The SUNY-Nintendo Connection

I went to SUNY Purchase last weekend for an interview. It is located on a large tract of land nestled in the affluent suburbs of Westchester County; a small island of riot-proof architecture in a sea of overpriced real estate and German automobiles. The campus itself is, as it seems all SUNY schools are, surrounded by a large exterior roadway loop that serves as its main artery. In the middle is a bizarre concentration of large, windowless, rectangles of various heights composed of uniform maroon brick. These rectangles house the arts schools. It is the closest I can come to attending graduate school in World 1-1 of Super Mario Brothers. Only instead of spending my days jumping on Koopa Troopas and warping to different worlds, I would instead study music in virtual isolation while trying to repress nagging self-doubt about my life choices.

At least, that’s how I hope it will be, if I am admitted!

In the lobby, I asked someone that is currently an undergrad in the program to which I am applying what she thought. She told me that, were I to attend SUNY Purchase, I would meet a lot of interesting people. This, I know from experience, is something one says when one has nothing nice to say about the school, and did not instill confidence. When it was almost time for my interview, another student came to take me and another applicant (and his wife—they were my parents’ age) upstairs. We rode up in the elevator, walked down a couple corridors, and then paused in front of a door. “This is it,” the student said, and walked off. We stood for a moment, and were approached by another student, who gestured to a group of people at the end of the hall and asked if we would kindly remove ourselves from their shot. They were filming a movie that, from what I observed, would be based largely on footage of an eight-year-old running down a hallway. We stepped into a small practice room which housed a dilapidated electric organ and several panels of soundproofing. Then the awkwardness began, wherein the man and his wife started bickering, mostly about his mother, I believe. Then they would complain loudly about having to wait in this little room, and then the man would occasionally step out into the hall, ruin the shot, and get annoyed when the film crew would ask him to go back in again.

After his interview, this man warned me of the situation I would soon encounter. “The two guys are okay," he said, "but watch out for the woman, she’ll throw you some curveballs.” The woman, I must say, threw no curveballs at me. In fact, she offered me candy from a small jar as I got up to leave, which I imagine must be the polar opposite of hostile questioning. I, taken aback, picked the piece nearest the top, which was spearmint. It is a well-known fact that spearmint is the worst of all mints, with the possible exception of abandon-mint, though I suppose breath-freshening isolation sometimes has its merits. So spearmint it is: the grossest. This piece of candy is currently sitting on the counter in my house, with a milk-chocolate valentine’s-day candy someone from work gave me. I will give these away soon.

Possibly to Hannah, who is arriving tonight to hang out for the weekend. I am very much looking forward to this, as I love having guests and haven’t seen Hannah in quite some time. What she doesn’t know, however, is that I haven’t been able to come up with very much for us to do. She has already seen Niagara Falls, which is pretty much the main draw in Western New York, besides myself, of course. Thus, I suspect alcohol will figure prominently in our activities.

Also, today all the school districts in the greater Buffalo/Niagara area had off because of high winds. I still had to go to work. Ruuuuude.

Over and out.