[ this end up ]


In Uncategorized on September 20, 2005 at 8 pm


Brian knows a guy in Madison and it’s there we head, pulling up and entering his house. The fragrant sent of pot and rancor of moldy beer left to ferment in an empty, combined with the musk of four collegiate men (Brian and my own day old road stench had yet follow us in) greets us as we enter. The nostalgic memories of college waif back to me and I smile at their arrival. Taking in the house I notice a letter from the University to Brian’s friend, Alex:

Dear Mr. Cockerill,
We have received a report that on September 14, 2002 you were ejected from Camp Randall Stadium for instigating a female to expose herself. While we will take no action at this time, the behavior described in the report may have violated some or all of the following chapters of the University of Wisconsin Administrative Code.

The Dean of Students office is concerned about any behavior that has a negative impact on the University community. We recognize that some University events, by their nature, may lend themselves to more boisterous and lively atmospheres. We also recognize, however, that there are boundaries between behavior which is acceptable and that which is not; we insist that all members of the community respect those boundaries.

It’s then I realize that a fun filled few days lay before me.

    The days that followed were just that. Madison bars seemed hell bent on providing the most interesting drink specials in the country and we were hell bent on trying them all out. The first night we went to a bar serving dollar beers and trays of free deep-fried bacon, followed by a bar where the flip of a coin determines whether you drink at full price or 75% off. I filled up on bacon, lost all my coin tosses and subsequently lost any remnants of sobriety. We closed out the bars, took a drunk bus home and I slept in a lifeless, dreamless black sleep.
    The next day Alex treated us to breakfast at Mickie’s, a staple of Madison dining. The place had character and so did our 80 year waitress who, according to Alex, had worked here since the day the place opened. In keeping with the local spirit I had a Wisconsin scrambler, which consisted of mushrooms, sausage, swiss, sauerkraut, at least fifty scrambled eggs, on a mound crispy hash browns, under a heaping spoonful of gravy. It was superb. With full bellies we entered campus, where Alex began duties as tour guide.
    Our first stop was Camp Randall stadium, home of the Wisconsin Badgers. Camp Randall was named after a civil war camp on the same spot. Before the civil war the land was home to the annual state fair. After 1861, however, it became a military training center and more than 70,000 troops would eventually train there. Now a different type of training occurs, with modern day gladiators fighting an enemy to the applause of over 70,000 fans. We also learn the student chant. It goes something like this, one side yells ‘FUCK YOU’ to which the other side replies, ‘EAT SHIT’. Every year the students receive letters pleading them to not partake in the chant and every year, after receiving the letter, the student body chants louder than before. Alex takes us through a series of tunnels, twisting and turning with no apparent end until we see the field and walk right down onto it. Although at first we act very nonchalant about it, snapping photos and taking video but it’s not long before Brian and I are leaping into the end zone and doing victory dances. Alex looks a bit nervous so we leave, tackling an inflated shape meant for tackling on our way out.
    The campus is sprawling and beautiful. He shows us various buildings and when classes end we sit down on a large hill to watch the hustle and bustle of college life, well, that and girls. We walk through a quad type area where the free-roaming collegiate mind, intent on believing strongly in something, manifests itself in the form of info-booths, protests and pamphlets. We pass an anti-war protest complete with crappy folk singer (‘we want peeaaaace in the middle eeaaaaasst’) and a sign that says ‘BIRTH CONTROL FEST,’ I’m not sure how that last sign fits exactly but if the fest encourages crappy folk singers not to reproduce than I stand behind it wholeheartedly. Straight on, we walk through a traveling bunch of religious zealots, preaching our sins and shortfalls before God. I didn’t realize how close zealot work was with patients at anger management, but it is and we watched a man from Holland give a fiery sermon on how much God hates us and about hell, described by him as a ‘lake of FFIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRREEEEEE!’ Let me say this, it’s not the act of preaching I dislike, it’s the fact that so-called men of God could treat their fellow man with such contempt and hatred. They infer that God hates sinners therefore they must also hate sinners. It gives God a bad name if you ask me and I imagine a good smolting awaits people like this. Eventually we break through the mish-mash of ideas and into the student union.
    We grab a pitcher of beer and choose a table overlooking the lake to drink it. As luck would have it the table next us belongs to a gorgeous blonde and her tutor, although I think it speaks more on our choice than it does luck or a lake view. We sit and drink and I fall madly in love with the gorgeous blonde. She’s got tan skin and I follow her great legs to her short skirt and up, to her large, perky breasts. Her tutor seems frustrated either with the blondes lack of comprehension or with the fact that her company all but assures her own looks to be ignored. And they have been. After a while we get up to leave and I give an unreturned smile to the blonde and a returned one to the tutor.
    That night we tried to go to every bar in town and if my hangover the next day was evidence—we almost succeed. The feel of sex and unabashed passion is in the air and I get caught up in the women and not the good company of friends. This is always a bad move and after failing miserably at conversation I find myself walking home drunk, dejected and even worse, alone.

  1. >That may have been the best letter sent in history. And I should know!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: