Mike Ferris, our Class Day orator from 1983 has kindly shared with us the "Ivy Oration Update" that he delivered on Entertainment Night.   He wishes to stress that, if it doesn't seem as funny now, it's because his dry delivery and audience inebriation were crucial components in the evening's success.

Mike Ferris, "Ivy Oration Update '08"

Twenty-five years ago, we collectively experienced the end of an era. Though we knew the future held all manner of excitement, we couldn't help experiencing a bittersweet sense of loss, knowing we would never again enjoy the steady company of these dear friends, this magnificent adventure. Yes, who among us can ever forget the final episode of M*A*S*H?

Around the same time, I gather a lot of us graduated from Harvard, and that's important too. If you’re anything like me, you may have little to remember Harvard by these days, besides a class ring and a Veritas tattoo. But then, like Proust’s madeleine in A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, a sudden olfactory reminder will bring back the entire experience—the smell of books, say, or burning money or, in my case, the odor of stale beer and vomit.

The university's purpose in reuniting us here is two-fold: First, to get everyone liquored up enough that we might seriously consider donating money to an institution whose net worth already exceeds that of Brazil. And secondly, to allow us to reconnect.

Looking out at this sea of faces, I realize how little I know about what all of you have been up to since those bygone days, not only because I don't particularly care, but because we all tend to get pretty wrapped up in our own lives, don't we? But given the scientifically proven correlation between an Ivy League education and unearned rewards, I'm guessing most of us have done all right for ourselves since 1983.

I know the past quarter century has treated me pretty well. For one thing, I'm delighted to announce that I'm no longer a virgin. And I suspect this represents just one of many experiences we all have in common. Like most of you, I've found life since graduation to be unpredictable, sometimes deeply gratifying, sometimes downright frightening. Like many of you, I've married and had children, struggling to balance the demands of my career with those of raising a family. Like some of you, I've moved to California, shaved my head and gotten an earring, had a string of meaningless affairs with aspiring young actresses-- by which I mean, technically, prostitutes-- experienced a minor nervous breakdown, briefly changed my name to Ronnie Leatherman, in honor of the original bass player from the 13th Floor Elevators, and become addicted to Alprazolam and Electroconvulsive Therapy… But enough about you.

I guess of all these experiences, I would have to say having children was the most significant. Before then, like most childless people, I tended to think of children (when I bothered to think of them at all) as being, you know, just a bunch of wild and crazy, uncontrollable, ugly, vicious, mouth-breathing little sociopaths. But now that I'm a father, well, I only think of other people's kids that way.
You learn things from your children. For instance, I now know more about Pokemon than I ever would've imagined possible. In the unlikely event that I ever am confronted by a level three Charmander and have to escape using a sleeping spell, well, I'll have my kids to thank.

Having children changes your perspective on the life you've led. When I was working for Hustler Magazine in the eighties, it never occurred to me that this might be something I'd be-- reluctant to discuss around the dinner table some day. After all, as one of only a handful of Harvard grads at Larry Flynt Publications, I was immediately put in charge of the magazine's much-vaunted parodies of modern poetry-- I'm sure you remember them-- stuff like "The Love Dong of J. Alfred Trucock" and "Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening, With an Asian Hooker and an Eightball." Stuff I was proud of. But the context was questionable, and now that I'm raising two young daughters I've come to realize, hardcore pornography is something that has to be far more carefully hidden.

And, of course, children make you reconsider your plans for the future. Since those days at LFP, I've made the lateral move into the motion picture industry, and now my wife often says to me, "Why don't you write a movie your son can enjoy?" So I asked him, I said, "Simon, you're three, what kind of movie would you like to see?" He gave it some thought and told me, "Army men poop their pants." Fair enough. Thing is, they've already made "Blackhawk Down." I'm working now on something called "The Texas Chainsaw Babies," we'll see how it goes.
But the subject of kids and the future raises a vital question. Sure we've all made it, heck, we graduated from Harvard or… married somebody who did, or… got a job bartending here, but… what kind of a world are we leaving behind for these children of ours? Admittedly, they haven’t done much for us lately, but that doesn’t let us off the hook. Global warming, endless warfare, a tanking economy-- it's all pretty damned depressing if you stop to really think about it which, fortunately, I never do.

Of course, looking at the troubled state of the planet, I could just blame the current administration, but that would be like blaming a fish for shitting in the sea. It's not like he can help himself. And I’m not interested in picking fights with Republicans. Heck, my mom’s a Republican—my evil, fascist mom. In any event, we won't have George Bush-- or, as I affectionately think of him, Retard Satan-- to kick around much longer. So I must conclude that blaming the government is just a way of absolving ourselves of personal responsibility.
I've certainly tried to do my share. While I don't actually recycle, I seldom discourage the homeless from picking through my trash. "An Inconvenient Truth" is practically at the top of my NetFlix queue. I even drive a hybrid car; it’s a Caddy Escalade that runs on a combination of fossil fuels and polar bear blood. But still, I worried that it just wasn't enough.

Until, that is, I read something the other day. I’d like to share it with you, because I think it may help put things in perspective, perhaps even provide a little hope: "Today, we stand closer to the destruction of our species than we have at any time in the history of mankind. Our options are bleak and few. And the wrong choice will take us down a road toward universal annihilation upon which there is no turning back." Sounds as though it could have come from yesterday's op-ed pages, doesn't it? Well, guess again. This was actually translated from 30,000-year-old pictograms in the caves of Lascaux. The next paragraph reads: "The recent discovery of fire, ostensibly a means of 'cooking meat', threatens to destroy us all."
Talk about perspective, huh? Sure, we can laugh now at those Paleolithic paranoids, but really, what makes us so much smarter than the Flintstones? When you get right down to it, isn’t the world always in a state of panic? Aren’t we always at the brink of some disaster from which we can never recover? Once, the Spanish Inquisition was a really big deal-- now, nobody even remembers it except crypto-Jews and Monty Python fans. Oppenheimer worried that the first atomic bomb tests would ignite the atmosphere and destroy the planet, but, as far as I know, they didn't… and look how well nuclear weapons have worked out for us since. So what's the crisis du jour? The total erosion of our civil liberties? A couple of years from, you won't even be allowed to think about it.

In my regular Toastmasters meetings, they always tell you to end a speech with a joke. But I don't know any, so in conclusion, let me just say that obviously, a lot has changed in twenty-five years. We've gone from Asteroids to Grand Theft Auto IV, from the Ivy League to iPods to Iraq. And yet, the more things change, the more they stay the same. For instance, here I am again. And I sincerely hope to be speaking to you at the 50th reunion-- in the form of a hologram, perhaps, or via a telepathic global-link-- and who knows, perhaps I'll even be able to deliver words of hope and inspiration at our 75th-- aw, who am I kidding, by then we'll all be dead. Thank you and good night.