One warm sunny day, I found myself walking through Sproul Plaza, on my way to Moffit, a cold D.C. waffle lump swimming in grease and then lounging comfortably in the pit of my stomach. I strolled past Jake, a Harvard lawyer turned fundamentalist, in the middle of someone’s question:
“Can I still keep my carnal and adulterous lifestyle?”
“Oh yeah, sure. Pamphlet?”
“Thanks.”
Later that night, after doling out $1.47 in weed money to assorted residents of Hotel Sidewalk, three of my friends came to `Frisco with me to spend the night on the Haight. We were sitting on a grassy knoll when we met Mike and Bowstich, friendly neighborhood acid dealers. After sharing cigarettes with my friend “Juan,” Mike warned him to “Stay back! Stay back! I challenge you, and thus plan to devour your brain.” “Juan” responded by throwing his cigarette into a drain. Mike chastised him,
“Well, shit. Look what you went and did.”
“You flicked the cigarette on the seven-horned beast. He’s gonna be pretty fuckin’ pissed. See watch, he just tossed it right off,” said Transient Mike as he proceeded to urinate on the aforementioned hell-spawn.
After singing Allman Brothers hits with a chorus of substance abusers we decided to make our way home, finally arriving on campus just as dawn broke through lighting the Campanile tower. I paused and wondered how the Regents of so long ago somehow knew that they needed to erect a permanent memorial to our male-dominated, misogynist society of old.
