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'##::::'##:::'#####:::'########: VIVA LA REVOLUCION! CERDO DEL CAPITALISTA!!
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##:::: ##:'##:::: ##: ##::::::: THE HELOTS OF ECSTASY PRESS RELEASE #330 !!
#########: ##:::: ##: ######::: ZIEGO VUANTAR SHALL BE MUCH VICTORIOUS! !!
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##:::: ##:. ##:: ##:: ##::::::: "I Need a New Roommate" !!
##:::: ##::. #####::: ########: by -> Cyn !!
..:::::..::::.....::::........:: 12/11/98 !!
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I'm living in a deadhead paradise. It's like living with my
mother in the sixties. Except my mom's got taste.
Yesterday I was talking to my friend Wendy about what it's going
to be like next year, when I room with one of my friends, and I came
close to crying. "My room will be full of pretty things," I said.
"There will be no black light posters . . . no Grateful Dead music . . .
no potheads saying how things are 'sketchy' or 'phatty' . . . no stench
of patchouli . . . it'll be SO BEAUTIFUL," I said, tearing up. Wendy
just nodded indulgently. "It's okay, Cyn," she said, "It's okay."
I should probably have had the foresight to write "NO DEADHEADS"
on my room application. After all, I am going to Oberlin, liberal oasis
in the cultural dearth that is Ohio. (Alums include: Liz Phair, Ben of
Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, and Dr. Kevorkian.) But no, silly me, I
claimed to be tolerant of all musical tastes. That was before I got to
listen to everything the Dead has ever performed. And the bootleg live
tapes.
On the bright side, when I'm trying to ignore the dead, at least
I don't have to listen to her crack pot theories. The other day I had
to leave to avoid mocking the six very stoned people sitting in my room
talking about how AIDs is a government conspiracy. "But wait!," I
wanted to say, "Hasn't it occurred to you that your theory is incredibly
asinine?"
You can smell the patchouli before you actually enter my room.
My friends have started actively mocking me about it. "Hey, Cyn," they
say, "What's that I smell? Patchouli?" "Cyn, I think you smell kind of
like . . . patchouli!" To which I reply "Hey. Fuck you." But on the
bright side, I have lost all ability to smell patchouli. And the room
smells better than when she doesn't burn incense, because then the odor
of pot and stale beer emerges.
Yes, stale beer. My room is the beer bottle equivalent of an
elephant graveyard. On one rare occasion where I was actually cleaning,
I moved a chair and found two six packs of empty beer bottles that had
been there apparently for months. Beer bottles linger in our room for
days, weeks even. Sometimes I give in and take them out for her. I
think she believes that the Beer Bottle Fairy comes and takes them away.
Or maybe she thinks someone stole them. For all I know, she's saving
them to build a house or something.
On a positive note, the black light poster did come down, after
she failed in her attempt to affix it to the ceiling.
Only a semester to go. And then my room is a hippy-free zone.
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!! (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! #330 - WRITTEN BY: CYN - 12/11/98 !!