La Salle University

13 Nov 2009. Schools like La Salle make me glad I switched the focus of this blog from campus description to fakelore. This religious university - I'm thinking Jesuit? - on the outskirts of Philly was tough to find and tougher to find interesting. Yes, there were unique touches like the 12-foot medieval wooden doors leading to the bookstore, and the serene grotto pictured below.
And love that man-and-spyglass logo.


We find a newly appointed college president assigned to renaming his institution. Rewriting the school's mission to serve intellectual exploration and personal discovery, he cannot tear himself away from the 'explorer' theme. He discusses this with his assistant, Brookings.

"Brookings, you have the finalists?"
Brookings holds up a manila folder and nods.
"Good. This whole renaming business has just been torturous. Let's get it done today. Go."
"Christopher Columbus - "
"Our front runner. Columbus University just rings right. Oh, sorry, go on."
"Christopher Columbus. An Italian who sailed under the Spanish flag on ships named after beans. Made a poor first impression on the natives by committing genocide. Today is honored continentwide for his expensive accident."
"Okay, Brookings, I see your point. But overly cynical wording won't fly if you are seeking a future in higher education."
"Yes, sir. I apologize."
"Now Columbus, sailing under another country's banner. Did he prefer tapas over pasta? And naming his ships Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria - was his crew excessively flatulent? Also you say his discovery of the American continent was an accident. Perhaps Columbus himself was an accident. Should we honor his irresponsible parents with a day off as well? Too many skeletons in the closet. Cross him off the list. Next."
"Juan Ponce de Leon. Knew the fountain of youth was a legend yet searched for it in Florida anyway."
"Ponce de Leon University. PDLU. I like the fountain of youth angle. Could be used to promote continuing education for adults. And I admire the man's determination. Did he find it?"
"...The fountain of youth does not exist. So, no."
"Next."
"Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. Traversed Mexico and was the first European to lead an overland expedition to the Pacific. Name means 'cow's head' in Spanish."
"Caboose-a-who? Hard to pronounce, hard to spell, not well known enough."
"To you or the general public?"
"Both. Next."
"Alexander Mackenzie. In searching for the fabled northwest passage, became the second European to cross the American continent. National hero in Scotland and Canada."
"A Canadian hero? You finish the 4th grade, you're a Canadian hero. So here we have another who failed to find what he was looking for. Too bad because 'Alexander Mackenzie' is a strong name. I don't know, I just can't do it."
"Because of not finding the northwest passage?"
"There's that, plus my ex-wife's lapdog was named Mackenzie. Doesn't sit well with me. Next."
"Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. Accompanied by the 29 soldiers in the Corps of Discovery, Sacagawea, York, and Seaman, they - "
"Hold on. And who?"
"Lewis' dog was a Newfie named Seaman."
"Poor dog. Continue."
"Seeking an all-water route across the continent, they became the first Americans to reach the Pacific by land. Potential confusion with Lewis & Clark College in Oregon."
"Okay, okay, solid story. Great recognition. We can just be Lewis and Clark University, LCU. Problem solved. But I'm worried about the homoerotic undertones."
"The what??"
"The most famous pair in American History. One is rarely mentioned without the other."
"Pardon my speaking out, sir, but there is no evidence of anything illicit between the two captains."
"Tell me, Brookings, what happened to the other members of the Corps of Discovery after their return?"
"Nothing much. Most of them died soon thereafter."
"And what did them in?"
"Venereal diseases. Contracted among the natives...no. Surely that can't be proof enough for you."
"Surely it is. I can research as well. Why did Lewis and Clark live long lives free of VD when every other soldier quickly died? Friendly buggery. And that dog's name doesn't help."
"I can assure you there were no sexual relations between Lewis and Clark!"
"LCU is on the short list, at best. Moving on."
Brookings took a few breaths to calm himself.
"Vasco de Gama of Portugal. First man to sail from Europe to India. Was castrated by hostile Malagasy. His name lends itself to the terms vas deferens and vasectomy."
"Ugh, gruesome. How did he make the final finalist list? These things make a vas deferens to me."
"..."
"It was a joke. Next."
"Henry Hudson. He sailed for the Dutch around what is now Canada. His crew cast him off his ship never to be found. His dates of birth and death are a mystery."
"It makes for a sexy story. But his crew mutinying? Not a leader. Next."
"Ferdinand Magellan. Portuguese circumnavigator. He was killed in the Phillippines by a poison dart. His crewmate finished the voyage for him."
"Our school needs to inspire people to finish what they start. Next."
"Edmund Hillary. He and his sherpa Tenzing Norgay were the first to scale - "
"Hillary is a woman's name. We are not a woman's school. Next."
"Alexander von Humboldt. A German who - "
"Next."
"Shall we take a break, sir?"
"No, no. When I hear it, I will know it. Go on."
"Very well. This is the last on the list anyway. Robert de La Salle. He claimed the Mississippi River area for France."
"A possibility. I like the name La Salle. Sounds learned but not snobby. Any embarrassing peccadilloes?"
"No."
"Any children out of wedlock? Mass slaughterings? Scandals or bribery?"
"Not that I could find."
"Hmm. I'm liking this one more and more. The least pathetic name on the list."
"Sir, is it wise to honor someone - in quite a permanent way - for being the least pathetic?"
"I think it makes us seem accessible. Don't worry, Brookings, I'll change the wording."

