Always regarded as a wordsmith among pop stars, Morrissey’s autobiography, wryly titled “Autobiography,” reads like it was ghostwritten by Shakespeare himself.
So, this is my final column for the Campus Times, and I could waste the whole thing talking about myself or relating how much I have enjoyed my tenure here.
Another summer is upon us, and concert promoters are throwing every package they can conjure into local venues, expecting us to fork over increasingly asinine percentages of our revenue for the privilege of sitting in the same room with some of our favorite artists.
Forget the New Kids on the Block (sorry Toni Dreier), forget the Dixie Chicks (sorry Jennifer Parsons) and forget other bands and artists who come and go within a few months after one or two hits. It is all about Morrissey.
Two weeks from today I will present my senior project to professors and instructors of the University of La Verne. My project, two eight-page issues of an alumni newsletter for Phi Delta Theta, will be presented through some sort of medium -- either an overhead projector, Power Point, handouts, whatever.