Fall 1985, Issue 1

24 hours with Bill: The joys of freshmanhood (look it up)

by Kurt Schlichter

The Koala remembers what it's like to be a freshman. But not well enough to tell you. Instead we get the story straight from the horse's mouth. Koala writer, Kurt Schlichter, cornered a freshman, Bill Gondola, during welcome week and asked him if he'd be interested in doing a story for The Koala. "On what," said the bewildered Bill. "Just write down everything that happens to you in the next 24 hours," answered Kurt. Here is Bill Gondola's incredible story.

Everybody is looking for something, and since that comes from no less a source than the Eurythmics I'd be inclined to agree. They are rich and thus know more than we do. Anyway, some search for eternal truths, cosmic enlightenment or the meaning of life -I was searching for something more elusive, my apartment. I am now convinced that the apartments, like everything else at UCSD, were specifically designed with the freshman in mind, and thus made to be as confusing as possible. I had nearly finished moving into a redhead's apartment - we each thought the other was androgynous or something - when an RA bounced up to me and directed me to my own apartment, N-15. The RA's here are so perky and enthusiastic that it's kind of scary to imagine them in some sort of emergency situation: "OK, everybody, its time for a nuclear attack! Now everybody assume that fun duck and cover position! Isn't this great! Don't forget the ice cream social tonight!"

The Sunday before classes seems to be the day of choice for moving in. My walk to N-15 was a panorama of emotional girls bidding tearful farewells to mommy and daddy ("Remember darling, Mommy and Daddy are counting on you not to have sex under any circumstances."), guys trying to look confident and a few people, who I took to be sophmores, snickering at the whole scene.

One sophmore was not snickering but concentrating. As I came through the glass door he drew the .45 from inside his camouflage jacket and fired all seven shots into the target placed at the end of the hall.

"You the other freshman?" He demanded.

"Yeah, I guess so." I replied as I read the button pinned to his jacket: "I Wish I Were Old Enough For Vietnam."

"You must be Barrow, Bill R. I'm Callahan, Ray H. Do you know there was a guy named Barrows in 'Nam who won a medal for jumping on a grenade and getting all his arms and legs blown off. Pretty intense, huh?"

"I guess so, Ray." I said, extending my hand to shake. Everyone shakes hands with everyone they meet welcome week. I suspect that Freshmen do it to try to convince others and themselves that they have attained the exalted level of adulthood and are not basket cases without parents.

"You ever kill anybody, Bill?"

"Uh, no, not lately." I replied.

"Can I please come out of the bathroom now, sir?" came a plainative cry from the bathroom off the hall. The thin, reedy voice belonged to the apartment's other freshman, who turned out to be a thin, reedy EECS major named Bob. Judging from his skin coloration, Bob had never been exposed to direct sunlight in his life.

"No." replied Raymond, "Just stay in there until I finish my shooting."

"OK, sir." said Bob, not wanting to come out into the hall and get shot.

"Obedience. That's what I like in a freshman."

Bob and Ray shared the bedroom across from the bathroom. It was kind of strange. Bob's half was a combination of computer stuff and books. Ray's was camouflaged, sheet, desk, everything. I felt like looking around for the Viet Cong. He also had the centerfold from a Soldier of Fortune magazine up.

I went into my room, where my roommate lay on his bed listening to 91X, full blast, in his headphones. His surfboard, short blonde hair, tan and the fact that he was willing to wear red, turquoise, pink, and green on the same body at the same time in public convinced me that my most dreaded nightmare had come to pass. I was to live with a surfer. Well, Third was based on some sort of nonsense about encountering other cultures, so I tried to make the best of it. Still, there was a difficult obstacle to overcome. The language barrier.

"Hey dude, like, wha's happenin"' "Uh, not much. I'm Bill."

"Hi, dude, I'm, like, Corky man. It's, like, bitchin' at the beach now but I can't go cuz I've got the gnarly unpackin' and I'm burned out and I was crashed when you cruised in dude."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but since I had to live with the guy, I tried to make conversation.

"Is your name Corky or is it 'like' Corky. Porky, for instance, is like Corky."

"No, man, it's Corky."

