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Nuts and Riots

This is Dark Cloud on Wednesday, August 30, 2000.

There are many ways to mark a day's bad beginning. Today, I was kicked by a woman I asked to leave one of my places of employment. Viewed from a certain perspective, and with full rein given to the deities of chance, it is possible, from certain angles, to consider that a less than auspicious beginning. Fortunately, after what may have been a decade or more on chemical enhancement, her coordination was bad and she was weak. It is possible I can still have children, but we won't know until everything is re-located by x-ray or, possibly, exploratory surgery. I am however, a male, a man, a god-like embodiment of self control and perfection and will not let such a trivial incident in any way affect my disposition, normally so sunny and helpful. Now shut up, sit down and listen. Sheep.

In view of the recent drunken assemblage dignified with the term "riot" here on the Hill a few days ago, I have been considering what the appropriate response and punishment ought to be for people who set off fireworks all night while loud and drunk and keep me awake. Removal of the eyelids and forced watching of either the Buddy Boulder promo tape or my cable show of two decades ago might be too extreme and catch the attention of those in the Hague, but surely something needs to be done. The Hill is essentially held hostage by college students and those wannabes who hang with them much like drummers associate themselves with musicians, professors prefer the company of the educated, or remora adhere to sharks. Landlords, a questionable bunch, are torn between their natural slumlord inclinations and their physical fear of their lives when confronting large young men in their prime, and virtually no sanctions emerge from their corner. On any given evening you can hear loud music, fireworks, parties, and an endless supply of drunks debating their views of a remarkably narrow universe. When I was young, in college, and drunk, my conversations were of the highest order, subdued, witty, and terribly impressive. I'm quite sure. I don't know what has happened to this generation. Obviously television. Oh, and immigration. Probably NAFTA.

The University of Colorado, an institution that is to courage what Shriner vehicles are to the Indianapolis 500, has thrown down the gauntlet and said - I'm not making this up - if any college student is involved in any drunken incident that comes to the attention of the authorities more than three times, they are outta there. Three times. You can be part of three arguable riots, but that third time, boy, you-are-canned. You hear that? Those are the chattering knees of the partiers. Please. How about you arrest the clowns and charge them every time they violently break the law, and the University bonks them? For eventually, one of the predictable couch roasts will pass over to a building or two and then all hell will be upon them. The last time, they almost set a relatively large tree aflame. Imagine a house with passed out drunks, fireworks, and a burning evergreen blistering exterior paint and steaming the wall with two wiped frat boys unsteadily staring at the end of a hose and trying to hook it up to the phone box because if they call the authorities, some of them will be expelled. And then, the heroic parents will sue all in sight for not cleaning up their eighteen years of debacle.

If America in the Sixties had been run by the University of Colorado, there would have been no Civil Rights Movement, no Chicago Seven, no social change. "You have to do it three times, Dr. King. Sorry, can't take you in this day. Try Selma next week....." The irritating thing is, at the University of Colorado, bulwark of education approved by the Coors family, you get three drunken, violent chances. How many do they give for drug dealing? How many do they give for parking violations?

Okay, lets try this. Two of you grab me under the shoulders, lift me up and shake me. Maybe we can avoid the surgery.........