As you read this, dear readers, I am perched 2,000 miles above sea level on Mount Mishap, hidden deep within the Himalayan Mountains of Spain. This travelogue will be my final letter to you, as myself and my Indian guide Apunjab will enter the Cavern of the Boggled Stench tonight, and there is no way of knowing when - if ever - I shall return.

Patrick's mind is vacationing in Wonderland this week. Please enjoy this autopilot psychobabble in his absence. Précis:"Gilligan's Island" is a microcosm of society. The individuals featured on the situation comedy are really representations of different character traits of the selves and the epic struggle of mankind against nihilism.

Disclaimer: The following is a TRUE story, and not the work of fiction. Names and Places have been more or less changed in order to protect the more or less innocent. The smell of catfish burning on a grill somewhere woke me up too early that morning. Coughing and wheezing as I rose to greet another bright Boston day, a bottle of my best friend, Jack Daniels, lay spilled over my desk and hair.

I am a fairly pacifistic, or to the unbelievers, at least a rather passive man. There are very few things that get my goat, them being (in no particular order): censorship in any form, any artistic endeavor that happened after 1997 (the year I am perpetually stuck in) and, more to the subject at hand, the current fad of witch-hunting and ostracizing smokers.

Disclaimer: "Head of the Class" was a sitcom that ran in the mid-1980s about the dynamics of a classroom full of honor students. In attending BU, I am taking for granted that you are all pretty smart (although that might be a gross miscalculation on my part), and therefore should obviously have your appropriate "Head of the Class" counterpart/stereotype.

OK first I was going to fill this space with a delicious pulp-fiction story about a private note-taker for hire, but the powers that be informed me that it wasn't a column, I handed it in late and generally everyone around the office hates me. So now I'm stuck here writing a "normal" column piece, much to my chagrin.

I saw the semi-impressionable minds of my generation deterred by their love for pancakes, starving hysterically in jumpsuits, lunging themselves through the Canuck streets at dawn looking for an angry fix of smoldering bacon, thickheaded scenesters melting for the ancient link to breakfast sausage and the syrupy dynamo in the diners of the night.

Being the hardcore Boston University fan boy that I am, I spend much of my living hours racing through the hallowed halls of Mugar Library, delving deep into the sacred and profane books of yore to be found there, willing the hours away in search of legends and tidbits from BU's checkered past to share with one and all.

For far too long, what goes on beyond the hallowed doors of the Student Union has only been celebrated by the political elite. Now, for the first time, we bring you the exclusive minutes of your average Senate meeting. Many have died so that you, dear reader, could enjoy the privilege of this private knowledge.

Chancellor John Silber, noted dean, scholar and hermaphrodite, was found dead this morning after a freak accident during an audition for a snuff puppet show. Jonathon Wolcott Octavos Mortimer Portersville Silber was born RuPaul Serpentor to the Pharaoh of Egypt in 3000 B.