Bombs Away

EzDean Fassassi

Drop it like it’s hot.

So there I was, at the friend of a friends’ friend party in the summer time ready to engage in what I hoped to be a raucous good time with a bunch of people I didn’t really know. After a little squeeze play through the crowd of substance abusing teenagers, I made my way around the three-story, thoroughly trashed Georgetown townhouse, admiring its resiliency in withstanding a countless number of over-crowded keggers year after year. The crowd was typical for the location; but being the quasi-outcast that I am, I apparently missed the memo about the sartorial pre-requisite of pastel clothing and Rainbow brand flip-flops sported by this rag-tag bunch. I usually don’t drink, especially in the summer, but in a moment of nostalgia for my beloved Prospect St., I decided to be all I could be and down every “Natty Ice” in sight. Soon after, I ended my bout of raging alcoholism for fear of not being able to remember my own name, and opted for the intermittent sipping of my beer. I was now meandering about, drink in hand (like you’re supposed to), with a casual disposition on my face, ready to parley with whomever was interested. I joined a cipher of four or five discussing their summer plans as well as the poor choice of beer by the organizers. During a lull in the conversation, the person next to me felt that it was appropriate to introduce himself; I then went around the circle shaking hands and trading names. After that ended there was a period of ‘what now?’ confirmed by the awkward silence which suddenly overcame the circle and the much too frequent sips everyone started taking of their drinks. “So where do you go to school?” I hear from the kid in front of me looking satisfied with himself for having figured out a way to break the silence. “Princeton”. I answered reticently. The name can’t be said without carrying some level of superciliousness, no matter how humbly it’s uttered. In a matter of seconds, the atmosphere changed and a mushroom cloud of pretension and/or envy and/or admiration and/or curiosity formed. The bomb was deployed without warning, rapidly spread and had indescribably ravaged the dynamics of the party. In next to no time, I was accosted by someone who thought because I was ‘Princeton’, I’d find it pleasant to partake in a deeply intellectual conversation about the amorality of the prescribed drinking age vis a vis Rumsfeld’s looming plan to institute mandatory conscription. Still somewhat disoriented from my earlier episode of ‘drink, drink, drunk’, I decided to forego the political dialectic and excused myself to the bathroom. Like it or not, I had just dropped the proverbial P-bomb, gaining status in a non-Princeton social setting and probably becoming more popular than the kid who works part-time at Abercrombie.

I didn’t mean to. This time I really didn’t mean to but don’t be mistaken, but beyond the confines of Nassau street, most Princetonians, whether asked or not, will drop the P-Bomb. Whatever the context, using the Princeton name as a source of credible backing is a skill that has served Princetonians for over a century. In days of yore, the men of Princeton used their elite status as a way to attract busloads of women from schools far and near to Old Nassau. Nowadays the Princeton allure is mostly used to get jobs and internships, but for the current crop of Princeton men, the P-Bomb still retains its magical hold over the opposite sex.

I personally will admit to having gratuitously mentioned the fact that I go to Princeton to acquire or secure a position or two, but then again, is that so bad? No. And just so you know, I’ll keep doing it until it no longer works. Yes, there is a multiplicity of ways to drop ‘the P-Bomb’. For example, there is the tacky and un-refined simple ‘drop’ consisting of a terse “yea, I go to Princeton, just so you know.” But the subtler ones among us might opt for the more classy, “accidental” drop of a prox card, a U-Store ID or whatever you’ve got that’s orange and black and conveys the message. Then all that’s needed is an effortless “Say, I seemed to have dropped my card, could you get that for me?” What’s that you say? They didn’t care to inspect the card once they picked it up? Quickly segue into, “Gee, I can’t believe how bad or how good (your choice) the picture on that ID (or whatever) is”. If it’s a pictureless card, swiftly mention how faded or colorful the card is and how this phenomenon is beyond your belief. The ‘picker-upper’ in question will surely be forced to inspect the card and ultimately become cognizant of your elite cachet. Mission accomplished. There are countless other ways for a successful ‘P-Bomb’. The wearing of insignia off campus is a classic and sometimes inadvertent maneuver. I myself am fond of the super discreet, uber-stylish technique of inciting curiosity about where I go to college, by casually remarking in a conversation, “I go to school in New Jersey”. At the crux of this technique is placement; “I go to school in New Jersey” must flow naturally from a preceding statement such as “the weather in New Jersey sucks” or better yet, “I hate the state of New Jersey”. The individual’s desire to know where in New Jersey you study grows and culminates in the very question you wanted asked all along, which is, “Where in New Jersey do you go to school?” The avatar of cunning; use this tactic sparingly though as it is much too powerful to be strewn about willy-nilly.

So let us not break tryst with success by abolishing an invaluable tool and age-old Princeton tradition. Let the P-Bombs fall and drop them in good conscience my fellow overachievers. Yes, you are still perfectly good people; at least until you start that obscenely high paying job and take the liberty of lighting your imported cigars with hundred dollar bills.