My advice to new graduates

(Note: This column appeared in the May 17, 2005 edition of the Statesboro Herald. Sorry for no recent posting, I've been lazy)

Allow me to offer my congratulations to the approximately 1,800 students who graduated from Georgia Southern on Saturday.

Yep, you've opted to leave a world in which sleeping in, skipping class and late night parties are the norm for a world in which skipping work isn't optional, sleeping in is only for weekends and late-night parties break up by midnight so you can get to work on time.

And you're celebrating this? Seriously, didn't you learn anything in college? Why would you want to leave such a place for the responsibility of adulthood?

Why would you want to deal with deadlines and angry bosses? (Though not my bosses, obviously. My bosses are the epitome of what a boss should be, kind, caring, calm. By the way, I hope all you graduates took Brown Nosing 101. Remember, flattery will get you everywhere.)

There's a difference between education and knowledge. Education is what you received at Georgia Southern. Knowledge would be figuring out a way to stay there and avoid the rat race for as long as possible.

And what's the deal with the graduation ceremony? (Think of me as a poor-man's Jerry Seinfeld.)

Most of the spring commencement ceremonies last about two-and-a-half hours. And while they start early enough that it's not hot, by the end you want that guy from the Micro-Machines commercials reading names to get it over with.

With Official Brother scheduled to graduate next spring, my parents are understandably excited. Official Brother, on the other hand, is less than enthusiastic about having to go to the ceremony.

In fact, he's spent the past few days trying to convince the Parental Units that he doesn't need to walk in the ceremony.

As you can imagine, this did not go over well.

However, Official Brother came up with a compromise idea that he hopes will make everyone happy.

To understand his plan, you first have to understand how graduation works at Georgia Southern. There's really no set order for how the graduates walk across the stage other than by their respective departments. The graduates all have a card with their name on it that they hand to the readers when they approach the stage. No one really knows who you are.

Because graduation is a momentous occasion for the entire family, Official Brother would like to share that moment with his family and not on the Paulson Stadium field.

Official Brother wants to pay someone $20 to pose as him for the ceremony. This person would be dressed up in the cap and gown, walk across the stage as Official Brother and even toss his cap in the air at the completion of the ceremony.

Meanwhile, Official Brother would be in the stands with the rest of the family, watching himself graduate.

Since there would be 1,800 graduates on the field, only his friends and former classmates would know it wasn't him. Certainly the readers and Dr. Grube wouldn't have a clue that Official Brother was in the stands watching rather than shaking the president's hand.

And as a bonus, he could leave after his name is called and not have to sit through the rest of the ceremony. He'd get to hear the speech from whoever was chosen to impart words of wisdom and hear his name called as a graduate. (By the way, Dr. Grube, my phone number is at the bottom of this column if you ever want me to deliver the keynote address.)

Since the diplomas are mailed to the graduates several weeks after the ceremony, he'd still receive his diploma.

So again, congratulations to all the new graduates. Now get a job and start contributing to society.

The legend of Jorge Schiavo

Our story begins in September, 1998. Your storyteller was beginning his second year at Georgia Southern and my brother was about to embark on his freshman year at Berry College, located in scenic Rome, Ga. (The economic hub of northwest Georgia, or so we were told).

It was then that my brother came into possesion of a plant. This was no ordinary plant. (Actually, I was trying to be dramatic. It was, in fact, a very ordinary plant.) My brother, feeling the need to give the plant some sort of nomenclature, decided to name the plant Jorge after . . . well, as best I can tell it was after Jorge Posada, the catcher for the New York Yankees. A quick Google search for Jorge didn't turn up anything remotely close to anything my brother enjoyed, so lets just say he named it after a baseball player.

For many years, four to be exact, tucked away in the mountians and academia of Berry College, Jorge thrived, living off of nothing more than tap water and sunlight. But it was a happy existance for Jorge. Girlfriends came and went. I visited once in four years, and that's only because I needed a place to stay when Georgia Southern was playing in Chattanooga. But Jorge was there. When the great sinkhole event of 1999 struck, Jorge was there. When . . . well, it's Berry College, not much else happened, but Jorge was there.

Finally, after four years, Jorge and my brother graduated. After an excrutiatingly long commencement ceremony (Three hours for 300 students?!?), my brother, Jorge and all his junk made their triumphant return to Statesboro for the summer.

Ahhh, but it was not long that Jorge stayed in Statesboro. No, he and my brother packed his bags and set off for Virginia where he would work for a year and gain residency before attending graduate school at the University of Virginia, the Georgia Southern of the mid-Atlantic.

Jorge again thrived in his new surroundings. The poker craze of 2003 and Jorge was there to see it. But my brother wasn't so thrilled up there. It turns out, graduate school was not something he wanted to do, so in May, 2004, he returned to Statesboro in the hopes of finding employment and making a contribution to society.

Jorge adjusted to his new surroundings once again, away from the hustle and bustle of college life, Jorge didn't seem himself. Maybe it was the lack of the cool mountian air. Perhaps it was the adjustment to the city's tap water. Whatever the case, by late winter, 2004, Jorge was in bad shape.

His leaves were drooping, there wasn't the vibrant color in his stem. Things were looking bad for Jorge. Prayer vigils were set up. Mourners set up outside the home, hoping that something could be done for Jorge.

After a few weeks, mom had an idea. A "nutrition stick" could give Jorge the nutrients he needed to live.

Within a few days, Jorge had been given a "nutrition stick" and regaining his health.

But what of the moral implications. Was mom "playing God" by giving this stick to Jorge? Had Jorge even been consulted? Would he want to stay alive by artificial means?

No one knew. It appeared Jorge didn't have a living will and no one knew of the plant's true wishes.

Plant enthusiasts praised the decision to keep Jorge alive. "We support the culture of life," they shouted.

However, the parasites in the area were less than thrilled. "You're taking away our means of survivial," they contended.

It was at this time that Jorge took a last name, Schiavo.

With Jorge Schiavo's wishes unknown, the decision rested on my brother's shoulders. Either he could remove the feeing tube and draw the ire of the plant enthusiats, or he could disrupt the cycle of life by keeping the feeding tube and limiting the food supply for the parasites.

My brother, needing a companion for his move to Washington DC, decided to keep the feeding stick and Jorge's health returned.

They both live in Washington DC now.

It was a difficult time for everyone involved, so if you're reading this, I implore you, take care of your plants.