By J. C. Clemens Well, here we all are (less a few midterm casualties) at the beginning of a spanking new sem ester. Memories of the old sem ester filter in... ah, those pleas ant college memories! Will you ‘et forget those long sleepless, pre-exam nights, that terrible empty feeling in the stomach as the sun begins to rise over the Rotterdam Hills, that burning sensation in the pit of your gut filled with sour coffee, that ben zadrine hangover that skulls you in the middle of a dreary winter day? Truly, friends, these are moments to remember, glistening little touchstones on that bliss ful path of knowledge. The clock seems to move very slowly in those early hours of the morning. The pages turn slow ly; the mind is glutted and works at half-absorben cy like a sponge just removed from a pail of water. The hun ger is fantastic; eating becomes an escape, something to get away to, something to make the time pass faster. You can’t go to sleep. You know that if you do, you’ll either never get up or be as use less as if you never went to bed. What can you eat? Toddle down stairs to the kitchen. There’s bound to be something. But you know what there is. There’s only oily peanut butter and plastic bread, probably made by one of our dear trustees. Oily peanut butter has its effect .. . worse than hunger. You begin to feel sorry for yourself. ‘You’re back there in “The Grapes of Wrath” eating fried dough and spoiled peaches. Yo are scavenging in DeMaupassant’s Paris, out there in the back alleys of Menmartre. But back to work. The pages be gin turning again . “QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW: Name five causes of the Tory de cline in 1880”... five causes, eh? Why five, I wonder? Well, don’t argue, you can muster up five, think! .. . God, that last cup of coffee was the lowest! I wonder what ever happened to Henery Hawk, you know, that funny little brown one in Looney Tunes. “Henery Hawk ... this is your life!”Camera pans in an idiotic looking chicken hawk sitting in the studio audience), “Yes, friends, tonight’s program is dedi cated to that courageous little chicken hawk who had the guts to fight the mob, who had the pizzazz. to thumb his nose at the King Features mobsters and prove to all the world that COMIC STRIPS COULD BE INTE GRATED! A brown hawk could MAKE IT BIG despite the Bren da Starr mob and the white Prot estant Orphan Annie pressure groups! This is your life Henery Hawk!” Oh, God, you’ve had it! Pull yourself together. Calculate those bearing strains. Has anyone ever been inside a girder, Professor? Well, no, now that you mention it... but reliable sources seem to indicate that... Yeah, name two. (Don’t be snotty, even in your imagination.) Be good. Learn. There is a bright, golden, unlimited New Frontier waiting for you just around the corner of that next sheepskin, a won derland filled with Beefeater’s, Aston Martins, and tough eater’s, Aston Martins, and tough chicks who all look like Dany La val. Hit it with your head, kid, because the light is still on in the house next door and you never know where the cutoff point on the curve is. An extra date or a place of birth can do the trick with snowjob points in the clutch. Do it right and do it fast because the minutes are ticking. Morning comes. You put on your finest exam sweatshirt. You leave for the gym. Down to the good old gym for a snappy joust of wit to which, incidentally, a numerical grade will be assigned. The gym is jammed and waiting, smiling faces, faces which feel cold on your throat. You wait stampede. Time moves faster now. Hun dreds of pens scratch to the me tronome of clacking ping pong balls somewhere in the sky. The gym smells, a fact which hits you in a suddenly factless world, a constant, a universal law in a fantasy-land of purple mimeo graph ink and masonite tables _ .- the gym smells. Keep writ ing, kiddo. If you can swing Harvard after this, you might end up as Caroline Kennedy’s economic advisor. Remember that Aston Martin and keep writing.