. Mannequins these days have no decency.

To be honest, long-distance relationships can be awesome. There is something about pixilated Skype boobies that trumps the malleable perfection of hands touching skin. Who would rather get laid than have a little solo sexy time while their roommate is in class? Not me. Let’s be real here, blow jobs are for people that have never invested in a high quality lotion. Spend a day with a cucumber melon scented penis and tell me there are better options out there. Bath and Body Works is never on its period.

Okay, okay, let’s get serious. Having a transcontinental relationship is like riding an ostrich: it’s hard to hold on and altogether senseless unless you have a video camera and a fighting urge to contradict nature. Meet a girl in the summer and long-distance date them until you graduate. Sounds like a recipe for brownies without butter. But I suppose it can be done. I’ll be your vegan substitute.

So you have options. Break the situation down for yourself. One brick at a time, like Young Jeezy. I’ll help. This person seems perfect. Yet you are in college and even if “hooking up” is not your scene, there are a lot of datable girls here in Claremont. You never know who you might meet in a class next semester. These situations carry a lot of questions, “what if” type dilemmas. Can I afford this plane ticket? Will I regret this shit for the rest of my life? Is my girlfriend getting laid at this exact moment?

These aren’t questions I can necessarily answer for you. I can’t foresee much of the future besides retro capes growing popular with Hipsters. In my ignorance of your reality, however, I do have one concrete recommendation: don’t half-ass it. Make a decision. Be a good boyfriend or be a potential boyfriend to some girl here who also hates casual touching. Nothing good comes from putting half the effort into an intimate relationship…unless your intimate relationship is with intramural sports.

Bottom line, deciding to make this long-distance thing work doesn’t mean you’ll be stuck dating the girl forever. This isn’t a resolution to ink your forearm. Try it as long as you want. If you hear the collegiate clock ticking in you conscience, do what you gotta do. Breaking up now doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll never reconnect. You don’t even need serendipity. You have Facebook.

Love,

A Mitch

If you’ve been in Claremont long enough, you know it can become suffocating. How many times can you eat at the same restaurants with the same upper class, mid-forty year-old couples? Not to mention the dogs. If I see another poodle in the village I’m going to drop kick it off a bridge like Jack Black did Baxter. Sometimes I need to escape, and LA is a larger debacle than I’m often willing to deal with. So I go to Pomona.

What does Pomona have to offer besides bomb Mexican joints and the Glass House (who wants to see Passion Pit with me Saturday)? The Second and Last Saturday Art Walks. Downtown Pomona morphs into a bustling art zone, with welcoming galleries situated around a central square of vendors and live music. The city comes alive. DJs are stationed near the galleries, so tunes are pumping while an array of folks peruse art of various mediums.

If you think Second or Last Saturday might interfere with your plans to get black-out drunk at a cleverly themed CMC party, don’t fret: the art events start at 6pm and end before the CMC festivities get bumping. I went with my mentee Daniel last time – he’s the suave one chillin’ in some of the pics below. But you could take, you know, a girl you like. Or a boy. The Art Walk is a prime date spot with plenty of dark spots to sneak in some necking, frisking, whatever you kids call it these days.

Like many of my peers I went through a nasty breakup with my hometown boo before coming to school this year. I’m as satisfied as I’m ever going to be with our relationship being over–we haven’t acknowledged each other’s existence since before leaving for school–but I can’t help but compare every guy I start to get intimate with to him. And to my dismay, none of them ever quite measure up. How do I get over this and move on? I’m ready to be happy with someone new but it’s not fair to the guy if I’m always expecting him to act the same way my ex did, even if he’s not aware of the comparison. Help me move on!

Sincerely,

Not-so-over-it

Boy Measurer,

No one is measuring up to your ex? You need help moving on? Let me ask you this: are you really looking for solid advice? Or solid, um, proof that there are CMCers who absolutely “measure up?” Because, I mean, I can do both if you want.  Seriously though, I’m not trying to make any assumptions about the ulterior motives of your question.  (You know what they say about people who assume…they are sex panthers.)  Kitty is on the proowwl.

Now my dear, let’s get down to business: when I read your question I laughed out loud. I’m not talking full-blown LOL. It was really more of a weak smile. Like when I watch The Office and wish Dwight were still funny. Think about your “situation.”  You’ve been in college less than three months.  I know CMCers have high expectations, but damn lady–maybe you should reevaluate your mission. If I were you I’d be hunting men like their dicks were Starbucks gift cards. Sample the selection. Didn’t CMC men just get ranked super hot or something? Isn’t there a calendar being made of the sexiest men? Hold on, can I be in it? How great is Terrence Caldwell going to look in those jorts he pretends are part of an old Halloween costume? Probs crazy fly!

Bottom line: TWO AND A HALF MONTHS! Golly gee willikers, most freshmen haven’t even done laundry yet. The relationship you developed with your hometown honey didn’t happen immediately. You got to know each other. You gradually grew to compliment one anther, like fine wine and cheese, or caffeine and alcohol. You became one, a Four Loko. Then bam, in one rational and healthy judgment call, the caffeine is gone, and you are looking for your next boost. But you’ve got to remember Four Lokos can’t just be replicated, and neither can your past relationship. It will take time, experience, and commitment to find a drink of such gloriously intoxicating quality.

Bummer, I know. The real question though, why haven’t you spoken a word to your ex? You paint your breakup as a logistic conclusion, so why not give the guy a call? I bet you’re creeping his Facebook profile anyway. It might help to talk to someone you care about, at least as a friend. Maybe you’ll be reminded of the qualities you like in a guy. Or maybe you’ll realize this person is better than anything you could hope for at CMC. Whether your breakup was smooth or not, you signed your question “Not-so-over-it.”

So just be easy, baby. Search your own mind for what you find important in a relationship. What is attractive to you? Whatever you come up with, know it will take more than a one-week crush to develop. And as always, if your pursuit for the perfect man fails, you can always summon the sex panther. I’ll be in the black velour Juicy sweatsuit under your window. Meow.