In a noisy Fisher quad so recently visited, the dim lights shed evidence of a sea of young students, shouting and joking just audibly above the buzz of sharply selected music. A white MacBook endlessly streams a random bootlegged copy of some obscure movie that nobody has ever heard of, save for one person. The classmates collect all over the quad sharing stories of the hilarious day-to-days of each other, the friends swimming in the quad amidst a freshly-painted mosaic of random film books and beer can pyramids, collections that chalk up evidence of hard work and a successful party thrown the week prior. As the laughter increases and the music buzzes, I can’t help but direct my smile to the center of the room. I’m drawn to the goofy, sprawled out Declan Sullivan as he so smiles with the sincerity and confidence unique to a lost generation. For that moment, I feel at home.

This moment no longer exists. That vivid, seemingly uncharacteristic memory of a brief moment in time has since come and gone. The party died down long ago, and what should remain in the center of the room has now turned into a memory held by the few so fortunate. An individual with unexplainable talent and limitless growth is no longer with us. Declan, the product of creativity and a yearning to share a vision, is now the victim of another moment in time. This time, the lights are off. The room is silent. All that remains is a memory.

As I sit here writing this, silently fighting back vicious waves of emotions on every point of the spectrum, I’m surprisingly comforted. Declan had an uncharacteristic confidence that can’t be described through any normal standards. He recognized the realities of life and sought true happiness through the pursuit of that which matters most: family, friends, experiences and lasting memories. We as Notre Dame students search for meaning by subjecting ourselves to systems and standards and place unconscionable amounts of pressures on ourselves to succeed. Just like Declan, we are brought into this world to experience the true wonders of life, the miracles that have absolutely nothing to do with the trivialities us as Notre Dame students know all too well. We do this all with the hope in the back of our minds that these tests, homework, competitions and projects will somehow bring us closer to feeling “right,” that working hard in a system valued as true will bring the truth we so desperately crave, the same truth Declan lived every day in his live. We rely so much on success through the perspectives disciplined by years of self-conditioning that it has to take tragedies like this for all of us to stumble back and ask what just happened.

As Ferdinand Foch once wrote, “The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.” I reflect back on my fantastic memories with Declan here at Notre Dame, and I can’t help but smile. Much like Declan did in the center of that crowded room in one of the hundreds of moments with my friend, I’ve got a smile on my face and a laugh in my heart, because Declan, wherever he may be, knows that I finally see what he’s seen his entire life. It’s the drive to seek success through family, friends, experiences, and lasting memories that gave Declan the fire in his soul to become an unquestionably powerful figure for all who dared to know him. A presence encountered but for just a moment.

The noisy Fisher quad comes back to life; the lights and music jump right back on. The students suddenly return to crowd a noisy quad, laughing and sharing stories much like before. While we stare to the center of a room that’s seemingly vacant, we share true laughter for the first time, smiling with the sincerity and confidence that is no longer unique to us anymore. We see Declan smiling back with that goofy smile and ridiculous laugh, made palpable by the many moments with a friend who stood for something so much bigger than us. As we look to each other and emulate Declan’s goofy smile, we’re all at ease, because we understand for the first time. We’re finally home.

God bless Dec, we’ll forever love and miss you. We know you’re home too.

Marc Anthony Rosa

junior

Keough Hall

Oct. 28

It’s example time! My friend and I were having a random conversation today, and somehow it was led into discussing why serial killers are interesting. Bear with me for a minute. On my side of the conversation, I was ecstatic to lead the conversation elsewhere, perhaps to discuss the Chinese space program. Either way, when she asked me if I knew who her favorite serial killer is, I suggested one person out of pure idiocracy: Patti Mayonnaise.

Shameless Killer?

To me, it was intentionally an absurd response. One of my favorite 90′s show of all time (ranking among classics like “Legends of the Hidden Temple”, “Hey Arnold!” and Full House with my favorite Bob Saget), “Doug” was the television program home to some of Nickelodeon’s most unambiguously-stereotyped and shamelessly-ethical characters, including Patti Mayonnaise. More importantly, my suggestion would detract the conversation in the hopes that I could be able to sleep just a little easier tonight. There’s no way Patti Mayonnaise was a serial killer. And then it smacked my friend in the face like an actor in a V8 commercial.

Within seconds, my friend lit up with enthusiasm and drive! She cleverly devised a way in which Patti Mayonnaise could have been the homicidal  cause of her mother’s passing and her father’s paralysis, a conclusion clearly contrived from some of Patti’s well-scripted characteristics. Wasn’t she athletic, an attribute that would certainly allow for physical stunts involved in murder? Wasn’t she home-schooled, perhaps in a way to keep her identity intact? And her sensual interactions with Doug, were these ploys to get herself a fresh victim from a new neighborhood? BOOM ROASTED!

Now, now, now! Settle down, casual reader that you are! Children, sleep soundly knowing that it’s probably true that Patti Mayonnaise was not the source of malicious assault, battery, and homicide. What is important in this little tale I unravel is one of the most important lessons that we could learn. My friend was

Next Target?

absolutely inspired by something as nominal as a fictional television character, and more importantly, found some direction from that. She was enthralled by the information she had about our favorite show characters, and quickly threaded together a plausible plot and background to an abhorrent and disgustingly-innocent show. Almost too disgusting, you might add.

You see, my friend was inspired in a way that I haven’t seen in a very long time. Regardless of the nominality of it all, it brought progress and clarity to her in a moment of idleness, and that, my friends, is something worth writing home about.

