The Associated Collegiate Press National Convention

The A.C.P. National Convention

David Zayas, Assn’t A&E Editor

As I am writing this, I am flying over the great landscape of the American West on my way back home from San Diego, California. I think I’m flying over Arizona now because I thought I saw Mel’s Diner somewhere down there. But I didn’t see Vic Tayback. Maybe he’s up here. 

You know, you never realize how beautiful America is until you see it from the heavens. From my tiny airplane window, I can see the impressive vastness of our country. I am reminded of that old song “Seasons in the Sun” by Terry Jacks.

When that song first came out, my brother Deadeye told me that the lyrics were found in the wreckage of a plane crash. It was presumably written by one of the passengers as the plane plummeted earthward. Being a kid, I believed him and that was it for me. It was Tear-City every time that song came on the radio. 

I haven’t heard that song in over seven years. 

The other day, I came across a tape by the band Too Much Joy. They were previously known for their hardcore covers of 2 Live Crew and LL Cool J songs. And guess what, friends & neighbors, on this tape they do a cover of “Seasons in the Sun”. 

It starts off like the original, but quickly succumbs into a guitar-heavy, frantic beat. The vocals sound very sarcastic and sound oddly like “Weird Al” Yankovic. It was strange, because even though the lyrics were the same, it did not depress me. Actually, it was too much joy to listen to. 

I brought it with me to San Diego, but I seem to have left it back at The Bristol Court Hotel. I wish I had it right here, right now. I need it. 

And you may ask yourself: How did he get there? 

And you may ask me: “David, you Puerto Rican Stud Muffin, what were you doing in San Diego anyway?”

Funny you should ask.

My Copy Editor, Leah Edsen and I were chosen by Kean College to represent them at the 1992 Associated Collegiate Press National Convention at the Pan Pacific Hotel in San Diego, California. It was totally an honor. 

At first, I was a bit apprehensive because I was in crutches after suffering from a broken femur. But then I thought: “What the hell?” and I went for it. I do not regret it. 

During the convention, I attended lectures and workshops that significantly altered my perception of journalism and helped me focus on what direction I want the paper to take for next semester when I get to run things (Heh! Heh!). Everything I learned at the conference will be of immediate benefit to The Independent, especially the Newspaper Design/Redesign workshop. 

The best part of the weekend, however, came at the end of our daily lectures. This being a “National Convention” there were college students from all over the United States. I, of course, being the charismatic and social person that I am, managed to meet up with nine of the greatest people there. 

They were:  Brad from Virginia who know what to do with a good set of maracas and a Mexican Hot Dog; Karyn from California, a caring woman loves to host parties at Room 309; Jason, also from California-picture a hybrid between Tom Petty and the guy from Nirvana, but with much better hair and attitude; Debbie from Washington was the first person I met and, by far, the smartest and truest (and first!) real hippie I’ve ever known;  Steven, from California as well, knew good jokes and was not afraid to try “alternatives”; Marnett (Ca.) was the wildest 30-Something I met and really cared about Handicapped Seating; Reina (Ca.) was an exotic Spanish speaking lady or Japanese ancestry who was a true Dancing Queen; there was also Mike (Ca.) who was our illustrious leader and living proof that there are hip, real people in California; Last, but not least, Sherry from Virginia. She was the most beautiful and understanding Southern Belle that has carved a palace within my heart of stone. Oh, and she loves to say: “Ya’ll.” 

These nine people made my weekend the best in an otherwise miserable existence. They will be missed. 

Among the adventures I had were: walking what seemed to be 345 miles through the Gas Lamp District; discovering that in Tijuana “Americans have no rights”; Playing a game of truth telling and drinking called: “I never”; dancing in crutches to “Pump Up The Jam”; meeting a 20 year old beauty named Sandy; having the sudden realization that San Diego is New York without the bad attitude; my first trolley ride: and getting carried across the Mexican-American border by two beautiful women after I hurt my leg. What fun!

Looking out of the plane window now, I see that the sun has set across America, creating a dark gap between my comrades and myself. It’s funny how you can miss people you have known for less than three days. I wonder if I will ever see them again.

Oh wait! I think I see something. Yes! I can see Vic Tayback now. He’s right outside of my window and he is singing.

“Goodbye, my friends, it’s hard to die when the birds are singing in the sky.”