Posts: 576
Threads: 4
Joined: Nov 2021
I don't know. Shitty and unpredictable housing is part of college and prepares one for shitty and unpredictable housing while adulting.
I left the ice on walls in winter and not sure what that is on the shag carpet comforts of a twin bed three feet from my brother's twin bed for, in order:
A room at the Rainbow Motel along with several oil field dudes, one of whom lost all clothing in transit and rocked a single pair of underwear the entire summer. He had a wicked mix tape though. Best music ever recorded. A lot of shady business at the old Rainbow. Shady. Rattlesnakes sneaking yesterday's heat right in front of the doors too. Watch your first step, Casey Jones.
A small by small cinderblock cell dorm room without working AC shared with revolving roommates in the ATL. It did overlook a matching room in the women's dorm across the way, and that room had AC has I found out one spectacular late spring evening. First roommate: the worst good old boy you will ever meet. Slept with an eye open. Second roommate: some dude from Saudi Arabia. Better. Third roommate: Jay from Boston. Jay spent all his time at his girlfriend's room, wherever that was. Never met her. Cool. Room to myself. Fourth roommate: Never will forget his doughy head, but the name escapes me. I pretended to spend all my time at a non-existent girlfriend's room, wherever that wasn't. He was a scold. I'd stager home after a week somewhere else. "Where the hell have you been?" (Dude, are we married?) I was on the west side of campus for only a year.
A similarly small cinderblock and steel framed room shared with roommates, mutual best men in later weddings, and godfathers of my children. A D.U.M.P. But our dump and that AC Ralph, uh, found, kept it an ice locker. We weren't about to give up our corner room with an active waterfall every time it rained, no matter how cramped and derelict. Room "signups" meant armoring ourselves, getting pushed down the hall in stolen shopping carts and beating the shit out of each other while AC/DC blared over the house speakers, then falling into drunken Louie Louie stupors while stopping the collective bleeding. But we stayed in Room 8 by god. Good times! My mother visited us once. She openly cried. Probably because Ralph was breaking down his motorcycle and two-cycle oil was all over the shag. Toilets without stalls. Came in handy a few times. I won a major award at our winter formal because of that once. Still have the plaque somewhere. Rat patrol nightly. Room 8 was a repeat winner. I think we had ten pelts on our door one night. Endless cockroaches, but I wouldn't trade those memories for anything. Or all the stuff I don't remember.
No complaints about the field crew barracks in Yellowstone NP despite the filthy iron skillets the trail crew always left behind. Those went out back with the bears and moose. Duct tape on the door meant....well, duct tape on the door was respected.
I was a(n Escondido) Village Person at Stanford. A guy from Kuwait with the best Santana collection I've ever heard. Worked out well. I didn't even say anything when he found out what the American phonebook meant by "massage". "Oh hey, you're here with Hammad, huh?" She started giving prices and I just said, "Hammad's a good dude. Check out all that Santana."
Real job now and off to the "Swamp" in Mountain View to live the bachelor life until we all dispersed, then to a wretched dump by the Wagon Wheel on Middlefield, then back up to Palo Alto on College Avenue to survive Loma Prieta, then my first house and first (and only) wife where I actually have skin (dollars, blood, sweat, and tears) in the game. Started with a 10 and 7/8 percent loan. Two kids, two grandkids, and probably four refis later, we just about own some super overpriced real estate on the Peninsula outright.
I think her use of "disastrous" is a bit hyperbolic. Get used to it kids.