Another Berkeley story

My previous Berkeley story can be found here. Stick with this all the way through for a twist ending. You won't be sorry.

Let us hearken back to a more innocent time. Namely, August of 1994. That was when I left the SoCal roost of my parents' home and headed north to the Bay Area with my clothes, my CD collection, a newish computer, and a hot pot, to move into the dorms in Berkeley. My folks helped me to move into a newly renovated dorm room, and then I was anxious to see them out of town so I could begin experiencing college.

Now, the first week there, before classes start, is called "Welcome Week," and it's primarily meant to help the impressionable freshmen to acclimate to life in the dorm system. The residential staff tell the wet-behind-the-ears newbies about how the dining halls work, offer to take them on fun-filled excursions around the campus and the SF Bay area at large (avoiding Oakland, for the most part), and explain the rules for living in the dorms. The latter included stern lectures about how drugs and drinking would not be tolerated inside the dorms. Well, drinking would be, but only if you were 21 or older. And not many of us were.

Did that deter us? Of course not! The word was that one night, a guy named Alonzo was going to have a bash in his room with plenty of booze, and about forty or so kids showed up, myself included. I don't really know where Alonzo got all his liquor (the rumor was that his dad had provided it) but we got a nice party going. I was chatting up a good-looking girl when there was a knock at the door.

Now, since we were stupid kids, we hadn't figured that about forty people in a room that was supposed to accommodate two would draw the attention of the Resident Assistants (RAs), but it did. And one of them, Jeff, was at the door. Alonzo got everyone to hide their drinks, and when Jeff came in to shoot the shit, we thought everything was cool, since he didn't ask us if there was any alcohol in the room. Some of us (myself included) had even engaged Jeff in conversation. Which, having been drinking lightweights at the time, was a bad idea, in retrospect.

But Jeff left, and the drinks came out again, and the party continued. The good-looking girl moved on to talk to another dude, who later became one of my best friends, and I continued drinking. Although I was a little bitter about having the hottie distracted by some jerk, I was still having a good time.

That's when there was another knock on the door.

Alonzo went to the door again, looked through the peephole, and told everyone that Jeff had returned with another RA, Bill, who seemed less cool than Jeff. Everyone hid their booze again, and the RAs were let into the room.

Bill took charge, saying that he knew there was drinking going on in the room, and that the party would have to be broken up before he called the Fire Marshal, who would come down on us hard if we refused to disperse. Bill and Jeff took down the names of all the students who left the room, checking their student IDs.

Later, there were hearings about whether or not people were drinking alcohol at the party, and I learned a valuable lesson from those hearings. I'd always been told that "honesty is the best policy," but I found out that was a bunch of crap. You see, I was one of five people out of the huge group who admitted to drinking that night, and the rest got off scot-free. The five of us who did the right (stupid, in retrospect) thing were forced to put on a "Substance-free program," which ultimately consisted of renting a tape of "Bright Lights, Big City," showing it in the lounge, and telling the people who showed up (many of whom had sports bottles full of vodka) that drugs and alcohol were bad.

I'm sure you're wondering what the hell you've been reading this for, since it's a story about a bunch of eighteen-year-old idiots getting drunk in a dorm room. Well, like Paul Harvey's listeners, you're about to hear "the rest of the story." For, you see, Jeff, the Resident Assistant who first came to check on the party was this guy.

I shit thee not. But he never did his famous dance for us, so we were kind of gypped.

This blog smells dead

But isn't. It's just resting.

I'll see about getting the paddles out and giving it a jump sometime this week.

Turkey Bones and Rotten Pumpkins

How was your Thanksgiving? Select one from these two possible responses to your answer:

1. Good, I'm glad to hear it. It's always nice to INSERT ACTIVITY HERE over the holidays.

2. Aw, man, that sucks. Well, hope you have a better INSERT NON-OFFENSIVE YEAR-END HOLIDAY HERE.

Mine? I tried watching a little bit of the Macy's parade in HD, because everything is better in HD, but the Macy's parade in HD is high-resolution boring. And, as befitting my cave-dwelling clan, Thanksgiving dinner was appropriately filled with an unnecessary amount of old-timey vaudeville melodramatics.

Turkeytime Drama

My brother called the Wednesday night before Turkey Day, and told my Mom he and his wife were coming in for the spread. My Mom knew he might be coming, so this was just a confirmation call. She hadn't mentioned the possibility of my brother and his wife joining us for Thanksgiving to my Dad earlier for two reasons:

1. My Dad doesn't like my brother and his wife.
2. My Dad is a butthole.

Oh, it's true. I've told you funny stories about my Dad before, but don't let that fool you. He isn't very funny 95% of the time, and I keep most of those stories to myself.

