PARTING SHOTS

December is a time of renewal, here at the Dec, as we say good-bye to our old managing board and associate editors. Parting Shots is their chance to leave a little something for the next generation, whether it be advice, a last gasp or existential ramblings.

Eamon Drumm, Former Executive Editor

Text messages received as Literary Editor, December 2007—November 2008, and as Executive Editor, December 2008—November 2009. A poem in three parts.

Part 1: Flavors of fun

A couplet for you:
I am prête à partir
Also, I have beer.

Things I know better now:
Ice luges, vanilla vodka, desperation.
Also, Jose is great with moms.

I’m never going to the Box.
I’m horizontal, but not doing the tango.

I envisioned stocky brokers, cigars, and
Hot, wet rocks—Oh well.

You shit those pants, you sit in it!
Let us know if you in elsewhere.

Did I tell you I was taking a shit
And left the bathroom door open
Not knowing my roommate J was 2 feet away?

I can’t stop listening to Nirvana.

Part 2: Fragged by tragedy

Michael Jackson just died.

Those French bitches “destroyed” my cheese
Right in front of me.
Hope your beetles made it through.

It’s tragic what happened last night. We,
Including Yelle, missed you guys.

I got an email from the popo
A few days ago.
They found my stuff.
Also, I got towed home from Hampton.
Happy trails.

Ruby isn’t doing good.
She didn’t eat much at all yesterday
Besides what she ate
When Mom and Dad got her.
So we got her to drink some sugar water.
Then she was doing OK
At first this morning
But she still wouldn’t eat.
We force fed her some baby food
At like eight
And she wasn’t happy,
but she ate it.
Then Mom and I force fed her some more baby food
At like ten, before we went to church
& she drank a lot of water by herself
Which was good
We thought it was getting better
But then she threw it up.
Then when Mom and I
Came home from church
I was worried about her
Cause she was being really floppy.
Like she wouldn’t lift her head up when I talked to her
Like she normally does, and she wouldn’t stand.
So I called my friend whose dad is a vet
& we brought her to his house
& he was talking to us about her
Then she had a seizure!
So Mr. Graff called the hospital
& we brought her there.
They have her for now.
I was of course crying from the moment she had the seizure.
They said her blood sugar was really low
So they got it back up
But they’re gonna have to keep her for 24 to 48 hours.
It’s gonna cost between $750 and $950.
They had to shave little patches on her for
Her itty bitty IV.

We are about to put her down.

Part 3: Opened questions

Can I borrow your leopard face for the mondo?

Can I write sparingly in your book with pencil?

Watcha doing?
[ x ] and I are gonna get a bagel
In Williamsburg.
Then maybe LES and Broadway to shop?
What’s your plan?

Hanging at my house
Or drinking wine on the back porch?
Jose is being a diva,
And I don’t have dollars.
I dunno.
Call me later?

Anthony Amadeo Gallo, Former News Editor

For those of you paying expert attention, you may have noticed a familiar trend that emerged every issue last semester. Buried somewhere in each Dec was a reference to the greatest band of all time—Fleetwood Mac. Hah hah hah. Sometimes they were subtle; sometimes they were completely out of place. It didn’t matter. Being high-up in the Dec allowed me to use the magazine as a vessel to promote the greatest band ever. One week I was able to make the members of our managing board have names of Mac songs as our nicknames (my personal favorite: our new executive editor, Spencer “Sweet Little Lies” Peterson). I would reference the Mac in articles about pork barbecue and get away with it. This was easily my greatest contribution to this fine newsmagazine, and in return, I was rewarded with glory. After I wrote a review of Fleetwood Mac’s show in D.C. last March (in which I mainly talked about how much better Lindsey Buckingham is than Stevie Nicks), the article ended up on Stevie’s web site giving kudos to the little boy from U.Va. who sends lots of love to the Mac!!!111 LOLZ. Speaking of which, my parents loved finding that article on the internet, especially when I used the phrase “Go Your Fucking Own Way.” Thanks, Dec!

