UNCW, affectionately known as The Dub, has the reputation of a big, bad brother. He gets up around noon to work out so his V shows up well while he’s on his surfboard until dinner. He runs to a class around five, late with wet hair and sandals. He starts drinking at nine and doesn’t stop until he has to sober up so he can drive to class. He still pulls a C average and crosses the stage after 4.5 years of mediocre study in Creative Writing. The Dub is known for its Creative Writing graduate program, so big brother might also consider himself “an artist.” You wouldn’t find much cash in his wallet after graduation. Most of that has gone to Bud Light, Sticky Bumps and parking tickets; The Dub is infamous for Nazi-like discipline in the pink-coded parking lots, designated for people with more cash than Mr. Dub.

But at 7:30 a.m., outside of a lecture hall in a building off Chancellor’s Walk, there are smartly-dressed students lining up. No sandals here; shoes are shined, the echo of heels bounces of the high ceiling and the smell of soap and cologne reminds one of Grand Central Station in the early morning hours before the subway rush. At 7:45, there are over 30 students waiting for the door to open. When the clock tower strikes eight, 87 students are in their seats and ready to click into their keypads the answers from last night’s reading.

Clickers are out. Notebooks are open. Pens are ready. Dr. O. is in the house.

After walking up and down the lecture hall aisles, idly chatting with the early birds, Dr. Richard Olsen, chair of the Communication Studies Department at The Dub, is pacing the front deck and looking the part of professor in his brown suede jacket, browned-leather belt and matching shoes. He wears a watch but doesn’t check it; when students stop coming through the doors, he knows he’s speaking to an interested crowd, and doesn’t bother waiting for the late risers.

Without even a good morning, he begins to read the question projected on the double-screens above him. It appears that students have fifteen seconds to answer, a countdown reminiscent of an old movie projector ticks off the seconds.

Behind the podium, Dr. O. is practicing his golf swing. He looks down at his feet, shoulder-width apart, hands clasped, and sets his defined jaw straight for the opposite side of the room. His dark brown beady eyes squint behind almond shaped glasses- the kind without rims around the lens, silver rods tucked behind his ears- as if he really does have a club in hand and a hole to sink. On the downswing, you can almost hear him whisper, “Birdie.” That imagination will come in handy later.

The early birds have had at least ten minutes to ponder their clicker response. Early birds to an 8 a.m. class? This is Communication Methods. This is the gateway course to the Communication Studies major. Pass this without a B average, and you’ll be up at 8 a.m. next fall, too. If it weren’t for the early birds, the rest of the class might have a shot.

If Dr. O. is successful in accomplishing just one thing in his teaching career, it is that he exemplifies what Communication Studies majors ought to be. He is personable. Conversational. He uses informality to inform while remaining formal. He listens to his audience, interprets their reactions, speaks in student vernacular and connects it to scholarly vocabulary. He uses current events to spark interest, humor and sarcasm to keep our heart rate from speeding up when he asks a direct question of the audience.

“You’re fired,” he says to one-third of the class, who didn’t respond fast enough. It’s a game now. Come up with an answer, or settle for unemployment. This is the world that Communication Studies majors will graduate into.

The Dub is infamous for its surfer dudes and valley girls, but at 8 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday and Friday (Yes, even Friday), in Dr. O’s class, you will find a different kind of student.

This is where you’ll find the rare, UNCW Early Bird, pecking away at the seed of knowledge.

And Dr. O. is the kind of professor that gives out worms.