Now, my brother is really my half-brother. His father, my Mom's first husband, was an Italian guy named Frank who worked for the police in New York. He was very nice the couple of times I met him. He passed away several years ago, from brain cancer. My brother is 20 years older than me, so he was grown and gone before my Dad married my Mom. So they've never been close.

The reason my Dad gives for disliking my brother is this: A few years ago, my brother and his then-girlfriend stayed overnight with them, and spent the evening on a pull-out bed in the living room. My Dad thinks he busted them screwing in the living room when he got up to get something to drink. Apparently he has something against premarital sex - or most likely sex in general, because his own organ hasn't been much more than a vessel for urine in several decades. My brother swears they weren't, and I believe him for two reasons:

1. He has no real reason to lie about it. Why would you screw your girlfriend in an open living room where anyone could walk in on you? He's not stupid.

2. My Dad is a butthole.

All of this is also terribly funny to me for two reasons:

1. I have probably fornicated in that house more than anyone else who's ever been inside it, including my folks. I was never caught, because like my brother, I am not stupid. I came close to getting busted a few times, though.

2. My Dad is a butthole. I have had many up-close and personal encounters with this buttholery. The unpredictability of his buttholery, which flares up at the slightest hint of a perceived offense, ends up making a him very predictable person, if you can dig that. He's always going to do the opposite of what a normal, rational human being would do. I find it hilarious, now that I am grown and away.

What I don't find hilarious is the way my Mom worries over stuff like that.

Anyway, according to my Mom, he flew into a conniption fit over the announcement, declaring that THANKSGIVING WAS RUINED, and storming out of the house before my brother and his wife ever got there. The whole time they were visiting he stayed outside working on his car, and then drove off for several hours, returning a few minutes after they left (he must've driven by the house a hundred times).

This reaction was unsurprising to me, but it bothered the hell out of my Mom. She really believes that people can always change their ways and eventually do the right thing, no matter how often they've disproven that theory in the past. She's pretty naive. I know different. I know that some people can evolve and grow, and I've always been a fairly forgiving person willing to give many "second chances," but...I always keep in mind that once something is deep-rooted inside a person, once a particular belief or way of thinking or behaving has fully sunken its teeth into the base of their brain, then they're lost. There's no point in wasting any more time on them, even if I end up wasting that time anyway. I've seen it firsthand, many times. It's never been a shock to be shocked by it when it eventually happens.

My brother didn't give a shit. He's a pretty laid-back guy. His wife thought it was funny, so both of us cracked some jokes about it. I pointed out that he wouldn't have been very good company had he chosen to join us, anyway. More turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce and deviled eggs and sweet potato casserole for me. His loss.

So my brother, his wife, and myself had a great time visiting for a few hours, talking about movies and computers and video games and such. My Mom kept going on about how my Dad didn't understand that she had another son, and I finally got a little snappy with her after telling her not to worry about it for the 1500th time. To worry about it is to give him a victory, I told her, because he expects a reaction when he does this kind of thing, so the best course is always apathy when it comes to him. I get along with him okay nowadays, but it's the same kind of "get along" you might have with a co-worker.

Later that weekend when I stopped by, my Mom told me he never touched any of the leftovers, going out for fast food instead. Deep-rooted.

I've been thinking about it a lot, lately. They're getting on up there in years, both at 77, so I have to think about it even though I don't really want to. I've decided that if she goes first, I'll ease on over there after the funeral and gather up whatever I think belongs to me, and ease on out the door with it, and he'll never see me again. I won't even go to his funeral, nor will I participate in any arrangements. Apathy, complete and total. He's a wash, as far as I am concerned - and not because of anything he ever said or did to me, dig?

I was looking through some personals ads the other day, as I often do when I want to be an asshole and laugh about the ridiculous shit other lonely people write out of desperation, and I saw that on one of the ads the woman listed "a close family" as one of the strict requirements she expected to be met by any potential mate/date - or "Mr. Right," as she put it. I noticed this requirement on several other ads, as well.

This made me laugh, for two reasons:

1. It's a really unfair requirement to make. It's not my fault I have a shitty family. I did nothing to cause that. Alcohol and pure meanness caused that. I have a kind-hearted Mom, though, so I have half a close family. That doesn't count, evidently. Apparently we all have to take communal baths together or something.

2. My Dad is a butthole.


More leftover stuffing from me later.