"What's your major, uh, dude." I asked.

"Dude, I majorly groove on the physics scene man. While I was cranking these gnarly tunes I was, like, gettin' majorly into the unified field theory. Its so rad dude, especially during a block of, like, U2."

"Oh. I never understood, ...like, ...physics."

"Its like two things, man, fission and fusion. Like fusion is, like, when you catch the gnarly wave and there's, like, this oneness of you and the wave and you're groovin' into it, and there's, like, this energy. Fission is like you're one with the wave except you're,like, bigger molecules and you, like, wipeout and you, like, release energy except, like, not as much as fusion."

"Oh. Now I guess I can dig your hip rap, dude."

I asked him, in an effort to get off the facinating subject, about his guitar. It seems he used to play in a band called "Surf Pus" but left to expand his artistic horizons. It turned out that he and Ray had been roommates last year but had decided not to share the same room this time due to the difficulty of having two such distinctive and dynamic fashion senses in such close proximity. Ray was also still a little bit mad about an incident the previous year in which Corky had made a bong out of Ray's M-16. "It was the most gnarly rush man" testified Corky.

Corky also said that he had a fake ID so that fascist alcohol policies not withstanding, he could get us beer. I checked his license.

"Corky, I kind of doubt that this will, like, work."

"Why not, dude."

"For one thing, you don't weigh 260."

"I'll say, I'm like, anorexic." 'Dude, you do not look like a Maria B. Kawasaki."

"Dude man, like androgyny is like a viable fashion option man. It'll cruise dude."

"Corky, you're not black."

"Bunk dude."

Bob and I decided to get our meal cards and then eat. The pictures were kind of bad. I looked like Hitler with a hangover and Bob looked like an Ethiopian. Dinner at the Muir Caf not pick us up, hut did keep us on our tpes. We had something called "Psuedo-Ribs in BBQish sauce". Most of mine got away when I went for napkins. Bob bit him.

Back at the apartment, as Bob and I lounged, the door flew open and three guys who seemed to have escaped from The Godfather stepped in. "I'm your RA. My name is Bob. Mr. Bob to freshmen. Now here's how its going to be. I am niether perky nor enthusiastic. You have a problem, need help or just want to talk, I don't care. You go somewhere the hell else. Go see Trixie, the RA next door. She lives for that shit. Just don't bother me and I don't have Mongo here place the nearest object in a most uncomfortable vector. Understand?"

We nodded. Mongo smiled, a living testament to the miracles modern dentistry could work on four teeth.

"Also," continued Mr. Bob, "due to the present alcohol regulations, I will as of now be levying a 10% tax on all alcoholic beverages you have, otherwise I bust you for possesion and drink it all myself. Ciao."

We decided that a change of scene would be a good idea so we decided to go over to Argo and see my friend Bob from high school. Bob and I left to excape Mr. Bob and to see Bob. As we walked, I began to wonder why so many people were named Bob. Maybe it was a coincidence. I hoped.

Argo was as quiet as a tomb. I went to the darkened room of my friend. The curtains were drawn, the door locked. I gave the secret knock, then the password. From inside I could hear Bob say that we were clear. We slipped inside, the door shut and locked. Ten poeple sat around the table, which was clear. Slowly one of the people lifted it into sight. It was a six pack of generic beer. "Wow" sighed Bob. "We can't take any chances, not any more." said the other Bob. Bob then introduced us to the others around the table. Two were Bobs, including Bob's roommate. Bob took me aside.

"On the card, they said his name was Mel but he goes by Bob. That isn't the worst. I think he's been in a cave since the seventies. He asked a girl her sign, wears a mood ring and his suit is white. He has this whole polyester lifestyle. Check out the slacks he's wearing. They look like an upholsterer's nightmare. A couch died for those."

Bob was right. His roommates slacks made me nauseous.

Suddenly, the guard at the window shouted, "Look out."

The door burst open. !t was the Boozestapo, the dreaded enforcers of the new alcohol policy. The leader slapped a riding crop in his palm as he said, "We have caught you red handed. This time we only take your illicit substances. Next time, we take one of you."

With that, they left. You don't mess with these guys. Supposedly from the Tijuana police, but no one really knows.

