Every time I go home over a break, something is different. Nothing drastic has occurred — it’s always some small, barely noticeable shift that leaves me vaguely unsettled until I figure out what it is. The coffee table is turned 45 degrees, or there are new handtowels in the bathroom. The last time I went home, for fall break, there was a rather lifelike artificial rooster surveying the dining room from atop a tall stack of shelves in the corner. As I recoiled in horror, my father proudly announced that it had been his purchase. The fake fowl regarded me with disinterest from its lofty perch; I nodded in feigned appreciation.

Today marks the onset of Thanksgiving break and with it comes the annual campus exodus, in which thousands of students make the journey back home to argue with relatives and gorge themselves on turkey and stuffing until they drift into tryptophan-induced delirium. For more than 3,000 freshmen, this will be their first home-from-college Thanksgiving, which means that it will be an opportune time for them to notify all of their closest family and friends that they are gay or — even worse — Republican.

Tomorrow night, Cornell students across the country will be squeezing into their now-too-small childhood beds and lying awake in the dark, examining the artifacts of their youth by the glow of a teddy-bear nightlight. I know the scene all too well: stuffed animals cast monstrous shadows across the walls, and plastic spelling bee trophies reflect the barest glimmer of light from the darkened recesses of the room. Everything smells musty, static. It’s difficult to ignore the feeling of suffocation.

But even asphyxiation is better than the alternative, which is coming home to find that, in your absence, your parents have cleared out all of your stuff and converted your room into something completely different, like a guest room or a meat freezer. The sense of abandonment is unparalleled; your room is sacred ground, and nothing should be moved from its place. In fact, the day you left, your parents should have constructed a papier-m�ch� stand-in who could sit on your bed and be equally unresponsive to their prying questions.
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I made a cheese omelet this morning. I mention this not because I want to bore you with the minutiae of my life — though that is one of the perks of this job — but because while I was making said cheese omelet, I began to contemplate the paradoxical nature of artifice.

(Can we all just bow our heads in a moment of silence for my dearly departed sanity? Thank you.)

Anyway, as I draped a disturbingly elastic square of pasteurized processed cheese-food over the slowly-cooking eggs, I was struck by the contrast in colors: the fresh yellow of the egg yolks threw the cheese-food’s fluorescent orange hue into sharp, radioactive relief. It was thoroughly unappetizing.

Of course, I ate it anyway. But while I was eating it, I began to wonder why dairy manufacturers dye cheddar and American cheeses such a shocking shade of orange — or, for that matter, any shade of orange at all, when the natural color is more of an off-white. I did a bit of Internet investigation on the matter and discovered a wealth of information. First, by taking a “What type of cheese are you?” quiz, I discovered that I am chevres, which means that I am “a cheese of different shapes, sizes, and textures.” (And that right there is why I love the Internet.)

Second, and slightly more applicable, I learned that cheese dyeing originated because of the way that cheese color would fluctuate naturally with the seasons. It was dyed a pale yellow year-round for consistency, and that yellow morphed into the Technicolor orange of which we are so fond today. Now people are so used to it that they prefer it.
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(My half of the Sun’s “Vs.” feature, in which two columnists face off on a topic every other Monday. Erica’s rebuttal can be found at the Daily Sun website)

Ah, television. It used to be that if you wanted to see a midget mother of three in a bikini drinking pureed slugs while standing in a tub of horse vomit, you’d have to get a blender and a kiddie pool and some very drunk friends. But now, through the miracle of technology, you need only turn to FOX during the 8:00 to 10:00 timeslot.

Of course, this is assuming that one actually wants to see such a spectacle. I, for one, do not, and I fear that this means I am quickly losing touch with mainstream American culture. You see, I don’t care what happens when you put seven attention whores together in a swanky apartment for three months. I don’t care who’s in it for love and who’s in it for money. I especially don’t care who the last person left on the island is.

Here’s what I would like to see: a well-written, well-acted, well-shot show with that perfect blend of wit and drama. But that’s a pipe dream, because reality shows are so much cheaper and easier to produce that they have all but replaced quality scripted shows. There are no preening actors to pay, no rooms full of insomniac writers; all you need is a pack of Type A personalities who thrive on exhibitionism, a couple of editors who lack scruples, and a hairdresser with a strong stomach who can keep Donald Trump’s comb-over freshly shellacked. If you play your cards right, all you have to do is lock the doors from the outside and let the fur fly: 99 percent of the footage will end up on the cutting room floor, and the remaining 1 percent can be twisted into some kind of shocking narrative with the help of sound effects (if only double-takes were accompanied by a resounding Boing! in real life).
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A Note to Readers: the deadline for columnists is noon on the day before the column runs. Because of this, although you are reading this column the day after Election Day, it was written long before the polls closed. Due to the extremely uncertain nature of this presidential race, I have taken special measures in order to be able to comment on the outcome. I have provided several options for each relevant detail; simply select the most appropriate one.

Yesterday, Election Day, American voters were finally given a chance to have their voices heard, and (heard / confused) they were, handing a decisive victory to (George W. Bush / John F. Kerry / who the hell knows). After staying up until the wee hours of the morning watching (PBS / NBC / CBS) to follow the results, all I can say is (”Wow, what an election!” / “That sure was exciting!” / “Somebody please punch Dan Rather in the face.”)

The outcome of the election has disappointed many. In the months leading up to the face-off, it was impossible to turn on the television without hearing people rail against, in their own words, (a simplistic idiot / an elitist flip-flopper / Ralph Nader). Though much was made of (Bush’s questionable National Guard service / Kerry’s questionable Vietnam record / John Edwards’ boyish good looks), when it came time to actually (pull the lever / poke the chad / get turned away at the polls) the deciding factor in the election was (who would protect our country from terrorists / who would make other countries not hate us anymore / Ralph Nader).
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