"Crushed Red Solo Cups" The Real B.S. with Bo Smith: 1/2 скачать в хорошем качестве

"Crushed Red Solo Cups" The Real B.S. with Bo Smith: 1/2

Darwinian analysis from inside the college ghetto... Comments and correspondence welcome at [email protected]. PARTIAL TEXT BELOW: It must be the weekend. Like the crack vials that crunched underfoot along my old block in the Bronx, they're everywhere. The scarlet plastic droppings of the college herd disgust the locals. But for the knowing naturalist, they testify to the internal bleeding of our brightest during the "best years" of their lives. Follow this trashy trail and discover young adults stampeded by sirens, text alerts and film fantasy into a traumatic collision with their own biology. From the white-columned portico of the stately brick dorm, they pave a riotous crosswalk athwart the avenue and then down the row of sagging off-campus flophouses. We find them in sticky heaps before the broken door where the intellectuals converged to drink and dance and fight and mate last night. In their sleepless beds, the neighbors shook with the volcanic beat from the basement and cursed at the mindless shrieking and laughter that boiled until 2. The police came thrice. With the seismic soundtrack finally stilled, rough voices gave way to the gentler noises of nature: retching, rutting and birdsong. Rise and shine, Sleepyhead! It's Friday morning at university. The seamy chronicles of Oxford, Milan and Paris' Latin Quarter remind us that the open container and open robe have been as representative of the academy as the open mind has since the Middle Ages. So what's new? For the first time in history, our wildly expensive halfway houses for young adults feature female majorities. Yet something is seriously amiss with the scholarly Ms. She just ain't happy. The drunken, loveless, hook-up culture she discovers that first weekend after sending her proud, tearful, terrified parents on their way shatters the romantic dream she packed so carefully for her new life. Statistics show she won't be earning the MRS degree. A terrible choice confronts her: dive into the dominant dissolution or accept cold consignment to the celibate social sideline. The moms and dads of many of today's students came of age when 18-year-olds could drink legally. As high schoolers or college freshmen, they matriculated in the multi-generational, one-room schoolhouse called the barroom. Law, custom and experience regulated behavior. It sounds counter-intuitive, but tipplers imbibed social expectations and learned to be adults. Yes, some struggled with the tests. But liberty taught better than the 21-plus, nanny-state regime that now retards the development of responsibility. Although posturing politicos and fanatical activists hate to admit it, illicit bingeing not only claims lives across the country every year, it also fuels the cruel psychological machinery of real and imagined sexual assaults on campus. Beer pong and jungle juice smash fragile inhibitions. And in the regretful morning light, the hangover smothers the chance for truth and love between the sexes. Safety kills. The stupid smart phone never sleeps. It radiates parental control and peer pressure all at once. It tears at the callow chromosome of individuality from both ends. It ravishes reflection. It enslaves generations. The instant communication also animates instinctive mating strategies that once advanced the genes of our promiscuous pre-agricultural ancestors and now trick near strangers out of their jeans and into no-strings sex. Our cutting edge technology unleashes the feral self. Anthropologists call us a pair-bonding species. But dating on campus is dead as the dodo: done in by the fickle digits. The finger swipes at pleasing pics on Tinder and drunken midnight sexting have short-circuited emotional coupling. The impulse rules instead. With young men of status and realistic job prospects in shorter supply, the female innkeepers of intimacy rent themselves cheaper and quicker. Given the glut of easy liaisons, confident men naturally conserve commitment. That's a hindbrainer. Designed by Mother Nature to connect and create in their most fertile years, our collegians learn alienation instead. Consider it an internship in the single, childless, worker drone life ahead. Evolutionary psychologists and other annoying realists remind us that culture both emanates from our instincts and exists to control them. We can't understand one without the other. Raised on Harry Potter's magical unisex camaraderie and the absurdities of Hollywood rom coms, our coeds arrive on campus ill-equipped for the Darwinian free-for-all. Cosmo and its ilk bring them up to speed on sexual technique, but offer no clue on how to land a desirable gent. Polyamorous Pollyannas spin this lonely libertinism as liberation and can't even convince themselves... -Bo Smith