Ah, your first day away at college; the day for which you have awaited rather impatiently since high school graduation. But as you open the door to your new room, reality sets in.  There are two beds in this room.  Oh yeah … … the Roommate. You remember filling out that compatibility questionnaire way back in May.  What time do you get up?  How neat are you?  Do you smoke?  All the necessary bases were covered.  You and Roommate scored an impressive 70 percent compatibility.  You have spoken a few times over Facebook: Who was bringing the printer, the refrigerator, you know, the standard roommate stuff.  But now you’re going to be meeting face to face!  You aren’t quite sure what to expect. You unpack your speakers first, plug in your iPod and start jamming to some Arcade Fire.  You love Funeral, and you figure their sound is mainstream enough to be acceptable once Roommate arrived.  About midway through “Neighborhood #3,” you hear a knock at the door.  You turn to find yourself face to face with Roommate.  You greet each other warmly, brimming with excitement.  “What are you listening to?” Roommate asks, grinning. “Oh!  Um, Arcade Fire,” you respond. Roommate frowns, “Hmm.  Never heard of ’em.” As you start to stack your Dostoyevsky novels on the bookshelf, you find yourself a little confused.  Never heard of Arcade Fire?  They were in a Super Bowl commercial.  The Super Bowl!  You decide to investigate.  “So, what do you listen to?” “Oh, you know, everything … whatever’s on the radio, really.” Clutching your copy of Franny and Zooey, you freeze for a second.  You turn around to get a closer look at Roommate.  Ponytailed and sporting the leggings-as-pants, she has dumped her stuff onto the cheap mattress and has now begun to unpack her movie collection: The Notebook, Step Up, Anchorman…  Suddenly, you realize what a difference 30 percent can make.  Your roommate is a Philistine. “Philistine” is defined by Noah Baumbach in The Squid and the Whale (a film no Philistine would have actually seen) as someone who “doesn’t care about books and interesting films and things.” They like what everybody else likes, do what everybody else does and never take the time to seek out true artistic vision.  You, however, are not a Philistine.  You are a shining beacon of higher opinion.  You appreciate Animal Collective, you read Pitchfork religiously and you will lead the general public to the light! You had encounters with these so-called Philistines before, mainly in school when you were forced to associate with them in certain situations — like group projects.  But never like this, never in such close quarters. Don’t panic, you tell yourself.  You see it as a project.  A Philistine now, perhaps, but by the end of the year, she would be as cultured and worldly as yourself!  Well, maybe not quite as worldly and cultured, but a bit more so.  You start by carefully choosing what you listen to while both of you are in the room, keeping it socially acceptable, but with a little more artistic value: New Pornographers, Spoon, Vampire Weekend.  A glimmer of hope appears in your eyes as Roommate expresses recognition of Regina Spektor. “I only know ‘Fidelity’ though.” The glimmer fades. When you come home to Roommate blasting “Cowboy Cassanova” for the umpteenth day in a row, you decide it is time to give up.  Clearly, this person is quite happy in her musical choosing.  You resort to using headphones and no longer try to impose your sophisticated tastes.  You spend considerably less time in the dorm, and you don’t even meet Roommate’s boyfriend until they’ve been dating for almost a month.  He’s a junior and he’s in a fraternity. “Oh, really?”  You feign interest.  “What frat?” “(insert frat here, as to you they’re all the same.)”Sigh.  “Awesome!”  Another Philistine.  As winter sets in, you find yourself spending more time in your room than you would like, forced into hell by the cold.  You were unaware of how bad things have become.  Roommate has recruited a small Philistine army; they all sit in your room and laugh at videos of Dane Cook on YouTube.  You are horrified that a room that is half yours is used for such a purpose.  You retaliate by ditching your headphones entirely and playing only artists that have really weird voices.  You blast as many 6-minute Joanna Newsom songs as possible.  One day, while you’re in the middle of watching Rushmore, Roommate bursts in with Boyfriend. She strains a smile as she glances at what you’re watching.  She has no idea what it is, and doesn’t really care.  “Can I have the room for like an hour?” You try to stage a face off, but no dice.  “Sure.”  You trudge out to the lounge, headphones in hand.  As the months pass, you grow accustomed to each other.  You continue to think she’s provincial; she begins to think you’re an artsy freak and starts to talk about how weird you are to all of her Philistine friends.  Nonetheless, you coexist in a strained peace.  You begin to develop a tolerance for Boyfriend, who appears to be sticking around.  Ironically, Roommate seems to be making an impression on you: some of this frat party music is starting to sneak its way into your playlists.  You justify this by saying it’s “catchy.”  You often catch yourself head-nodding to “Sexy Bitch,” although you would never admit that publicly.  Soon, you sign up for the housing lottery.  As your appointed time rolls around, you reflect on your first roommate experience.  Maybe it hasn’t been as bad as you thought.  True, your roommate didn’t quite grow to share your sophisticated tastes, but she was nice enough, and she wasn’t a complete weirdo.  Maybe you didn’t have to have all of the same worldly interests to be able to stand each other.  In fact, maybe it was better that you weren’t exactly the same.  After all, isn’t learning about other cultures a huge part of college?  Perhaps this has been good for you.  A real learning experience.  You have gained wisdom!  Patience!  Character!  And perhaps a newfound appreciation for Lady GaGa.  I mean, that “Telephone” video — wow, just wow. Looking at the housing page, you examine your options.  The only single left is in Akwe:kon?  You’ll take it.