Yesterday — whether or not the majority of you readers know — was an epic day of importance in the lives of millions of gay men across the United States. No, Proposition 8 was not overturned, nor were laws preventing homosexuals from adopting. Something more directly correlated to these individuals’ happiness occurred: Britney Spears’ latest album, Circus, was released. This happening coincided with the international star’s 27th birthday, and it signifies the beginning of the entertainer’s latest (and most promising) attempt at a comeback.

In the interest of summing up the semester — this being my final column of 2008 — and because I’m at a loss for things to write about, I’m going to supply loyal readers (that means you, Dad) with a Weiss-a-roni-style list of my favorite musical things. The underlying message here being that because I love these things, you should love them too.

Number One. Les Choristes. Les Choristes is a French film, directed by Christophe Barratier, about a failed composer who goes to teach music at a dreary boarding school for “troublesome” boys. Rebellion and learning ensue, and the movie ends up making me so happy every time I watch it. If you are feeling sad, you must watch this movie. You will grin by the end.

Most people’s parents don’t allow their grade school kids to choose a path of habitual insomnia via excess consumption of Nick at Nite. But mine did, and thank God, because I found my soul mate in the fogotton Brady Bunch middle child, Bobby. He and I are kindred spirits. His voice begins to crack just as he and his siblings get a recording contract, just like my siblings and I, whose single “Yeeeeee” — where we do three-part harmonies of the word “Yeeeeee” — never got released.

I woke up yesterday morning and sat bolt upright from the cushy, puke-green sofa in my living room I had fallen asleep on earlier that night (morning?). Something was definitely not right. I pulled the notes I was using to write a rather fabulous English essay (due in approximately three hours) from my face and took stock of my emotions.

What was this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach? Could it be that third helping of my Jersey cousins’ stuffing from Saturday afternoon, rising ominously up from the depths? Perhaps it was the caffeine pills — I mean tic-tacs — I’d been popping like an addict for the past nine hours?

As I am writing this in Libe café — shoutout to all my fellow Libe-addicts — it is becoming increasingly snowy and cold outside. I am fortunately not out there, but I will be soon. And, because I was silly enough to believe the weather report, I am not wearing those singularly excellent and necessary winter items this column is about: boots. I have boots, and boots that I like, but I was trying to get an extra day of not-boots in before winter set in completely. My goal in this column is to help you find one (or more!) pair of boots that can bring you through the winter without feeling bored or uncomfortable.

The first thing we need to examine, as always, is utility. Why do we wear boots?

(1) They keep you warm.

(2) They keep you dry.

(3)They keep pants dry/clean.

Standing in the middle of Section B as the final minutes ticked off Lynah’s scoreboard on both Friday and Saturday night, I felt a nostalgic electricity reverberating through the student sections that seeped its way around the rink. I imagined that Lynah Rink once bore witness to this contemporary anomaly every evening its famed and feared ice hockey team laced up their skates. Scenes of students shuffling on the wooden bleachers before 7 p.m., of chest painted diehards who brave the tundra-like conditions, of 60 minutes of nonstop enthusiasm from the Faithful and townies alike, and of a domination of our Hahvahd and Dartmouth rivals flooded my mind amid visions of seasons past.

I consider the recent yet already beloved Disney Pixar film Ratatouille both a lie and an insult. The values it espouses are contrary to everything that my life’s experience has taught me, and what’s more, I find its title very hard to pronounce. My friend Sarah refers to it as “ruh-tah-tuh-ville.” I should think her way is better.

To say “anyone can cook” and to show an anthropomorphic cooking rat flies in the face of all that I learned growing up, which is “no one can cook.”

Let me ask you a question. If I was to, say, go out with one of my friends, race two cars around the neighborhood for 50 or 60 laps, would you call that a sport? How about if I did 200 laps? Or what if I got a small group of people to watch? And I promised to do a back flip after I win? Would you call that a sport? I thought you wouldn’t.

But for some reason, I am still trying to understand why people consider NASCAR an actual sport. For some reason, driving around for 500 laps or so earns some coverage in sports shows. Really? How about me? Can I get some coverage? Give me a nice ride with some horsepower and I can busy too.

1. Wear sweatpants for an entire calendar year.

2. Embrace tie dye, and people who wear tie dye, unless they have unruly facial hair, are wearing bells, speak in rhyme or a fake british accent, or blow bubbles. That’s how you distinguish the benevolent hippies from the ones who will cause you corporal harm.

3. Banana Republic is a good place to go to find really boring but business-like clothing and a lot of asian people.

4. If you buy things abroad, no matter how cheap they are, their stock goes up when you can say “Oh yeah, I bought that in Uruguay.” Or “This jacket is from the colonial British Congo.”

Like the majority of Cornell seniors, I have begun developing ulcers from anguishing over our uncertain futures. Yes, I am deeply concerned about the present job market, but that is not all.

College is almost over. Living off our parents’ money will be a thing of the past. The puberty of our prolonged adolescence is almost complete. Regular binge drinking is soon to be considered alcoholism. Having to be somewhere before 9 a.m. will no longer be “unreasonable.” We must soon find husbands and wives and then procreate to distract ourselves from how little we actually like our spouses … it is enough to drive the most level-headed student mad.