Loving Spectator, Both The Good and the Bad

So, my friend's mom visited the other day (fascinating, right?). And while she hardly saw Morningside Heights over the last four years, she didn't have any interest in seeing the classical architecture of McKim, Mead, and White, nor did she want to see the 9-by-9-foot hole that her daughter called home. I guess you could say she's a hard woman to faze.

But, on her way back to campus from a celebratory "thank God I'm done paying tuition" lunch, right before she was about to cross 112th Street, a little white sign made her stop dead in her tracks and gaze up in admiration:

"Columbia Spectator / Founded 1877, Independent Since 1962."

That's right. We're famous.

Over the last three years, that white sign along Broadway has stirred many emotions in me. From the intimidation of (somewhat) professional journalism-when I got up the nerve to attempt to join the staff my sophomore year, only to realize about five minutes later that they'd be thrilled to get anyone to join, especially a girl-to the hangover-induced dread of 12-hour SportsMonday production on Sunday mornings (anything before 5 p.m. on a Sunday is morning), and the more recent "Suckahs!" on drunken Thursday-night stumbles home from the Heights.

So much of my college career was spent either in the little sports office in the back, or the relatively social hub of the production room, that, by the end, I actually began to develop an aversion to the office. After two years as a sports staffer in various forms (writer, staff writer, associate editor, columnist, SportsMonday editor, senior staff writer, and deputy editor) and another semester running A&E's Weekend section (don't hate me 'cause I like culture), I was spent.

No longer eligible to work as an editor, I avoided the place like the plague during the second semester of my senior year. I'd even go out of my way to walk on the other side of Broadway just so I didn't have to see that damned sign.

But, because I'm a disgustingly sappy mush, I had my strongest reaction to 2875 Broadway last weekend. As I snuck back to the Spectator office for the first time in five months, I realized how silly I had been.

Yes, it still smells funny (think a mix between dead rat, V&T's pizza, and BO). And yes, the heater sounds like an angry bear about to attack a group of innocent campers/copy editors, the florescent lights make you feel like you're in a mental ward, you can hear what everything everyone else in the office is saying and the walls are decorated with quotes that you could only understand if you've spent every night of the last several years replacing regular dashes with em-dashes instead of sleeping ... but, sigh, I've missed my second home.

Damn you, Spec office, you are, and will always be, a fickle, fickle beast.

I guess it goes without saying by this point that it's the people who have really made the place, and though I feel like the oldest person alive when I walk back in there (is it just me or are all freshmen midgets?), it's good to see the place full of action. It seems so long ago when we actually had to struggle to put together enough good writers to fill a full week's worth of content or cover all the weekend games, but the paper is sailing along successfully now, and goddamnit, I guess I'm proud.

Now, it's time for the important things-this is the final space that I get to take up in this paper, so I'd better make it worthwhile:

My deepest apologies go out to:

-Women's sports at Columbia: Sorry, guys, I've really wanted you to win all along, and I've tried to incite some change whenever I could in my own little blabbering way. I don't know if any of it has worked, but you deserve better.

-Various players whom I've stalked over the years: I'm sorry, but if you post your cell number on Facebook, it's fair game. And I don't mean to be creepy; my editors made me do it.

-All the writers I've ever bugged to get a story in on time: As someone who sends her columns in an average of four hours late, I guess I'm not one to talk.

-Copy editors: I never got up the guts to tell anyone on the paper that I was dyslexic. Whoops.

-The librarians in the Periodicals and Microform Reading Room in Butler: I'm the one who broke the two printers and three film machines, and I may have lost the December 1895 spool for the New York Tribune. I'm still searching, but my thesis is done, so I should have it to you soon.

-All future Spec editors-in-chief/anyone who uses the fishbowl: Rumor has it that I may have puked in there a couple of summers ago. It was late. There was lots of hard liquor involved. I don't remember much, and I'm sure the smell is out by now anyway, but, well, just thought you should know.

And finally, thanks:

-Theo, Jake, Anand, Tess, Josh, Jon, and any other people I've worked for over the years: I may have been grumpy and unappreciative, but you guys know great you are. I won't go into it, but let's just say that "admiration" just doesn't cut it.

-The original and later SportsMonday staffs, all you sports writers, and Weekend folks: Hey, do you guys remember when Spec didn't have those beautifully designed, wonderfully written, fancy weekly pull-out sections? No. Neither do I. And you know why? That's right. It's cause we're awesome.

-My friends/suitemates/the only people I still see anymore: We may only share a bathroom, but goddamn, it is one beautiful bathroom. Do you think it's possible to get a five-way non-sexual lesbian marriage? 'Cause we should totally hit that shit up. Totally.

-Everyone who has ever read this column: I sometimes forget that this goes out to a pretty substantial audience, so I hope it's been worth it and that I've somehow entertained/informed/kept you busy during lecture.

Next week, as I walk out of that cramped office for the last time, I'll finally be glad to have come to terms with my time as a Spec staffer and just might shed a tear when I realize that I no longer get to be a part of it all.

See you at the reunions.

Lauren Clark is a Barnard College senior majoring in urban studies. Send any comments to sports@columbiaspectator.com.