Oh yeah, I was also the News Editor for the past year. I reckon that ruled. It was a fine moment indeed when I got to run an emergency column about why having speedy sex is the best (R.I.P. Carter the AE). I got to ramble an awful lot about how awesome Charlottesville is outside of Mr. Jefferson’s University. I’ll probably keep doing that. In fact, while I’m in the spirit of self-promotion, check out the story I wrote on page 7 about Charlottesville’s mustache growing competition. ANYWAY, as Chuck Klosterman would say, I’d like to get to the beef—er, pork barbecue—of this rant. I’d say the Dec is indirectly responsible for approximately 83.47% of the fun I’ve had in college, with the exception being that awkward stage when I first came to the Dec as a first-year that temporarily destroyed my self-esteem (and, since I was a first-year, it wasn’t always easy to rejuvenate my emotions with bourbon). Good thing I got over that! It has been a pleasure to be surrounded by some of America’s finest young people putting together a magazine on news and culture for the most intelligent sector of our society. I’m not very good at sentimental writing, if you haven’t figured that out yet, and I can’t really figure out a way to dish out a “parting shot.” So I guess I’ll just say that I love you all. Except Andrew Abbott. Fuck the Cubs, man.

Hilary Gridley, Former Associate Editor

Goodbyes are hard, and the wine has made me inarticulate. Furthermore, the lingering tryptophan in my system from a week of thankful indulgence has left me sluggish and unmotivated (although, to be fair, that could also be the wine). So, after several failed attempts at a clever yet heartfelt farewell, I’ve decided to borrow the last words of great historical figures to better express my feelings upon the culmination of my time at The Declaration. And in response to anyone who might think this seems like a bit of a cop out, I can only respond with the final words of the authoress Louisa M. Alcott: “It is not meningitis?” So, without further ado, I present to you my parting thoughts, straight from the depths of my soul (via the mouths of various presidents and writers).

How were the receipts today at Madison Square Garden?
—P. T. Barnum
Mister Barnum was proud to leave the circus as his legacy. And why not, considering it was the greatest show on earth, never to be topped, until the parturition of Poodah at prod? Like the king of klowns, though I am leaving, I remain as concerned with the reception and success of the Dec as ever, and am perhaps inordinately proud of my involvement with such a remarkable publication.

I am not the least afraid to die.—Charles Darwin
Of course he wasn’t. Charlie D was okay with dying because he knew that such is the course of evolution. And so with the Dec—while I will miss hanging out on Tuesday nights, I know that in stepping down I am leaving room for a new generation of decstars, even more evolved in the art of witty banter and lewd innuendo.

Thomas Jefferson...still survives...
-- John Adams
Actually, Tommy J had died earlier that day. What Adams meant, I imagine, was that Jefferson’s legacy still survives, that is, The Declaration still survives. DEC 4 EVA!!

I am about to—or I am going to— die: either expression is correct.
—Dominique Bouhours, French grammarian
I’m just putting this in here for the lucky new staffer copyediting this piece, in case you’re still grammatically insecure.

Am I dying or is this my birthday? —Lady Nancy Astor
In honor of all the wonderful times I had at Dec parties, when maybe I was dying, and maybe it was somebody’s birthday party, or maybe it wasn’t a party at all, and I was giving a speech, and then another, maybe, who knows.

Does nobody understand?
—James Joyce
Not really, Mr. Ulysses, but damn if we can’t act like we do.

A King should die standing.
—Louis XVII
Couldn’t agree more, Lou, although I’m getting real tired of standing here, with this laptop balanced on my knee, typing away like some kind of grotesque computerized flamingo.

Go on, get out - last words are for fools who haven’t said enough.
—Karl Marx
Jeez, okay, I’m almost done.

In the end, I think the best way to sum up my relationship with the Dec is to compare it to Rasputin’s relationship with Russia. From obscure origins, I showed up and did my thing. And my departure will be anything but short and sudden; you can poison me, shoot me, and throw me in the river (uh, metaphorically) but I’m not going anywhere. It’s been sublimely real—thank you all for everything.

Ekaterina Beletskaya, Former Art Director

Growing up in the post-Soviet kleptocracy of Mother Russia, I would spend many long winters by the fire, dreaming that one day I would be Art Director of a plucky college weekly newsmagazine. In between shots of vodka I would also wish for shoes and a few crusts of bread, but mostly the opportunity to bring my creative vision to eager masses.

When I first wandered into the hot sweaty recesseses of the Coup I was immediately put to work scrawling out comics that were not funny and graphics that shame me to this day. I suppose when I grow up to be a famous artist my adoring fans will scour the earth for scraps of old Declarations to greedily own examples of work from my ‘formative years’. Whatever, guys, get a life, I’d like to think that as years went on I got better. I learned from the best, I figured out Photoshop, I even wrote an article or two. I stopped sleeping on Tuesday nights and gave up on Wednesday classes. It was awesome. I have no regrets. God Bless America.