Dear Chancellor Green Café,

A couple of days ago—I’m sure you remember; it was only a couple of days ago, just work with me here—I sat down to skim the rest of a Faulkner short story in the three-and-a-half minutes I had before lecture, when I was interrupted by the music you were playing. Can we talk about that for a sec?

First of all, your music doesn’t usually interrupt me. In fact, I rarely notice it, which is part of its charm. It’s like children—seen, but not heard—but better, because it’s neither seen nor heard. Pretty much ideal. I love music—it’s so abstract, you know? Awesome.

Anyway, what the cock was that shit? Nelly Furtado? Prior to that, when I actually heard whatever it was you were playing, it was only the best: Marvin Gaye, The Four Tops, I feel like I might’ve even heard “Welcome to the Jungle” more than once, which was a stretch, but, still, awesome.

If I wanted any of that ass-fuck “Now That’s What I Call Music: 38” shit, I would’ve gone to Café Viv. If I wanted daggers dipped in hot wax, then rolled around in a bowl of little metal screws and spikes, dusted with shards of glass, then affixed to a burning hot staple gun and shot into my ear by a Nazi, I would’ve asked.

But I always expected more from you, you know? The café part you’ve got down to a T—I’ve never encountered a staff more efficient and conscientious than the one you’ve got working there. Also, table spacing: excellent layout. Good job. So what’s with this big time downgrade?

Last night, I went to Café Viv for a $34 pizza. I’d missed dinner, but I live in the center of campus—WaWa and Panera were viable options, but who wants to walk that far? Plus, it was raining. A “perfect storm,” one might call it. I walked into Viv, barely able to see my outstretched hands in front of me. It’s like someone decided to take two bare bulbs, jam them into the molding of Viv and call it “mood lighting.” I think there are better ways to conserve money and energy. Like, for example, eliminating Dean’s Date shirts. Where does the money for that come from? Is that why the U-Store isn’t 24 hours anymore?

Got my pizza, sat down, and bit into what I assumed was my pizza—again, not entirely positive because I couldn’t see the damn thing. But guess what I heard playing. Just guess. It was jazz! And fucking good jazz, too! Louis Armstrong. It was still playing way too loud, like all music in Viv, but at least this was tolerable, and it didn’t have words.

Needless to say, this was a giant mind-eff. Chancellor Green Café, you always had that special place in my heart, the spot I keep reserved for unassuming, unobtrusive cafes! God, what’s next? Please don’t turn into Small World. I don’t think I can take questionable tunes and three-hundred-thousand yuppies yapping. Oh, but no—not Starbucks! Are you going to start releasing Nelly Furtado CDs, too?

Oh. Wait. Now you’ve gone back to playing Motown. Okay. I guess you were experimenting with a different channel on XM Radio. I understand that need. Needed to spice it up a little bit. I get it. Make me appreciate what I’ve got. I’m feeling you. Okay.

Just please don’t do it again.