My First Day at College

When I first rolled into Trinity Western University in my parent’s minivan on O-Day oh-two, it was only my second time ever visiting the campus. The previous January, I had taken a quick tour in the middle of a snowstorm with a friendly Egyptian named Sam, but all I remembered from that were the hours for the Mail Centre (9 am to 5 pm, Monday – Friday, if you were wondering) . I knew I was showing up for something called “Orientation Week”, but the name didn’t offer many details on what my First Day at College was going to be like.

My first day at college! Well, “university”, I guess, but that sounds too elegant to get excited about. Hometown kids returning from the big city used to spout stories of their time away at college – but from those guys, there are really only two First Days at College stories: the one about beer, and the one about feeling horribly awkward. I’d never heard the one about being surrounded and engulfed by a raging sea of forcefully helpful people in Hawaiian shirts, so I guess that’s why I was a little surprised when Cathy Chapplow led her squadron of SOS leaders to my van, battered the doors down and started carting my belongings away, like an ant colony with guerilla tactics.

Stepping out of the van was like stepping into the Moulin Rouge, except instead of can-can girls and Ewan McGregor, there were a bunch of people in flowery t-shirts telling me how to get to “RNT”. I believe these people were trained to speak only in acronyms. All I really wanted to know was “Where’s my room?” and “Where can I store my boxes?”, but it was like trying to talk to C3PO. They’d all answer my questions with indecipherable strings of nonsense syllables, saying things like: “Go to RSC and ask your RA or SOS leader to get the RD to FUBAR the BQQ with the FHQWHGADS.”

For every new Confused New Person (“CNP”), there were at least three Helpful Happy People (or “HHP”’s, as I believe they prefer to be called), making it impossible to get to know anybody without accidentally being assisted with something. All us freshmen and freshladies got to wear these fancy laminated name-cards ( “FLNC”s) around our neck (“NECK”), which allowed us to introduce ourselves without even speaking out loud. This didn’t stop people from asking questions, though. By evening, I was hoarse from non-stop question-answering, but the only things I’d said all day were my name, major and hometown, repeated over and over again, like I was some strange mix between Jacob Two-Two and that guy from the Aviator.

It took a few weeks, but after a while, we all started to settle in. By “settle in”, I mean we started feeling confident and comfortable enough to complain about things freely. We all tried our hardest to make other people see and comprehend who we were and why we mattered, struttin’ around like chickens with our heads glued on, finding dorms and d-groups and teams and parties and girl/boyfriends and other means of proving we were all grown up. The funny thing is – and this is the part that you don’t find out till later – with motives like that, it all only proves the opposite.

Explanation: one day, second year, I visited the Career Centre (I think the actual acronym is CFLCACD) for some help with my resume. Of course, my rez. included a little info on what high school I went to. The lady helping me took one look at it, glanced up at me and said, “Honey? I hate to tell you this, but…high school doesn’t matter anymore.” And with that, she took her black Sharpie, slashed it across the page, and thus obliterated my entire secondary school experience.

So it’s like that. High-school’s done, and so are all the games you needed to play. It’s not that this place is forcing you to change or grow up, it just means you can start again. University’s a new life, and maybe you can take the chance to figure out the person you actually are, rather than just being what people told you to be. Make less time for proving yourself and more time for listening and learning and changing. Or as we like to say around here, “MLFPYAMTFLALAC.”

Celebrity Worship Syndrome

3 am!

11 degree below zero. I sleep with my eyes open (a marvel I mastered to help me survive dentistry lectures). I realize that I’ve been watching the E! Celebrity marathon for the last hour and a half. And after the break, the special candid feature about Paris Hilton! My face lights up like some Peshawar bound truck loaded with 3,000 mini bulbs with those God forsaken colors.
Shut up Vincezero! That’s my dog, named after an Italian mobster. Brags on and on like a Turk, even eats cannoli like his mother was a peasant in the Vatican. I said shut up you mutt, the grand event is here. And I make a little movie in my head. But no! The theme is “Paris buys a lollypop for 20 dollars from a local kid”, and drives away in her SUV. (rap video?)

It occurs to me then, why hasn’t some telemarketer called me to sell me the same brand of candy she’s got. “Douh”! (in the vocabulary of my greatest inspiration Homer Simpson) they got to me. My masculine fantasies have infected me to the deadly celebrity worship syndrome (CWS).

A third of people in the Untied Kingdom alone suffer from "celebrity worship syndrome," a fascination in the lives of the rich and famous that for some becomes a potentially dangerous addiction, according to New Scientist magazine.

People obsessed by this syndrome ask themselves questions like "I am obsessed by details of my favorite celebrity's life", "I consider my favorite celebrity to be my soul mate" and "If he/she asked me to do something illegal as a favor, I would probably do it." In addition, celebrity fans are significantly likelier to suffer from anxiety, depression and social dysfunction than non-worshippers.

And here’s the interesting part, the condition isn’t just physiological, it goes on to become pathological. The devotee develops an "intense-personal" attitude towards an idol, such as the belief that he or she had a special bond with the star.

At this point, celebrity worship is becoming an addiction. Those in this category are often neurotic, tense, emotional and moody. At its most intense, celebrity worship is "borderline-pathological," a condition found in 1 out of 4 Britons. These include celebrity stalkers and people who are willing to hurt themselves or others in the name of their idol. They correlate with symptoms of psychosis, such as impulsive, antisocial and egocentric behavior.

Just worshipping a celebrity does not make you dysfunctional, but it does put you at risk of being so. There is this progression of behaviors, and if you start, we don't know what's going to stop you.

People tend to get interested in celebrities at times when they are looking for direction in life, as in their teenage years. The situation isn’t much different in Pakistan either. View any moderately good-looking to a knock off local singer’s discussion forum. One can see 14-19 year olds proclaiming their love for the marasi... I’m sorry... singer!

Let’s see now…? Who to blame? And we have a winner! It’s the breaking up or non existence of family structure. Adolescents and teenagers have no one to look upon for reference, no one they can identify with and most importantly no mentors or role-models. So now they do the obvious, yes! Turn to the celebrity for guidance.

So if you find yourself rushing to ebid.com to buy Ben Affleck’s used napkin, or Brad Pitt’s Gucci underwear (no fight club fans, he really does wear Gucci) or Tony Blair’s office stationary (yes, being in the spotlight makes him worshipped), then you my friend need help!

The worst part is, a decade ago, you were famous if you were special. These days you’re special if you’re famous. Hence to say, celebrities have no criteria.

As for me. I’ll go back to watching TV with Vincezero in the sub-zero Quetta winters. Damn you ever image changing pop artists; you get to watch it with your girl. Well, at least he winks like Neha!