Rory Levine: Building up the strength for Family Weekend

One early morning a few weeks back, as I sleepily sat down at my computer to skim the morning's e-mails and scan the day's headlines, my post-sleep tranquility was suddenly and rudely shattered by a sound now familiar to all of us -- that awful computerized ding that accompanies an instant message.

"Damn," I muttered under my breath, in case there was some way my frustration could be transferred over the Internet connection. "Isn't it a little early, Mom?"

Trust me, it was much too early for the rather heated, albeit typed, debate that followed. It seemed as though, in some late-night channel surfing, my dad had blindly stumbled across an episode of HBO's late-night erotic documentary series Real Sex, apparently setting off a whole series of fireworks.

Try as I might, my protests that HBO a) had been airing this series for the past 12 years to solid ratings and overall minimal complaints, and b) airs considerably more explicit programming including their critically acclaimed series The Sopranos, Sex and the City and Six Feet Under; and that I thought my dad, at almost 50 years old, could probably handle whatever images he was reluctantly subjected to before changing the channel, fell on deaf ears.

"Did you know they air such offensive and explicit programming?" my mom demanded to know, through her sluggishly deliberate typing. "It wasn't even all that late at night. How could they show this? Do you think your brothers know about this?" (Umm, Mom, to be honest, yeah, I'm pretty sure the secret's out and they've caught an episode or two, just like every other red-blooded American male.)

Finally, I just gave up, offering to dig up HBO's Consumer Service address in case she wanted to draft a letter of protest, and escaped to "get ready for an early class," a classic excuse that works even better through IM than over the phone, shaking my head at the frightening-yet-true stories that come from my folks and wondering at what age I might finally evade our daily morning check-in.

Sure, everyone has stories like that, moments when it becomes painfully clear why going away to college was such a good idea. But as the chilly winds blew through daily planners last week, another realization was clearly taking place across campus: Family Weekend, the weekend that vehemently screams "disaster waiting to happen," just like blind hairdressers or offering Denise Richards a speaking role in a movie, had returned to rear its ugly head yet again.

Sure, on the surface, Family Weekend seems to make an awful lot of sense -- after all, these are the people from whose loins we sprang, who bathed us and clothed us and who lay out the obscene 40 grand that keeps us here in our beautiful bubble of oblivion. Why shouldn't the 'rents be allowed to cruise down Locust Walk, lounge on the Green in the brisk fall air, marvel at the latest construction projects and finally meet the friends we've spent the last two months raving about?

Yet, as nearly all upperclassmen will gladly testify to, rarely does the weekend go down as smoothly as it's portrayed in the glossy brochures sent home. Sure, you all may walk arm-in-arm down a golden leaf-strewn Locust Walk, pointing out the hallowed halls and laughingly sharing anecdotes for the first 30 minutes, but somewhere between the 40th and 41st suggestion that you cut your hair, wear non-ripped jeans or drop your communications major in favor of something a little more "intellectually challenging" such as an MBA from Wharton, you'll start to envy lil' Orphan Annie just like the rest of us...

To me, Family Weekend has always had all the elements for a brilliant reality television series. Take 2,500 attractive, overachieving, easily impressionable high school graduates and maroon them on a campus in one of the nation's largest cities with minimal supervision and guidance and way too much disposable income for almost two full months. Then, just in time for November sweeps, bring in their parents for two full days of built-up tension, exasperation and condescending judgment, and step back to watch the powder keg explode. I mean, who wouldn't watch? (I fully expect a phone call from the programming execs at Fox in a matter of hours after this is published.)

Sure, in a dream world, your parents would wake up one day and just get it -- they'd realize that yes, of course, you're still their child, but now that you've left home, you're bound to have grown up and changed in new, wholly unexpected ways -- ways that they'll have to accept or risk further alienating you. They'd appreciate that this time around, they're your guests and they'll try to be on their best, most flexible and charming behavior. They wouldn't make snide comments about your new friends or critique your edgier appearance or raise their eyebrows at your new dorm decor.

But tragically, that scenario ain't never gonna happen. Instead, just try to recognize that survival is all that matters, so take a deep breath and hold on tight. Oh, and if they happen to ask if you know anything about Real Sex, just say you've never heard of it!

Rory Levine is a senior Communications major from West Nyack, N.Y.

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