La Salle University
Not The Most Pathetic

University of Pennsylvania

13 Nov 2009. The first Ivy League entrant. Looking to go classy, I was aiming for a cocktail/martini glass, intending to save the wine goblets for the Napa schools, such as UC Davis and...hmm...just UC Davis then. Penn had a nice bookstore stocked with beanbag Quaker men but no martini glassware. The university seal is etched on the glass I'm telling you. Why won't you believe me??
Next door at Cosi bakery, a nervous manager was being meticulously evaluated by a humorless district supervisor. Was it the wrong time to squeal in horror about a fruit fly in my orange-pom juice?


"There's some hot Livin' On A Prayer action. Thank you, Percy-fone."
"It's Per-SEFFA-nee!" calls out the curly haired blonde making her way back to her plastic chair.
The MC moves on. "Next we have Mario. Mario, you're up for rooftop karaoke tonight. Step on up to the stage mic and - where's my stage mic?"
"I have it." answers a deep mellifluous voice. "Ms. Persephone stole my Bon Jovi thunder. But I made an alternate selection. I'm ready to go, if you could switch to song 5428, please."
The MC's eyes dart from seat to seat. Who was messing with him?
"Come on up to the stage, Mario, and I'd be happy to."
"I said I was ready to go."
"...You got it." The MC taps out a couple keystrokes and leaps offstage.
Mario, nowhere in sight, gets off to a rocky start. He rushes the first words of his selection to catch up.
"AndnowtheendisnearandsoIfacethefinalcurtain, my friend, I'll state it clear..."
The MC motions to the bartenders to round up security.
Mario continues, hesitant to flex his pipes. The uneasiness clearly comes through in his voice.
"...Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention..."
The two bartenders return with a tight shirted bouncer brandishing a few hefty maglites. The four of them split up, searching the roof. They scan the neighboring buildings' windows and fire escapes.
Mario's disembodied voice, strong but subdued, still does not exhibit the confidence laid out in the lyrics.
"...When there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out..."
The customers look around in confusion. No one seems to be paying attention to the song.
Except for Persephone.
The search party elbows her aside.
How obnoxious. Just let the guy sing.
The final verse approaches. She cups her hands over her mouth for amplification, never necessary for ol' Limber Lungs Persephone.
"Belt it out, Mario!"
Mario's voice suddenly loosens. The words are relaxed and powerful. Vibrating baritone bravado transfixes everyone within earshot, even the employees on the hunt.
"For what is a man
what has he got
if not himself
then he has naught
to say the things
he truly feels
and not the words
of one who kneels?
The record shows
I took the blows
and did it m- "