This brings me back to my first question: What inspires you? Every day, I see friends, coworkers, schoolmates, even adults swimming amidst a routine, augmenting a ‘Stepford Wife’-esque mentality that stays for weeks at a time. This is a discussion of its own. But for now, let’s keep it short and sweet.

People! Will you find passion and enthusiasm to inspire you?! Will you find a sense of direction from that instance of clarity?! Will you jump up and down in wholly-upbeat rhythms, having found inspiration?! Will you find out what other cartoon characters have maliciously killed those fictional enough to last one episode on tv?!

I hope you do. At the very least, do it for Doug.

As I mentioned in my first blog post, one of the purposes of these blogs are for me to share some hilarious experiences, ranging from the absurd to abnormally realistic. This blog is no exception! I feel that my first story should have a sense of purpose and calling towards the immediate future. As a college student at Notre Dame, I’m blessed to have the opportunities that come my way: incredible teachers, an iconic campus, fro-yo machines that you can keg stand, the list truly goes on and on. But one of the first important points of my Notre Dame experience began with my roommate, an experience that will continue my growth, way into the future, and hopefully out of debt. This is the story of The Milkman: An American Legend.

The Milkman: An American Legend
My freshman year roommate has and will forever be referred to as The Milkman. No, no, no! We’re not talking about the guy who used to deliver milk to your house, or perhaps a biological reason as to why I’m questionably taller than my entire family. We’re talking about an 18 year old Notre Dame student from Arizona. For censoring purposes, we’ll call him ‘Bevin McBenzie.’

Now, Bevin began his first semester at Notre Dame as quiet as any introvert. Following Shakespeare’s adage, “brevity is the soul of whit,” Bevin truly kept as quiet as he could. An introvert that he was, he never would understand the legend that we turned him into that one fateful night of Disorientation. This legend is bigger than Elivs, Bigfoot, and Bagger Vance combined.

Officially, Notre Dame is not allowed to have any hazing activities of any type. Unofficially, the sacred ritual of Disorientation plagues the hallways and dorms of South Bend, bringing sections of halls together through effective trials and strikes of nudity. Luckily for Bevin, our Disorientation was considerably tame – we were required to drink a HUGE tub of beers in an hour, a tub filled to the brim with half a dozen cases of beer, as well as two half gallons of milk for those who wished not to consume beverage.

That being said, we had to consume these beers! However, Bevin in his mildness chose not to drink the beer for our Disorientation requirement – he’s underage, it would be the product of peer pressure, and above all it was repugnant low-grade beer. So Bevin grabs the handle of a half gallon of milk, and waits for his moment of attack.

Flash-forward: we’re 30 minutes into drinking. We’ve had a-plenty of beverage to get us buzzed, excited, and aware that we’re cramped in a small room drinking terrible Natty out of a tub. At this point, all the focus is at the center of the room where the beverages are getting tossed to one another, cans ready to be devoured by the slurp of the bro.

This was Bevin’s moment of truth! Bevin, in pride and glory, rises out of the shadows of that small dorm room, and raises the half gallon bottle of milk above his head, as if this was fate. It was the most majestic image we’ve ever seen. Everyone stops in their seats, watching as Bevin, who had never said a word, takes this massive jug of milk to his mouth to destroy it. We hold our breath – Bevin, with the gulp comparable to a small horse, destroys this jug of milk in a matter of seconds! We’re not talking sip. We’re talking anialation. It was as if it was made to be.

All 15 of us sit in awe. Bevin, with an empty milk carton raised above his hand like Arthur’s Excalibur, glows with a newfound brightness that we’ve never seen before until this moment of truth. We as individuals had no idea how to react. However, each one of us connected for the first time with one thought. It was natural. It was fate. It was truth.

“Milkman… Milkman… Milkman! Milkman! MILKMAN! We clapped and chanted “Milkman” together in unison for the first time. The legend of the Milkman was born.

My first blog post will be about none other than alcohol! Why bring up this topic, you may ask? This social lubricant, this vice to Irish tradition

and ambition, and the reason why Facebook hosts an exuberent amount of pictures on its server is one of the most largely regarded institutions in America. Let’s face it, I could be completely smashed right now. I’ve seen me do it before.

This blog is about alcohol. And not empowering people to drink. Nay nay, this is a post to glorify those people who don’t drink alcohol. Those people who go to parties and love life sober, the people who regard drinking as a thing they don’t really need, the individuals who have seen what has happened and happily reject a brewski. Don’t get me wrong, no one likes a hypocrite; I assure you, I’ve had many a brewski (with some broskies) and loved life under the wonderful spell thanks to Charlie Mopps. But there are days like tonight where I say (to myself, with affection) “Hey, why not keep it low key?” It’s moments like these when I realize that those people who abstain from alcohol are not anti-social; they have self control. They’re able to life life and enjoy it without any social lubricant at all. They have full confidence in themselves to reject the 12-ounce can, and to stay away from the water bottle containing oftly-thick water.

Okay, okay, you’re going to need to calm down! I know exactly what you’re thinking: “But Marc Anthony, those people throw down this opportunity with glee and a skip with accomplishment and, often, disdain!” Yes, there are those gifted enough to be passionate about their sense of self-righteousness. For those, I bite my thumb at you. For the rest, who simply understand the pros and cons and go the path less followed, I salute you.

For those who don’t actually enjoy the taste of brew or an acetone aftertaste, it’s 1000% percent up to you to choose. In the words of angry moms around the world, follow the new slogan “Be the wall” (www.bethewall.org). For those who enjoy the taste of brew, follow my footsteps and thank the sober ones for showing us how to drunkenly navigate around walls.