Op-Ed
My 200th Birthday
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I am getting old. Damn old. I’m old enough to be one of the oldest people on campus. Except, of course, for virtually all the grad students, professors, administrators, staff and people who hang out at CTB without having any reason to do so. These people, along with my parents and anyone born before 1984, will no doubt throw stuff at me now. They are, after all, a substantial majority.
The person who will throw the most stuff at me is, of course, old Ezra himself. It was, after all, Ezra’s 200th birthday last week, a lovely affair in which we celebrated our founder and his many accomplishments. 
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This has had me thinking about my own upcoming 200th birthday celebration a few dozen years from now. Mostly, I was thinking about how I would celebrate it, how the University would celebrate it and, most importantly, how you, dear reader, would celebrate it. For it is sure to be a majestic event.
Before I get too far ahead of myself, however, I must first assure you that I have ample experience with birthdays, never once having missed one of my own save for a few episodes which I cannot for the moment recall. My experience comes also from milestone birthdays, of which I have had more than a few. You see, everyone up here celebrates their 21st with great pomp. It is certainly warranted, as it marks the (legal) beginning of a torrid affair with wines and spirits. In my case, however, I have had two such milestone birthdays, not because of a mix-up with a birth certificate but because, upon my arrival on American shores, I was stripped of the legality bestowed upon me by Mexican “laws,” where age 18 marks the (technically legal) beginning of the same torrid affair with wines and spirits. I, unlike most of you, got to turn legal twice. I am also going to turn illegal twice, since my student visa expires the day after commencement, but that’s neither here nor there.
So what will the 179th anniversary of my 21st birthday look like? It will be a grand party, old sport, a fête to end all fêtes. There will be cake by the mountain-load, lots and lots of cake, enough to keep France fed. There will be orchestras, complete with a mariachi band section. A full wine bar with a bottomless supply of champagne will command the Arts Quad as the chimes play “South of the Border” and “Don’t Stop Believin’” every hour on the hour. And after the reception we will all retire to Rulloff’s, whereupon we will drink and be merry.
I say “we” even though, in all likelihood, I shall probably be dead by then. But I still aim to be present at this celebration, albeit not in the “I will live on in every heart and every tequila shot” kind of way. A stipulation in my will reads that, upon my passing, I am to be sent to a taxidermist, who will make sure that I am preserved in an intimidating pose, preferably one in which I’m roaring and looking really, really scary. I am not sure quite yet where this organic statue will stand, but we can surely put in on the Arts Quad for just that occasion.
And the beauty of a bicentennial is that people do not only celebrate you for a day or a weekend, but for the whole damn year. There are dinners, socials, receptions, parties, even an ice cream flavor that no one will ever order. They’re a big deal, folks, and anytime you can get people toasting to your memory for an entire calendar year is nothing to scoff at. Hell, even the trustees show up.
Among these trustees, I hope, will be Carlos Maycotte, XVII. Just like Ezra, my progeny will be on the Board, assuring that the great legacy of the Maycottes lasts long after our years. Like my father, the original Carlos, and me, his son, Maycottes have been at Cornell and will continue to populate it through the ages. Fifteen generations of Maycottes in 178 years seems excessive, but if my children keep up my own rate of procreation, we should reach that number just in time.
In order to be celebrated like this, I realize, I must make sure to leave a legacy besides love-children. I must find a way to give something back to Cornell that people will know and love for years. I must find what Cornell needs the most and then get ’ir done.
And then it struck me. Uris Hall. It is a mistake, just like Carlos III was. Unlike Carlos III, however, Uris Hall is not loved. What if I were to destroy the hideous, rusty box and made sure to replace it with something non-threatening that everyone will like, such as Milstein Hall? Wouldn’t people love me then? Wouldn’t that be a hell of a legacy? I mean, I still plan on giving to Cornell several of the excess millions I get through the Mexican mafia and other such business endeavors but, just once, I want to go off and do something tangible that people will be very thankful for. Like getting rid of Uris. Or becoming a citizen.
A bicentennial bacchanal is a capital idea, and I will somehow make that happen. I need to become famous, and who better to emulate than Ezra himself? Ezra founded Cornell. Therefore he became famous. I want to become famous. Therefore I … must… found …Oh no. I can’t found what has already been founded. Wait. Let me check my logic. Yes. That’s right. Oh man. Logic is never wrong.
O.K. Well, I guess, in order to have me found Cornell, we’re going to have to shut down the University. It was time for a change, anyway.
I’ll be at Uris Hall tomorrow with a big hammer in my hand, for anyone who cares to join. Just please don’t tell the police.
Carlos Maycotte is The Sun’s former Associate Editor. He can be contacted at cam98@cornell.edu. Tequila Sunrise appears Thursdays.