BSHHMMMMMMM

The last two words of Sinatra's classic are drowned out by an explosion. A hole is blown open in the old brick building next door. Smoke pours out. Masonry and glass shoots onto the rooftop club. The customers, caught frozen, are pelted with stone debris. Fallen light posts, scattered chairs, and broken wine glasses and beer bottles complicate any attempt at a quick exit. Students in the crowd cry out.
"Help me! I go to Penn!"
The employees and some of the customers tend to the injured.
Persephone emerges from underneath a patio umbrella. She peers into the smoky crater. As her view clears up, she locks on a pair of large golden eyes. They are the size of regulation baseballs, ten feet off the ground. The pupils thin when Persephone catches sight of them. Before she could blink to get a better view, they disappear.
The stage mic, melted mouthpiece and all, flies through the air and lands at her feet. She picks it up but quickly drops it. Still hot.
Mario.
It was at this moment, surrounded by brickwork and liquor, that Persephone first experiences - and understands - her parents' seemingly contradictory blend of concern and anger. She does not have time to contemplate this unsettling new emotion. It makes her move. She runs over to the edge of the four story nightclub. The fire exit is rusty. She carefully shuffles over the brick wall onto the platform. She looks down.
A puff of smoke shoots through the second story window of the next building.
Persephone jumps back onto the roof and finds a rain gutter. She launches over the wall and grasps the pipe between her hands and knees.
Just like a playground pole.
She shimmies down, and, within seconds, she is down on the ground near the service exit. The double doors fly open in front of her.
If she has no plan for stopping anyone, which she doesn't, she definitely has no plan for stopping a dragon.
He - Persephone instantly knows this is Mario - has deep blue scales, golden claws, teeth, wings, and spines to match his eyes. He is showing signs of high adrenaline aggression: wide eyes, flared nostrils, arched back. She feels stupidly defenseless; any one of those teeth could slice her to lunchmeat.
If he's going to gut me, nothing I can do now.
"Mario, you hurt a lot of people up there."
Mario averts his gaze. He says nothing for an eternal beat.
"You urged me on." Miniature flames spurt from his throat as he speaks.
"To sing louder? Like I knew you were a fire breathing dragon!"
Mario pauses to economize his words.
"Those last two notes. I should have known."
"Why were you hiding?"
Mario doesn't have to ponder this one. "Why do you think?"
Now it was Persephone's time to consider a response.
"You have a world class voice. You shouldn't have to hide it."
Mario just glares at her. She winces at her comment.
"Oh. You already...know that."
"Indoor karaoke, a disaster. Outdoor, the same. Singing to my mate in our grotto, unfulfilling."
"There's the problem! You can do so much better than karaoke."
"Suggestions?"
"I don't know. I'm sure we can think of something to keep it safe for others. Fireproof mics?"
"Very low fidelity."
"I'm just brainstorming. And you can speak in full sentences, Mario. I'll just stand to your side away from the sparks. I'm not afraid." Persephone moves to Mario's right side. He leans left.
"I am."
She puts her hand on his back knee. The scales are like cold, hard, tea saucers.
Persephone's face goes vertical. She smacks her head and points to Mario.
"I know who can help."

Saint Joseph's University

13 Nov 2009. I feel bloated just remembering all the pink and orange road signs along the PhilBo corridor. So many Dunkin' Donuts, so little tolerance for half a dozen jam filled crullers.


"This is my dream!"
I take a sniff.
"My dream smells like feet."
"Oh, you get used to it." Angela assures me. She's the head of gameday staff at the Palestra, our big-game court in downtown Philly.
Our regular mascot was hurt in a freak nightclub accident, so I, the mascot reserve, was called up to take his place. And what a day to be called up! Our St. Joe's Hawks (named for our Welsh first coach and some kind of priest - I think Jesuit? - Lloyd 'The Hawk' Hwcau) are taking on the hated Richmond Spiders for the A10 basketball title. The winner gets to taste March Madness in the NCAA championship!
Angela snaps me out of my awe. "Look alive, it's game time!"
I put on the hawk head, completing the ensemble, grab my two bottles of Pomegranate Per4mance, and hit the sidelines behind the SJU bench.
The atmosphere is about to blow off the roof! I have never seen SJU fans like this, what a rush! I can only imagine what the players feel like. So I do. And it's much the same, only with 40 fewer pounds of feathered body suit.

The first half was a blur. Did twenty minutes really go by that fast?
We are up by three thanks to a half court circus shot from Arthur 'Big Bala' Cynwyd as time expires.
I'm steaming in my bird suit, so before halftime is over, I drink the rest of my Pomegranate Per4mance. I head back to the locker room for a refill.
OUCH. OUCH OUCH OUCH OUCH.
I make an unexpected and urgent change in priorities.
I've been stung by bees before, and that's the closest sensation I can compare this to. But this, this is ten times worse. I let go of the bottles.
But they don't fall to the ground.
I look at my hands. My thumbs, which I stuck inside the mouths of the bottles to carry them, have swollen so big that I can't pull them out. Can't shake them off.
I see a small brown spider in each bottle. When did they get in? Why? They must have been attracted to the juice. Who knows now. Now - now I want the bottles off, the spiders dead or at least unable to bite, and my thumbs in cold water, milk, lotion, something, ANYTHING.
I spot Angela's jet black hair and wave her over. When I tell her what's up, she leads me back to the locker room to saw off the bottles with some medical scissors. We are blocked by the teams coming back onto the court. Meanwhile, I am swinging my arms, using centrifugal - or is it centripetal? - force to keep the spiders off my thumbs, stuck on the bottom of the bottles.
So I'm standing there, swinging away like a crazy man, my screams of pain being drowned out by the crowd. The well groomed coaches exit the locker room, giving me looks. I don't blame them.
Some of the students above the portal imitate my flapping. Maybe they're mocking, or a little drunk, or both. Everyone is finally out of the locker room now and the staff moves the metal barriers.
Angela leads me forward. She stops quick. She asks, "How bad are you?"
"Huh??"
"Are you sure you want to leave now?" She turns my feathered cranium so I can see the video screen above center court.
That's me on the big screen!
When I see myself, the Palestra erupts. Everyone starts their own awkward flailing.
I say, "Wow."
Big Bala Cynwyd, running out of bounds on a warmup drill, jogs past me and smiles, flapping all the way. "Yeah, Hawk Man! You better not be leaving!" he yells.
Angela, human Ritalin, brings me back into focus. "Well? How do you feel?"
I have a noseful of moldy foam and two thumbs throbbing with arachnid venom. But if I keep moving my arms, it won't get any worse.
"Unflappable."

