My senior year, my poetry prof lived upstairs from me (you remember the story of how I couldn't be an English major no matter how hard I tried?) in Austin Manor at Ohio Wesleyan. It was weird having to pass him in the hallways with a basket of laundry or food. All I wanted was to plotz along stealing P.J. O'Rourke in peace and quiet in my studio flat. Is that so much to ask?