Deja vu was yesterday.
The freaked out freshman and frenzied parents pulled up to Old Campus. With worlds of stuff to transform boxes into rooms to be carried to the fifth floor of Lawrance by big sibs. Really was only doing it for the Stiles tee-shirt and to be on the flip side of the fun. Which is what you sophs smile and call it when lugging some girls stuff up steep flights on move-in day, another synonym for a muggy, humid hell of a morning.
Evening, went to similar series of parties as last year. Some were evidently activist excuses designed to spill liquids on over-expensive, anti-feminist apparrel of a consumer culture chaining country's resources to the latest, most demeaning version of the miniskirt or to spill crowds out of narrow frat house corridors into the streets of the city causing public mayhem. And they were successful. Lynwood Place was so packed with people that it took us half an hour to walk down it. Mostly as had to stop at the traffic light ups of screaming seeing friends long lost for a summer and catch up for few sentences before the crowd pulled up to a new face tanned but familiar.
And the parties. First there was the BD party, which sounds more like a disease then a good time. The first night after the fresh come the Baker's Dozen, an all-male accapella group with their own house, hold a party. They throw it every year. Every year the cops break it up. Shows quite a perverse persistence, if you ask me. People poured out the backyard and cops pushed all along as we arrived. Last year either it was better broken up later or we were freshmen and went earlier. This year after some street corner loitering with faces from high school flowing by, we streamed to the Beta house where wanna be Alpha males strutted. Beta's backdoor was blocked and better ideas than going inside occurred. We went to Sig Ep. Which really was a civilized frat party if such things exist. Lights and grapes dangled from the trelis above our heads. Conversations curled around posts. Vines hung but lines didn't dangle mid-air between parties shouting simple sounds failing to reach each other. The party was closed to bad Britney and ears openned to the Doors. A shady magician who insisted we call him Juice pulled a beer out of thin air before our eyes an hour after all the alcohol had been consumed. At least it was amusing. And the people were less pathetic, more intricate to study. Observation as Dorothy Parker might have noted is always the refuge for the over-thoughtful any place.
Sitting up in my room right now. Looking out. My desk flush up against my fourth floor window. View of bright tree and bricks of the Hall of Graduate Studies and the jog walk, main route to the gym. Maybe it's the height's superior sense, seem above it all. Maybe it's the lack of a screen saving poor pedestrians below. I'm overpowered by the giddy urge to throw things out the window. A claranet mouthpiece left by last living here, contact solution, and smelly socks left by the same mouth as the claranet (but not previously thrown together unless the unfortunate hummed to himself the tune of foot in mouth disease) have already flown out. Flying off on college cloud nine now.
Evening, went to similar series of parties as last year. Some were evidently activist excuses designed to spill liquids on over-expensive, anti-feminist apparrel of a consumer culture chaining country's resources to the latest, most demeaning version of the miniskirt or to spill crowds out of narrow frat house corridors into the streets of the city causing public mayhem. And they were successful. Lynwood Place was so packed with people that it took us half an hour to walk down it. Mostly as had to stop at the traffic light ups of screaming seeing friends long lost for a summer and catch up for few sentences before the crowd pulled up to a new face tanned but familiar.
And the parties. First there was the BD party, which sounds more like a disease then a good time. The first night after the fresh come the Baker's Dozen, an all-male accapella group with their own house, hold a party. They throw it every year. Every year the cops break it up. Shows quite a perverse persistence, if you ask me. People poured out the backyard and cops pushed all along as we arrived. Last year either it was better broken up later or we were freshmen and went earlier. This year after some street corner loitering with faces from high school flowing by, we streamed to the Beta house where wanna be Alpha males strutted. Beta's backdoor was blocked and better ideas than going inside occurred. We went to Sig Ep. Which really was a civilized frat party if such things exist. Lights and grapes dangled from the trelis above our heads. Conversations curled around posts. Vines hung but lines didn't dangle mid-air between parties shouting simple sounds failing to reach each other. The party was closed to bad Britney and ears openned to the Doors. A shady magician who insisted we call him Juice pulled a beer out of thin air before our eyes an hour after all the alcohol had been consumed. At least it was amusing. And the people were less pathetic, more intricate to study. Observation as Dorothy Parker might have noted is always the refuge for the over-thoughtful any place.
Sitting up in my room right now. Looking out. My desk flush up against my fourth floor window. View of bright tree and bricks of the Hall of Graduate Studies and the jog walk, main route to the gym. Maybe it's the height's superior sense, seem above it all. Maybe it's the lack of a screen saving poor pedestrians below. I'm overpowered by the giddy urge to throw things out the window. A claranet mouthpiece left by last living here, contact solution, and smelly socks left by the same mouth as the claranet (but not previously thrown together unless the unfortunate hummed to himself the tune of foot in mouth disease) have already flown out. Flying off on college cloud nine now.
