The Student Prince


By A.H Watson

Gaudeamus igitu
Juvenes dum sumus

Gaudeamus igitur
Juvenes dum sumus

Can Post jucundam juventutem
Post molestam senectutem

Nos habebit humus
Nos habebit humus

So let us rejoice
While we are youths

So let us rejoice
While we are youths

After the pleasant youth
After the annoying old age

We shall live in the soil
We shall live in the soil

The opiate of the old? is memory?the ability to see through pain and sadness, to the better times of youth. To be young should be to watch each day unfold to new wonders, new experiences - fresh juices, fresh sap, for a growing mind.

We have spoken before of the vast difference in the mores, the character and values of today? and our own salad days.

But yesterday, for the first time in years, I watched an afternoon movie. It was an old movie; one from those golden times? the 1950?s.

By today?s standards it would be considered too simple, too light and carefree. A movie not in tune with our more serious, more socially considerate times; A movie too camp, too artistically at war with reality and history; Over staged and over acted. Well?how do you say it? It?it was a movie. A old fashioned by God ?get me out of my humdrum life and take me where life comes out right and just," movie!

The Student Prince pulls all the chains?pushes every hackneyed myth about love and duty. Presents beautiful music that I would pay a thousand dollars to watch and hear Morrison, Dylan, Puff Daddy or a hundred present creeps choke? trying to hit the notes.

There was not one car chase, shot fired, curse word - no shit - or naked bodies endlessly rubbing up against each other. A diabetic would have died by intermission, but it threw a consistent light on what we use to be as a people?simple, honest, easy to please, and wishing for and looking for the best? not the worst? in others.

But, in all of this, we seldom speak in real terms, in actual truths of the situation, as it exists. Were it a turd in the yard, we would walk around it with eyes averted; at home we never admit the problem

But, it does exist? and the smell leaves little choice but to finally examine the source? the dog itself.


Those acts and beliefs that make life worth living?worth the pain and misery that accompany all human endeavor?

We, among all animals are the one that - from an early age ? contemplates its fate and knows the long cold night that but awaits us all.

In the late Fifties, when life on earth reached its apex, man was a far different species, a far better species, than has evolved since. That peak of human endeavor, while not perfect by any measure, was far superior to the life and those that lead it? today.

You may pick any of several measures.

The young today, are not so. They do not act young and they have the demeanor of the old?old before their time, old before the coarse wear of life?s experience has ground them down, old and jaded, surprised by little? and thrilled by even less.

Jon Benet, lips awash in garish red, hips grinding in the worlds oldest moves? competing for the attention of her masters..her judges. Perversion and death intertwined - dead at seven - a life, tired? used up.

Another child?of nineteen?validated by parents, MTV, and friends?vacant smiles, vacant minds?but free?free from any religious cant or self-imposed restraints.

Set further free?joined with a perverse man-child, both slaves to self-involvement?love of all things crass.Willingly kneeling in the West Wing to his demands.

A nation poisoned, justifying it all with that now infamous rejoinder. It seeps even into grade schools ? dismissed - a modern iteration of spin the bottle.

Grown at seven? in this bleak world.

God was proclaimed dead, killed at Emory University in the seventies. Yet, he lingered on until the new millennium, succumbing finally, at the hands of Episcopal secularism.

Just as those entrusted with its defense, destroy the Constitution, those driven by a similar hate, elevate themselves to the pulpit and from that vantage point draw a bead God.

These - the morally free - secure their twisted equality.

Death levels all. The saint, the sinner and those that prey on both, declared by a judiciary gone mad as equal.

Good, forever tainted by the leavening of blame.******

Why do so few of the young believe?Not in marriage, or love?or even in God?rejecting the very nation that shields and gives them - its most barren members ? protection. Yet these shallow waifs populate the land - children all ? apathetic travelers on a road without purpose.

I could quote the statistics, the social ticks of this generation and describe dire acts of self-involvement - infatuation with shallow selves. But it has already been pointed out, to little effect.

In my America an afternoon saw young women and men meet in easy grace, enjoying the company of others - aware of latent desires?yet under control, alive with healthy competition.

Enter a smoky bar today and try to sort among the players. You may well find yourself looking lustfully at some young thing, to find it of your own gender.

Unlike my remembered days, the conversations will not center on the job one holds or the future. Pride taken in work is seldom mentioned?and then only with a sneer.

Standards, diminished; menial jobs held by college graduates - garbage majors ? taught by professors as full of their own horseshit, as the outgoing class will be upon graduation.

A four-year dance culminating in a worthless diploma and $80,000 dollars of debt. Yet, today this yields feelings of invincibility and arrogance?worthlessness soon to be brought up short by the brick wall of reality.

I have friends - younger than I - with children that have returned home. Home to their old rooms?and habits of borrowing the family car - their expensive foreign convertible having been repossessed?along with the $6,000 dollar down payment.

Too worthless to help in the yard, he watches listlessly as a thin industrious Mexican circles slowly in the yard, ninety pounds of wiry muscle, little taller than the mower handles.

A yawn, a scratch?silent flatulence, and the sofa embraces his worthless ass. His contribution?new water rings on the polished wood? in confluence with those stains of yesterday ?and the days to come?


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