Hey, Pedro, could you get your shopping cart out of my faculty parking space? Yes, I know you live on the street. But you know how hard it is to find a parking spot on the Upper West Side. After all, you used to be one of my best students! So how's that Columbia degree working out for you? Not so good, huh? Sorry about that. Really! But you know, a college degree isn't like some cheap used car. There's no warantee. Right, there's no Lemon Law either. Buyer beware! Look, Pedro, I don't want to call security again. Yes, I know they're your cousins. What's that? You'll wash my car for a dollar? Well, I guess that's a good deal. Where's your sponge bucket? What's that? You've got a hose? What do you mean, it's tucked in your pants? Hey Pedro -- no, no, no don't -- aw, Pedro!
Look, Mrs. McGillicuddy, it's not my fault your son jumped out a dorm room window on Christmas eve. I've written over fifty books as a Columbia professor, all right? You don't do that by holding hands with every at-risk undergraduate who says he's homesick, or he's turning gay, or the dog ate his term paper. I write about Lincoln, and freedom, and great ideas. I don't always have time for students. It's like Dean Martin used to say: if you want to talk, go to a priest. Hey -- what's the gun for?
It is a well known fact that Abraham Lincoln spent much of his spare time visiting wounded soldiers in Union Army hospitals. I've spent thirty years teaching history at Columbia and I don't think I've spent more than fifteen minutes in the freshman dorm. Are we the ones keeping Lincoln's memory alive? Or are we burying it?