Nearly four score (years) and a few days ago, I entered UT, a procrastinating music major. Today, I’m signing off, a procrastinating English major and editor for the Beacon. I’ve changed a little, and I’ve accepted a lot. And in the end, I’ve a lot of thanks (blame?) to give.
To be honest, I owe my life, or at least a foot, to my first roommate — Darren Dunlap — namely because I feel I might have physically died during the course of my freshman year without his insistence on not going over the edge. I eventually did go over the edge, but I thank the powers that be for that save.
For my major swap, I have to thank every starving musician I’ve ever seen, as well as a bum in the Fort who claimed his son was Quailman. In all seriousness, however, I have to thank the entire jazz faculty for understanding that while my heart belongs to jazz, my mind wanders.
And, of course, there’s the mother ship: The exhausting, sometimes ungrateful, but in the end worthwhile, Daily Beacon.
Where would I be without my current roommate, fellow editor and human shield Hunter Pavlik there to prod me into working for the paper as we walked to class one sunny, junior morning. “Hey, sports sporting sports sport sporting sport sport Beacon?” to which I most sophisticatedly replied, “Jazz, yes.”
From there it was a down/upward spiral. When my first editorship blossomed, I was green, fresh and obviously an easy target for Scott Thurman’s quick witted humor. Thanks for that Scott; I wouldn’t trade it for a Klondike.
I also vaguely remember my introduction to Beaconite politics when the sports beat won the Best Beat of the Year Award. I stand by my belief that had the criterion included sexiness, we all know who would have won (coughtheentertainmentbeatcough).
Summer was a blast. That is, if you consider pulling two all-nighters to print a 70-page paper by deadline (immediately before finals) a blast. Kevin, Will, Erin, Ashe, what can I say? Sorry just doesn’t cut it. So how about, it’s been nice to gnome you.
I must thank Tomoya for sharing his vocal talents, because I’m not sure I’ll ever again hear a more genuine, Asian cover of the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way.”
And as much as I don’t want to say this, thank you Ashe: “Rabies in the Residence Hall?” will haunt me forever.
Of course, the Welcome Back issue has since been the least of my worries as a senior. This year, we’ve had our fair share of trials and tribulations inside the newsroom. But I’m not sure I’ve ever been mandatorily connected, for better or worse, with such an interesting collage of individuals.
Sarah, I don’t think you’ll ever know how grateful I am that you’re not into guns. Without your ceaseless patience, kindness and guidance, I might have died upwards of a thousand times by your hand (and I’m sure you were tempted). I know you got tired of the blank stares, but what else am I supposed to do when I don’t have an answer? So thanks for repressing all that rage. Please, don’t ever release it into the wild — I promise I’ll never beat you at bowling again!
Tim and Ashe, I’m not sure any two managing editors have ever read as many Associated Press articles per day as the News Beat has submitted this year. Thanks for understanding. And Tim, I envy your confidence. What’s your secret?
Erin, have we ever had a conversation running on more than three hours of sleep? I’m not sure, but it’s definitely a tradition worth keeping, the only one for which I reserve the description, “Cool, cool. All right.” And it’s safe to say, Bridget, you’re the Beacon’s best kept secret … weapon. Sweet and innocent on the outside, but cleverly wrathful and merciless on the in. All the attributes I wish I had.
Rob, thank you for coming up a with a new game for Erin and I to play: “Who can create the lamest sports teaser?” I believe I won with “A Fair Dinkum Player.” But it’s OK because I’m sure you’ll overtake my fantasy baseball team, someday.
For Katie Yantis, whose name I will never separate (from itself or my life) I have no words, except: peace out girl scout.
Katharine, I’ve never felt so stupid as I did when I left my debit card at a club and you had to pay for my dinner … on your birthday. All I can say is, that’s Beacon love, and I recognize.
Emily, for the last month or more, I’ve been waiting for the perfect time for this. And the time is now (pun intended): John Coltrane, Ravi Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Joshua Redman, Michael Brecker, Cannonball Adderley, Sidney Bechet, Gene Ammons, Wayne Shorter, Art Pepper, Sonny Rollins, Eric Alexander, Benny Carter, James Carter, Branford Marsalis, David Newman, Ornette Coleman, Joe Henderson, Sonny Criss, Paul Desmond, Eric Dolphy, Kenny Garret, Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, Stan Getz, Phil Woods, Ben Webster, Dave Liebman, Jackie McClean, Joe Lovano, Bob Mintzer, Zoot Sims, Hank Mobley, Pharoah Sanders, Sonny Stitt, Victor Goines, Stanley Turrentine, and that’s all I can think of right now. That’s my thanks for your patience, kindness and rhubarb pie.
Copy desk — oh geez.
News team, there’s not much left to say here either.
Will, I’ll miss the long nights where you and I would sit around the campfire (old computers), singing folk songs (The Who) and discussing the correct spelling of the word “theater.” You might honestly be the most genuinely nice person who works at the Beacon. Jerk. Thanks for not running any of our writers off. And I’ll say once we stop working together, I will not be OK. (By the way, I haven’t told anybody about you and Jenny. Your secret is safe with me.)
Kevin, we’ve started too many conversations with, “I’m at this point where,” to go much further. Just know that I’ve never met another person who wears his exasperation, cynicism and lameness on his sleeve as proudly as I do besides you. And if it makes you feel any better, your desk is going to be much harder than mine to clean out.
Robby O, you’re the reason I’m not a painter, poet or really a very good journalist. Between coming up with advertising department pick-up lines and stalking our Netflix accounts and writing the April Fools’ Day Beacon edition, I had no time to actually do any work. So thanks. And thanks for letting me join the fantasy baseball league … sucks for y’all!
Design peeps, which for me includes Merms, Tiffany, and Krista: thanks for walking home alone every night (I did worry).
Linda, no one has ever dedicated themself to such a hopeless cause as diligently as you have with helping me find love. Truly, I thank you.
Jane, it’s been great, but we’ve had too many conversations to sum up in one sentence. Or two sentences. Or a paragraph, or two, or even a page or 10.
And finally, to the University of Tennesse, I thank you for a diploma, some great friends and high blood pressure when I get older. Cakel out.
