I fear I have brought great shame upon my ancestors.
Traditionally, the Guardian’s incoming editor in chief taps out a hello/goodbye piece for the strictly annual ‘Editor’s Soapbox’ fixture in the second-to-last issue of the year, an indulgent little guy which everyone scans for shout-outs and promptly disregards along with the rest of the Focus section (sorry Dave).
Of course, being the shackle-busting rebel I’ve always been ‘mdash; and seeing that I somehow missed the parting thunderclouds and completely forgot until last night that this sacred torch-passing ritual existed, and was in fact now mine to uphold ‘mdash; my bastardly arts-and-entertainment column will have to bend its wet ‘n’ wild all-things-artsy theme to pick up the pieces.
I guess it’s time to admit that ‘Straighter Than Narrow’ never really had a theme. The first installment was more an excuse to cry about losing all my music in an external-hard-drive catastrophe, alongside a review of a John Lennon documentary in which I accidentally switched the last names of two very important and very hip historical figures who will now remain unnamed, lest I screw it up again and tally a strike two upon their angry graves. Alas, that is the kind of shame that amasses when a ditzy and undeserving sophomore, still working through the kinks of her humble hip-hop writing ‘mdash; rather hilariously, considering her nonexistent background in rapping/being black or poor ‘mdash; gets ditched by a dashing graduating staff of aspiring Lester Bangses. Boo.
Then there was the bedazzled installment about the great, empty culturelessness of Las Vegas, in which I reflected on the Guardian’s annual weekend of sin. Pleasant in theory, until I was struck with my 1 a.m. Hiatus-diety obligation to spiral into a cussy, big-headed lecture on how the Roots are awesome guys with big souls and therefore don’t belong performing in such a soulless pit as Vegas.
OK, most embarrassing moment in ‘Straighter Than Narrow’ history: the one in which I already said goodbye. There is no awkwardness like that of kissing everyone in the room a tearful farewell ‘mdash; maybe even squeezing a butt cheek and admitting you always had a thing for them, because you only live once and ther
e’s no time like the present ‘mdash; and then having to slink back momentarily because you forgot your car keys. Especially when you catch them all talking shit.
Anyway, I left in a huff at the dawn of 2008, one year and a quarter into my reign as Hiatus editor. Upon not being able to recall a single thing I had learned in any class or done outside the Guardian office ‘mdash; like, hm, get laid while I still had elastic skin cells and a spine that could straighten after 24 hours in a chair, maybe sometime before the fluorescents shriveled me into an old wrinkled kelp with nothing but my muffy comfort-headphones for protection ‘mdash; I decided to get the hell out.
Now, apparently, I’m back, far from being able to pretend it’s my ‘basket-weaving’ major that’s keeping me here an entire fifth year, once again bidding my goodbye to the current staff (and to gloomy-ass spring quarter, damn it all). Even though there’s a whole year left ‘mdash; one that looks to be Cal Grant free, woopee, even less bank to feed my parking-ticket addiction ‘mdash; it’s definitely the end of an era. But hello as well, to all you who’ll be around next year to grudgingly peruse our mandatory college publication, our foldable path-lining literature to test against your own wits and educated guesses.
To stick with at least one tradition, I’ll wind this end-of-the-year tissue into something (albeit sort of shoddily) entertainment related: My very own dedication ‘graph, FM-style, to all those who have led me to where I am today. Consider me Delilah if she hadn’t found God.
Chuck Berry to Pop, Graceland to Mom on the Indian rug. ‘Just a Girl’ to elementary school, where I lip-synched it in the talent show and realized I had no talent, but learned how to love myself some goddamn Gwen Stefani. It pains me to say a guy got me into hip-hop, and pretty much strips me of all street cred (you know, the kind I’ve been building at this esteemed institution), but Nick was it. So ‘Strawberry’ to Nick, and all that silly Brother Ali shit too. We were cute. My freshman-year dungeon was no place for dance party, so second-year Knife to Sari and Melody, because it was to ‘Heartbeats’ on the room’s single floppy chair that I learned to dance party. Then ‘She’s having a baby,’ to be funny. ‘Give the Drummer Some’ to Cody, my first editor, and maybe ‘Strawberry 23,’ because for the entire world of songs you showed me, it felt good to give a couple back. ‘What You Know’ to Charles, best managing editor ever to touch my reads, an Asian duckling born in the ATL in another life. ‘La Lata’ to Felipe, who I landed on when I fled to Latin America and who still keeps me sane on Skype with all the newest and dirtiest cumbia, and ‘La Due’ntilde;a del Swing’ to Sebastian, the only guy I’ve ever wanted to dance with. To Windansea, and the one person for whom I leave the office: Shida Haghighat, keeper of every good memory I’ve had in the last year entero. ‘Nadie Como Tu’ to you, on the couch, in Club Rio, on the car, in the Student Center parking lot. You spin me right round.’ ‘Mi Principio’ to our living-room conversations, and the rest of our LMLives. To next year’s staff, my beautiful little kumquats ‘mdash; I won’t tell you your dedication until we go to fucking Asian karaoke already.
Sucks. I guess now that I’m editor, there’s no one left in the uppermost hierarchal rung to prevent me from dedication ‘graphs like the motherload above. Alyssa and Reza, it’s up to you: Please, hold me back.