Daniel Cucher

Between 9:30 and 10 this morning, my CD alarm clock made four attempts to wake me up. Finally, on the fifth try, I realized I couldn't stand to hear the same four notes I'd been repeatedly muting with the snooze button, so I opted for the off button and dragged myself into the bathroom to pee.

I parked on the third level of the Tyndall garage and jogged down the stairs while someone waited for the elevator. We reached the bottom at the same time, but I'm just a bit fitter now because of my effort.

I walked over to a restaurant on University Boulevard to wait for my friend, who was supposed to be there at 10. I was also supposed to be there at 10, roughly around the time I was waking up. He wasn't there, so I called him on my cell phone, with which I dove into a pool last month, causing it to become unreliable in a typically human way.

"Justin, are you in bed?"

"No. I'm up and about. I'm reading possibly the worst e-mail I've ever received."

I hung up and spent the next five minutes assaulting a newsstand. It took my quarters but wouldn't give me a paper. Then it wouldn't give me my quarters back either, so I gave it more quarters. It still wouldn't give me a paper so I kicked it against a bus stop. It swung forward and spit out my change. I took my money and tracked down another newsstand.

Two news stories caught my interest. One was about how Arizona is soon to become a more selective and expensive place to get a higher education. The other story said that the music industry is pushing for new, fancy CDs that make it impossible for us to burn each other's music. This agitated me for a moment, but then I relaxed with the notion that computer hackers (God bless them) will always find a way to thwart the will of music industry executives.

I recalled a dream from last night in which my dad bought tickets to an Eminem concert, intending to sell them. He couldn't find any takers, so I went to the show and sat in the front row next to a girl with a stack of cheap beer. The stage was concealed by a box of television screens and Eminem was presumably within the box, but I couldn't see him except on the TVs. Eventually, I got up and left.

Justin showed up around 11 and we wandered through campus toward the Integrated Learning Center. On the way, we passed a girl lying on the grass across a guy's chest. She adjusted her position and he grabbed her ass. I imagine he was thinking, "It's her ass, but I'm grabbing it. So in a way, it's my ass, too. How sweet it is to have two asses."

Every computer in the ILC had a body in front of it, some two. I swore that if I found anyone playing Doom 2, I would stand behind him and incessantly ask if he's winning, all the while burning a hole in his skull with my eyes. Then, I realized how not-with-the-times I am, and that no one's probably played Doom 2 since I was in eighth grade.

We found computers in the Modern Languages building and had a brief conversation with an English lit professor about how women's Halloween costumes are always slutty. It's not enough to be cave women or angels ÷ they have to be slutty cave women or slutty angels. This must have something to do with the Madonna-whore dichotomy we all struggle with.

While walking back toward University, some guy riding a bike smacked my wrist with his handlebars. He didn't even stop. He muttered an insincere "sorry" and sped on. So I picked up a rock and hurled it at his back. He flipped from his bike and lay bloody and paralyzed beside the UA Mall. Passersby pointed at him and laughed.

Or maybe he just rode on and I didn't throw anything at him. My mind recorded two versions of the event. I prefer the more just account.

Justin and I stopped to watch people run around the Mall in giant hamster balls and race each other on tricycles to the tune of a Guns N' Roses ballad: "Don't Cry." This struck us as good training for life after college. The real world.

Then I came here to write my column, because I can.

Very few of us have a voice, and those who have it tend to abuse it (see above).

If you have something to say, write it on a one-dollar bill. It breaks federal law, but you'll be heard.