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In This Issue

• Students Wrestle for Squid God
• Summer Job Pays to Choke Chickens
• Dolphins: Not Just for Sex Anymore
• Letters to the Feditrix
• The Confessions of a Burgeoning, Fecund Fury
• Suicides Are Fun for Those Who Don't Participate
• Military + Animals = Hours of Deadly Fun
• When Will Columbia Girls Go Not Ugly?
• You Wouldn't Know Hot Ass Even If You Bit Mine
• Necrophilia: Hey, It's Not Like They Mind
• Columbia Hipsters Leave Brooklyn to Strut Stuff
• Want Me!!!!
• I'm Still Drunk After All These Years
• He's Like Larry Flint, but Super Gay
• At Least the Fed Thinks I'm Cool...
• An End to the Planet
• Steve and Cornelius Are Now Chicks, Like to Play with Own Va-Jay-Jays
• Building a Bomb to Put in the Fed's Open Arms
• Oedipus Family Circus
• The Staff of 18.9
• THEY WATCH

These days, few events elicit as much joy and good humor as the untimely deaths of acquaintances and loved ones. There are certain pleasures derived when another person slips this mortal coil: first the jubilation that you yourself are still alive, and second, the knowledge that, at some point, you're probably going to receive some sort of compensation - Money, property, or ever-addictive pity. At times, it's the thrilling news that your middle school nemesis, who threw rocks at you every day for four years, turned into a flaming corpse when he drunkenly grabbed live power lines that had fallen on his brother's SUV. Other times, the joy comes when, on the day prior to Spring Break, your great-grandmother in Palo Alto dies, and you are offered a free ticket to California for the week. Yes, it's been a banner week for schadenfreude in Holden-Land.

I realize that for some of you out there, death is not a joyous occasion; for you sad-sacks I offer this: death, in the form of suicide, at least gives you bragging rights surpassing those of other Ivy-Leaguers. What Columbia student has not quasi-proudly uttered the words, "Well, at MY school, four people killed themselves this year"? Admit it - as a Columbia student, you get off on complaining about your school. What better gripe ammunition is here than a high undergraduate suicide rate?

Unfortunately, we Columbians have experienced a dearth of suicides as of late. For the 2002-2003 year, we have had a total number of zero fatalities on the Morningside Campus. For some, this rampant mortality is quite an anomaly; after all, it is a well-understood tautology that shit does, in fact, happen (and we've all seen Final Destination, so watch your ass). For others still, the lack of cadavers plastered on the sidewalks around EC marks a success of volunteerism. Strange peddlers haunting Morningside Drive come to mind: "Gee whiz, I guess Nightline worked - no suicides. In the meantime, would you like to buy some magic beans?" While these perspectives probably do exist, it would probably be best to ask the experts, "What's with suicides this year?"

In the search for suicide experts, I stumbled upon the number for Nightline, the aforementioned crack suicide-prevention squad (x4-7777). However, while expecting either insightful commentary into the human condition or a violent rebuke (or maybe even a new friend), what I received was silence - golden silence. Yes, Nightline was either not answering or busy, because I got nobody. This was a real shame, too, as preventing obviously-busy volunteers from doing their job would certainly solve the suicide dilemma.

No longer having anybody "in the know," my next best chance for the answer was to find people that thought that they were in the know.

The Peace Crowd in the tents on South Lawn was my best bet. I approached them Thursday night with my inquiry, but unfortunately arrived to an empty tarp surrounded by glum protestors. Witnessing this sad scene, I didn't have the heart to tease them or ask about suicide; instead, I found out why they were moving - security had told them they had to stop for the Spiderman shoot on campus the next day. I suppose that for the modern protestor, civil disobedience is fine, so long as you won't get in trouble.

I was in luck, however, as at that exact moment, the ladies' choir of Take Back the Night resolutely marched by; surely there would be a know-it-all in their midst. Making sure not to interrupt their Faux-Black-Power-Raised-Fist-Moment-Of-Silence-Happy-Fun-Time, I stealthily approached one of the comely lasses and asked why the suicide rate has been so low. "Why don't you go commit suicide!?" was the reply.

This answer, while not satisfactorily answering why people weren't dying, was certainly the practical solution to our collective problem. (Never let it be said we academics don't have solutions to match our complaining.) "Indeed," I wondered, "Why don't I kill myself? Why should I deny my peers the elation and bragging rights associated with my own grisly demise?" After all, I consistently exhibit denial, anger, bargaining, and depression; according to Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, all I have left is to accept stuff, and I will be ready to die.

Aside from my own demise, what solutions now exist for suicides at Columbia University? How can we go from counting student deaths on zero hands to counting them on one, or God willing, two or three? Don't fear the reaper, baby. Give me more of that cowbell. Give Back the Night. Self-immolation atop Hamilton is a welcome option. Fool the world for a few days and O.D. on sleeping pills in Butler during finals week. Whatever it takes, I suppose.

In the meantime, if this happens to be my last article, you can thank my rifle and the cold dead hands I've been telling you to pry it from. You're welcome.