It’s now the second week of the academic year, and in addition to most freshmen successfully befriending everyone on their halls, guys have become girls, girls have become little boys, and those who were on the fence about sex either stayed there and now declare themselves gender-neutral, or they drunkenly lost their v-cards to someone with a nice smile and low standards. Some students are still without four classes as course scheduling is more of a joke than the WNBA, and several of the freshman ladies whom my friends and I ranked as 7’s upon arrival had rough weeks and are now 6’s…or maybe more like 8’s.
And, in true Wesleyan fashion, people continue complaining about MoCon-3000, especially in Wespeaks that whine and call for the wambulance: “The lines are too long and the dining space is too small,” cry people whose woodframe houses are the largest residences they will ever inhabit. But as a former MoCon season ticket holder, I actually sympathize with those students and understand their issues with the new facility. Personally, though, my biggest qualm is the lack of a perch where one can captivate diners and attempt to make an announcement about something nobody hears, listens to, or cares about. While several individuals and student groups have busied themselves addressing overeaters, I find myself despising 3000’s patterned carpeting and soft plastic cups. I look back on and long for those days when some pud would climb to the top of MoCon and whisper something about a biracial-bisexual-biweekly-hugfest in WestCo, followed by gravity, testosterone, and a big swinging cock taking over in the form of a translucent-brown plastic cup that would come crashing to the floor with a clackity-clack that would ring throughout the hall and even reach the dishwashers in the back. Still, breaking from my hook-nosed ancestors and classmates, I announce here and now that I will no longer complain about the new facility. Because when life hands me lemons, I crush them, make a boozerific cocktail, get behind the wheel, and head towards Main Street to spend real money on real food.
If you’re upset with the campus dining situation while spending $52,000 on tuition, you too can probably afford to head down to Main Street, Middletown for a leisurely lunch at La Boca or some oxtail and attitude at Patti Palace.
“How dare you make that statement when I’m on financial aid and have no other choice than to eat on campus.” You might want to hold your horses and think for a moment before you begin writing that indignant Wespeak, considering that there are millions of people on this planet living without an adequate source of fresh water, and who eat less than anorexic hipsters (not by choice, of course).
As it has been somewhat of a University initiative to drive Anonymous Confession Board posters from their rooms and get the other half of the student body to interact more with Middletown, perhaps MoCon-3000 is in the process of performing its intended purpose. Some students have already begun to deviate from past trends as they venture away from campus for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and consequently learn that there’s more to Middletown than liquor stores and hot high school girls.
Unfortunately, while these students make the arduous four-block journey to Main Street, many choose to remain on campus, perhaps because of Middletown’s lack of diversity in festive decor when December comes around the mountain (when it comes). Although this may be true, Middletown and its residents exercise more religious tolerance than Mel Gibson and elitist country clubs combined.
If some stay away from “town” because they’re embarrassed about being fat messes, they needn’t worry. Middletown’s Main Street is the widest Main Street in New England and can surely accommodate Wesleyan’s own members of New England’s widest collegians.
Perhaps some students stay away because of Middletown’s “urban population.” If that’s in fact the case, those prejudiced individuals should stop watching crime dramas and explore Middletown (during the day). The denizens you might find fearsome don’t bite; they’re regular, sensitive people with everyday problems just like you, me, and your hetero-life partner. So bury your prejudices along with your father’s shame and make your way to Middletown proper, because we both know that if you hadn’t been rejected from Columbia, you would probably be venturing outside those campus gates.
“But that’s different. New York is fun, hip, and has everything I need!” Well, call me classless, but Middletown does too, just less of it. There’s a delightful array of decent restaurants that would love to take your money, and there are enough watering holes to keep Wesleyan’s population of arbuckles and amphibious donkeys hydrated and stumbling from Monday to Funday.
Grab a stool in between two old bags and listen to them talk about tin foil while you chow on an omelet at Ford News Diner. Go to Hair of the Dog on a Thursday afternoon and kill yourself. Go to Thai Gardens and regret not going to Typhoon. Rent a room at the Middletown Inn and party like a rockstar. Go to Forbidden City and explore the menu that hasn’t changed since its opening. Go to Cantina and eavesdrop on “the family” while you inhale homemade gnocchi. Go to the Middletown fruit stand and get some fresh produce and some cute guy’s phone number while you’re at it. Go to Puerto Vallarta and get comfy on the toilet. Go to Destinta and yell at the screen. Go to Mikado and try to speak Japanese with the Korean waitresses. Go to Valentino’s Café and marvel at flexible forty-somethings. Go to Eli Cannon’s and drink good beer while sitting in a barber’s chair. Go to Firehouse Steakhouse and see if they prefer “Rescue Me” to “Backdraft.”
If enough students respond to my rhetoric and file like lemmings down to Main Street for food, drink, roller-skating, and laser tag, Middletown will improve and MoCon-3000 will have fewer diners than a Friday morning class has sober students. Saratoga Springs (regarded as the archetypal “college town”) didn’t get nice restaurants, its single nightclub, and a cool vibe overnight— it took blood, sweat, time, and, money. Middletown is like a prostitute: if you give it some money, it, too, will treat you well and put a smile on your face.
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