|
Disappearing Ink A regular column by Buzzsaw's executive publisher James Sigman Nothing brightens up a day quite like mail. It doesn't matter if it's a credit-card application, an invitation to join the American Legion, or a free sample of the latest Kotex maxi-pad; it still gives you the sense that someone, or some machine with your name and address programmed in it, has been thinking of you. And it seems the Ithaca College Alumni Association has
thought about me these last few months. Their first missive alerted
me to the Ithaca College Big Apple Auction. I usually throw these things
out, because while it's nice to know they're thinking about me, I'd
rather not listen to what they have to say. It's like when you're walking
down the street and you run into one of your friends from grammar school.
You're perfectly happy to nod in recognition, but if the ex-classmate
starts engaging you in a conversation about how she/he has this oh-so-perfect
job, you'd just as soon gouge out your left eye with a salad fork. Anyway, for some reason I held on to the invitation.
While the items listed as up for bid seemed to be out of my price range
or just plain stupid, I somehow came to the decision that this might
be fun. I can't explain just what I thought would be exciting about
this, but the invitation did mention something called "Bohn's Bowl."
Can't pass that up.
So I recruited a friend to go with me (no way I was going alone) and sent back my RSVP. The day of the auction came and my friend (it's cruel to name names, so let's just say that his name and year rhyme with "Anthony Iaffaldano, Class of '99") disappeared. Unanswered e-mails. Unanswered phone calls. No sign of him anywhere. I was forced into going to the auction alone, thereby stripping it of any fun, as I would not be able to make fun of the attendees without someone to talk to. I looked around for a sharp salad fork, but, finding only plastic utensils, I decided to go to the auction. It was as miserable as I suspected, and I refuse to bore you with the details. Lots of suits, and not a lot of items I could afford. The highlight of the evening was hearing obvious boxing aficionado and Park Dean Thomas Bohn (whose bowl was not nearly as exciting as I had hoped) auction off a boxing glove signed by "Cesar Chavez." For the record, Cesar Chavez, though involved in some tense labor struggles, is a different person than JULIO Cesar Chavez, the soon-to-be brain damaged boxing great, whose signature graced the glove. The auction will probably be the last alumni event I attend, but I'm still mulling another Alumni Association offer. I was recently given the opportunity to have a brick named in my honor if only I would donate $250 to my alma mater. It's a decent trade-off, and I could even put a special message on my brick, something that future generations can admire, like "Are morons still bitching about parking spaces?" But I took a second look at the letter's header and noticed something amiss. There it was ... "millenium." Now, perhaps if you read President Williams' address in ĘThe Ithacan a few weeks back, you think this is the correct spelling. And, like the President and whoever composed the aforementioned header, you'd be wrong. Millennium has two ns. If you're having trouble, think, "Y2K? Because 2 Ns." That's a free tip. I want you to enter the millennium knowing how to spell the damn word. So, thinking about the auction, the brick I could buy, and how I sort of wanted to give money to my alma mater, but still unable to get that misspelling out of my head, I came up with an idea. The next time I visit the campus, I will stop by Job and Alumni Hall. Everybody who works in these two buildings will need to get together. Choose your best spellers, no more than 10, please. If you feel confident with one or two good spellers, that's fine. But here's how it's going to go down: I'll compile a list of 10 words. For each word you spell correctly, the Alumni Association gets $25. You get all 10, there's your $250. And you can keep the brick. The sharp-minded among you might be thinking, "Are you kidding me? Buzzsaw writers often have trouble spelling their own last names correctly. How dare you chastise Ithaca College for one lousy missed letter." Good point, though you could have been more tactful. But we're not asking for money. If we were, you could be damn sure we'd check our spelling, or at least some would. Cole Louison probably wouldn't, but he's too far gone. So the offer stands. 10 words, $25 a word, and you can keep the brick. You know where to find me. Just send me something in the mail. James Sigman was the Staten Island Spelling Bee Champion in eighth grade. As a result, he didn't have many friends, but at least he could spell camaraderie. |