After this, the three Bobs and I decided to return to N-15. Bob kept us waiting as he returned to his room to find his puka shells.

"Hey gang, let's boogie on over to your hip and happening pad and maybe get us a few babes." he said. On the way out, somebody complained that his shirt was so loud that it was disturbing their sleep. Purple parrots on green and pink do that.

When we returned, N-15 was happening. Ray, who had been out drinking Coors in front of the new indicator's office, was back and Corky was picking up on some girl.

The girls from the next apartment were there, so I sought to make a good impression. The first one of them I talked to was named Patricia and she looked as though she wanted to marry a nice man named Ward and have 2.3 children. She seemed to have some sort of mission from God and offered to help me find him. When I asked if he was lost, she was less than amused.Moving to the table where a quarters game was going on, I was forced to sit next to Patricia's roommate, a greenhaired punker named Spit. Spit, her rhinestone nose-ring gleaming in the light, was supposedly kind of kinky. Spit's turn came and she made it in.

"Drink it you pig." she said. I thanked her and did. Again and again. After drinking eight consecutive times in two minutes, I decided that in the interest of my not seeing those psuedo-ribs again, that I would leave the table. I stumbled to the couch and sat there vegging. Vegging is that state where you can still speak coherently but really don't think its a good idea. Interrupting my veg was another of my neighbors, a terminally blonde girl whose name I didn't know. Now some people are blonde but for some people it is a defining characteristic - a way of life.

Blonde is a state of mind.

"Hi." she said, smiling, "My name's Bobbi."

"Why?" I demanded, then returned to the quarters game.

Bob's head was on the table and we just left him there during the game since it was an intolerable hassle to carry him back to the bedroom. My friend Bob was still up, while Bob was showing Bobbi his mood ring, which he couldn't figure out how to work. Patricia was very ripped and had started baking cookies. Ray took a shot and made it.

"Hey Bill." he said, pointing at me with his elbow. It got kind of blurry after that.

The sprinklers woke me at about five a.m. I went into my room but there was this girl with Corky so I went back to the couch. The Revelle Bobs were gone, but our was on the couch, asleep. I shook him awake.

"Why are you out here still." I asked.

"Ray was showing some girl his pistol." he replied and collapsed asleep.

I awoke again past noon.

"Where did you go after you ran away from us." asked Ray.

"Huh?" I said, as I stumbled towards the Tylenol.

"You don't remember any of it? How you dug a hole and started' yelling. 'I'm a mole! I'm a mole!?' How about that suggestion you made to Bobbi about the Mexicali dice? Spit wanted to take you up on it!"

Corky piped in "Like, you also best avoid that cop, too, dude."

They both started laughing and refused to elaborate further.

The day consisted of waiting four hours for the privilege of paying $450 to the cashier and then having her tell me at the window that I could have used the mail drop.

Dinner was something called a Kill-it-yourself Burrito". At least it was fresh. Bob got bit again, but it was by the same thing that had got him before. It was apparently living under the table.

That night I was depressed over the events of the previous days.

"Ray," I complained, "I'm hungover from last night. Those girls still won't talk to me, except that Spit chick who keeps following me around with those Mexicali dice. As I'm walking around campus, people come up to me and do what I guess are mole imitations. Why me?"

Ray was not into deep and profound thought.

"You made an idiot out of yourself dude, and it was pretty funny."

"Thanks a lot. Will it always be this way here? Why is UCSD structurally designed to cause as much hassle as possible? Why is every single human being at this school named Bob, even the chicks? Maybe I should go do a Tioga swandive."

" It's not finals week. You really have no excuse. Anyway there are much better ways to do it. Have you ever seen The Deerhunder?"

I left the apartment and walked past the girl's place. The fourth roommate was in there. She was kind of sleazy. Supposedly the year before she had had an affair with State.

My mind again filled with questions of the future, of time and space, and all the rest. Then I realized that I had four years to go. I went back into my room, put on my headphones and listened to 91X. It didn't make any sense but neither did much else.

"Don't hassle it dude," said Corky, "last year my roommate wore chick's clothing."

Well, that is some consolation, I suppose.