All That Glitters

The advent of Halloween is upon us. I’m too old for trick or treating, and too tame for smashing pumpkins. I like those counter top guessing games- you know, when there’s a jar full of M&M’s or candy corn and the person who gets closest to the actual number wins the whole jar. I always wanted to do my best Nostradamus and predict 754, but I don’t like candy corn, and my dentist told me “No,” when I asked her if it was advisable to eat the weight of my cranium in M&M’s. Feeling rather displaced by my allegiance to dental hygiene, I made up a guessing game that everyone in the Plymouth community can play along with, sans the cavities: How many people will get Boston Redsox tattoos after the World Series (provided they win)? On campus? Nation wide? Five? A thousand? By now, you’re probably thinking, that’s stupid. Jason, you’re boring. Quit boring everybody. To that I’d respond, “Do you have any idea how awkwardly I could segue right now?” So… anybody seen the plaque in front of Frost Commons? It gives a brief, plaque-like history of Robert Frost and his time spent here at Plymouth. My friend Dave said I should tear it apart in this week’s column, because it’s chock full of typos and the like. I’ve heard the argument before, but never fully agreed with it. I read it slowly, and noticed some odd quotation usage, and a missing comma or two. I got the campus grammar nazi on the phone and she told me, Jason, you’re boring, quit boring everybody. Not to criticize the Plymouth Historical Society and their plaque writing ability, but (OK, yes to criticize) the poorly written sound bite life story of New Hampshire’s Pater Poetica is kind of embarrassing. As an English major, I cringe when I read the thing. As a student of the school, I wonder why President Wharton, who must walk by Frost on his way home, hasn’t said, “My word! Forget the riotous behavior of these jingoist sporting enthusiasts! Fix that plaque!” It’s like making a pilgrimage to Beethoven’s grave, and once you finally get there, you see a little red button. You push the button, and a cell-phone ring tone of Beethoven’s 5 starts to play in a loop. If Beethoven were there he wouldn’t do anything, because he was deaf, but if he weren’t- oh boy, he’d have been miffed! Long story short, the brief residence of Robert Frost at Plymouth lends this school a great deal of intellectual credibility; commemorating his spirit with crappy writing just pisses it away. I propose that the winner of the Redsox tattoo guessing game, whoever you are (my guess is seven), use their cunning prowess to decide how many people actually care, and how long it will be before the school ever does anything about it. If you don’t like that game, I’ve got a better on for you: start a pool that takes bets on how long it will be before I lose this column.