After a rigorous academic week, all students here at Andover are overcome with joy when we finally arrive at a little place I like to call, and I’m pretty sure I made this up, the weekend. How am I so cool during the weekend? What do I do? Where do I go? Fear not, my readers; all eight of you are in for a treat [Editor’s note: That is 10: include the editors next time, genius]. I present to you a special edition article. A Day in the Life: A Weekend with Jonathan Adler. During my last class on Friday, English 200, I usually bring a large digital clock, set it up in the middle of the room, and stare at it the entire period. Randomly, I’ll shout out how many minutes there are until the weekend. While I stare at the clock, I ignore all things said in the entire class, including, “Mr. Adler, please pay attention, I’ve asked you several times.” And, “Mr. Adler please take your hand off of the young lady’s knee, she’s asked you several times.” Right about then, it’s usually 2:45, and the weekend begins. After Cross-Country practice, which usually consists of me getting in trouble for trying to hitchhike back to the Great Lawn from behind Gelb, I head back to my dorm, eager to begin the weekend. As I step into my room, I exchange hellos with Carl, the hobo midget that was already living in my room when I moved in. “Hello, to ya,” he says in his peppy little Irish accent. After a tickle fight and singing a few verses of the Lucky Charms jingle, Carl goes downtown to get some stuff at CVS. I stay back, hoping to meet up with some friends. After learning my only two friends went downtown with Carl, I sit in my room and thinkt about what to do. That was at 4:30, and I I fell asleep, because I awoke at about 8:15 Saturday morning. “Damn,” I shout, “another night with the chance for ladies down the drain.” I manage my anger only with the thought of Saturday night, and the chance for ladies then. It came to my attention, and was circled in red pen on my OC calendar (September is Ryan, who is looking good in that white tank top), that there is a Rockin’ Ryley dance.. I spend the day lounging around on the Great Lawn, reading the novelization of Eurotrip (I wasn’t allowed to see it, Rated R-and if you were wondering, gratuitous nudity is not the same when novelized). I pick out my finest Hawaiian shirt and lay it next to my Gap ‘Husky’ fit shorts. “Perfect,” I saycoolly, hoping Carl hears me from the other room and gets jealous. I splash some cologne on, just enough to make the edges of my posters burn and curl, and grab my leather jacket. I then remember that I don’t own a leather jacket, and that I sometimes get my life confused with that of the Fonz, I leave my room for the dance. I step into the dark, humid room and am immediately tossed into a crowd of people. Of course, I’m already profusely sweating, with pit stains like melons and my vision blurred by the streaming sweat coming off my forehead. I wander around the dance floor for a while, but I grew sick of having each girl I was about to ask to dance sprint to the bathroom as I approached, one even asking her friend to kindly knock her unconscious as I neared. It didn’t help when I saw Carl in the corner dancing closely with two senior girls, and later wheel them both out on his stolen Market Basket shopping cart. Slowly, I make my way over to the corner of the room, where I look cool and pretend not be alone. As usual, I check my watch and angrily glance around every so often, so anybody watching me would know that I was, indeed, waiting for someone- and they were late. Once in a while, I pull out my cell phone and pretend to be talking into it. When I checked my watch again, I saw that it was 9:15. “Well,” I say, tugging up my pants and dusting the shoulders of my Hawaiian shirt “Bout’ time I headed out.” I chubbily waddle out of Ryley, my pants so drenched in sweat they were stuck to my thunder thighs. Maybe next weekend will bring another chance for ladies. Maybe…