I guess I did a good job that game. We won, sure, and made a nice showing in the NCAAs, but I hear the SJU Hawk mascot still flaps like a bug bitten maniac. All game long, in fact. It's become its trademark! And, yes, I still hate spiders.

Go, Hawk Man, Go! The Hawk Will Never Die!

Purdue University

7 Aug 2009. Purdue is perfectly innocuous, like Canada or bread. (Who could hate Canada or bread? asks Matt Harding at the 5 minute mark.) So, of course, no better place for some mild kleptomania and sociopathy.


In an office in now-deserted Lilly Hall, where academic flyers fluttered along the tile floor, Otter looked at Professor J.B. Lee. The Professor was looking down, explaining his fundraising project. Otter was uninterested, supremely more so after a day of politely touring other people’s exhibits. He turned his attention to Prof. Lee himself, who promised not to waste too much of his time. Looking down from his natural born bird’s-eye view, Otter sniffed and got a noseful of pomade perfume.
Poor guy. He would have a wife by now if he got rid of the coke-bottle glasses and the two quarts of industrial sludge in his hair.
“Prof. Lee, where’s Chelsea? Isn’t she one of your students assisting with this project?”
“Oh, yes, one of my best. I suppose she is out with her friends, like young people will do. You know undergraduates.”
Yeah, I know them. I know plenty. And I could be knowing another one right now.
“All right, so how can I help you specifically?”
“Your trek across Montana was so inspiring. It set off a fire in my brain, like BOOM! I would like to ask about your best methods for getting out the word. Publicity and such is not my specialty.”
“It’s easy! Step one is tell all your friends.”
Prof. Lee blanked out then looked at the ground.
“Ah, yes, of course. Of course.”
Otter recognized the downcast gaze of a friendless man. But he didn’t feel like crushing spirits of a nonalcoholic variety right now.
“After that, talk to all of your faculty mates. All of them. Not just the ones in genetic engineering. Not just biology. The whole building.” Otter started outlining his ideas in a rough timeline.
“The whole building? Okay…” Prof. Lee was listening better now, still a little hesitant.
“And since this is an official university event, the most important asset in spreading the word to other media is the Office of Public Relations. They will take to your idea much quicker if you’ve already drafted a press release.”
“I have never written a press release.”
“Neither had I! That doesn’t matter! I had never driven a tractor sober either! There’s plenty of examples online, maybe even in your word processor. Don’t worry about it, when you’re done, I’ll spread the word back to the bio department in Bozeman. We’re not the biggest fish in the tank but every bit helps. You’ll do fine, Professor. Good luck!”
Otter slapped Prof. Lee on the back and got up to put on his coat. Next to Prof. Lee’s computer speaker were several decorative shotglasses. In one quick seamless motion, Otter stretched one arm through his jacket and grabbed one with a giant gold P and one with a beefy cartoon railworker and dropped them silently into his inner left pocket.
One for Chelsea, one for a backup girl.
Otter put his hand on the door handle to let himself out, but Prof. Lee called out. “Wait, Mr. Otterberg, a final issue. What about the God problem? I have encountered that many times.”
“…God problem?”
“You are aware there is a lot of resistance to the genetic engineering field. People say we are playing God.”
“Playing God, huh?” Otter removed his hand from the handle and turned back as the Professor continued.
“I try to inform them of the many merits of our work. That we save lives and increase food production! Some will not hear of it. It is very discouraging.”
Otter sat back down. “Prof. Lee, you cannot please everyone. So many people are kneejerk and shortsighted. Tell me, is there something wrong with striving to be better, more Godlike? Now, please, lay it on me about this whole ‘playing God’.”

Purdue: The Birthplace of Evil, Since 1874.