If, over the course of the last four years, you have read something I wrote in The Daily Collegian that offended you, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize.

From my first-ever published review in the Collegian -- in which I suggest you'd be better off spending the money you might've otherwise put toward R. Kelly's Chocolate Factory on a Lite Brite -- to the last, I've done everything in my power to give you nice people a little taste of what I like to call "the unadulterated truth." Some people can handle it, and some can't. And if you couldn't, well, sorry. Also, grow up.

I've spent four years at the Collegian trying, in my own small way, to hip you kids to the unadulterated truth.

Though I may not be the coolest guy myself (I would like to take this opportunity to tell you I really can't wait 'til they release California Dreams on DVD), I know cool when I see it. Sure, all I did was tell you what records to buy and which ones to avoid, pausing occasionally to let you know, in his own words, what an idiot Jordan Knight truly is; but in doing so, I like to think I've represented a little bit of straight talk in a world where that kind of thing is increasingly harder to find.

So let me shock you one final time with a smidgen of that sweet, sweet truth: Penn State, I love you, baby, but even after five years, sometimes you surprise me with your uncoolness.

I can't tell you how many times I've walked into a show to find the place half-empty, and yet, all I ever hear is how little there is to do around here but drink. Look, it's very simple: If you don't go see great bands when they're here, if you avoid world-class lectures, if you've never set foot in Palmer Art Museum, these things are going to wither away and die.

On the flipside, the more support you throw behind the genuinely cool things that occasionally deign to come here, the more likely it is the powers that be will be able to get other, cooler stuff.

This was made perfectly clear to me when I went to see Ghostface Killah the other night. Ghost, probably the finest rapper in the world at the moment, couldn't even get the 800-or-so people it takes to fill Crowbar to come see him, out of a student body of over 40,000. I know it's a busy time of year and all; one quick glance at the industrious types sitting outside at Café 210 West at this very moment and you'll see what a studious group of individuals we are. And I know dropping $18 on a ticket is a lot to ask; that's almost the price of two Monkey Boys, and surely no Penn Stater has ever had that much in a single night. And I am patently aware that, in a major metropolitan area like State College, there's always just so many options that sometimes it can be hard to decide. Like, uh. Well. There's always...

I get this funny feeling when I'm sitting in a class with a bunch of English majors who haven't done their reading, but can rattle off competing theories as to the best night to go to Player's Nite Club that the level of intellectual curiosity on this campus isn't exactly the highest.

A striking majority of the people I've met at Penn State don't do much but wake up, go to class, peruse "Stall Stories," and take in a lecture or four from Tom Collins, Ph.D.

As our prestigious institution falls further and further into corporate ownership (Coke is better than Pepsi, dang it, and "soda" is a stupid name) and our requirements for graduation slowly become easier and more prescribed, there are times when I feel Penn State is inching closer to a degree factory for those who can afford it.

But this Collegian is the product of a group of people who are most definitely not sleepwalking through life. For them, to sacrifice their time and their sanity to give you the unadulterated truth is a rare sign of life, not only in each and every one of them, but for Penn State as a whole.

Every day I'm down at the office, missing deadlines and grumbling about James Blunt's gender orientation, they're joyfully failing classes and abusing stimulants in pursuit of the unadulterated truth. And the fact that, for the last four years, they've given me the opportunity to tell 40,000 people just how bad Dave Matthews really is makes me just about the luckiest son of a gun in the world.

A sap from your buddy Thompson? Sorry. But it's the unadulterated truth.