There are some things you can never escape, like awkwardness in front of crowds, bumbling self-consciousness and worries about life's transitions. For me, one of those things is my resemblance to a certain celebrity.
Friday night, some friends and I were at the Karaoke Kid. Just as I took the stage to deliver my rendition of David Bowie's \Young American,"" a table of three attractive female drinkers looked up at me.
""Who does he look like?""
""That actor, what's his name.""
""Rick Moranis.""
""That's it!""
They giggled as they pinpointed my appearance. Though I had heard the comparison before, it still interrupted my karaoke mindset.
""I'm not Rick Moranis,"" I struggled. ""I'm an androgynous sex symbol glam rock star.""
But it was too late. I coughed and hiccupped my way through the song, embarrassing myself thoroughly.
As I looked around the packed bar and fought my awkwardness, self-consciousness and resemblance, it wasn't those things that got the best of me. It was looking at my friends and realizing I wouldn't rather be laughed at by any other people in any other city.
And then realizing that in two short months I would be leaving them behind.
We all have moments when it seems the end of school will never come. But it's scary when you realize the end really is near, and all that stands between you and a graduation handshake with Chancellor Wiley is two electives and an online class.
Sure, it's fun to watch younger friends hyperventilate about registering for classes and finding apartments while you lie on your couch watching ""Biodome."" But then the realization you're going to move back in with your parents and have to get a job in the lower, more painful rungs of the porn industry sets in. And then there's only one thing to do: not graduate. Last week I tried to figure out how.
First, I tried disrespecting authority figures. Only I didn't foresee how difficult it is to be disrespectful in an avant-garde film class, where everything is open to interpretation.
""What did you glean from this last film, class?"" my professor asked.
""I think what Kubelka was trying to say is that you're an asshole, Professor Singer,"" I said, seeking an F.
""To tell you the truth, Amos,"" he responded. ""I can't definitively say you're wrong.""
Next I tried vandalism. I spray-painted vulgarities on Library Mall, but passersby only informed me that Students for Halving In-State Tuition had rescheduled their meeting.
By Friday it was painfully clear that the only thing that could keep me from graduating was the same academic incompetence that had kept me here five years in the first place.
So there I stood at the Karaoke Kid, embarrassing myself and sad I would no longer have the same people there for my life's follies. I've always believed that college should not be the peak of our experiences, but a sort of down payment on the way we want to approach the rest of our lives. The only trouble is that while you're making the down payment, sometimes you start to really like the bank.
But looking at my friends that night, I took note of the people who had already graduated, some who had returned to town for the weekend. It calmed me to realize that as hard as these transitional phases are, it's something people our age have been suffering, surviving and reinventing since long before we were around-much like bad Karaoke.
And besides, Rick Moranis is dreamy, whether those girls wanted to admit it or not.
Amos can be reached at AmosAP@gmail.com.
