There is regularly a drunken hobo in the corner of the ground-floor computer lab. We'll call him Larry, though that's almost certainly not his real name.
Based on my last two visits to this lab, I'd speculate that Larry spends his days in a sort of blissful haze, watching youtube metal videos on his ear buds and rocking out.
Larry is swell. He has a habit of singing aloud when headbanging isn't enough to get the juices flowing. There is lots of headbanging.
The staff members love Larry, as do I. When Larry walks in, you can see their smiles broadcasting a message of adoration. "Please, add some spice to our otherwise dull academic lives," they seem to say.
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Once in awhile, one of the students will go over to Larry, tap him on the shoulder and ask him something. I can never quite hear the question over the music, but I assume it's a request for the details of Larry's exploits as a roadie. Being the humble guy that he is, he always politely waves them away.
I dream about being Larry some nights. The sensuous weight of four rings on my right hand while I fist pump to AC DC. The thrill of pouring lighter fluid on my air guitar and wailing "goooooood niiiiiiight Cleeeeeeeeeveland" for an adoring audience of weekend scholars. The luscious aroma of an all-slim-jim diet.
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Other nights, I just dream of being at a real university -- perhaps a place where the library stays open until midnight all week, the student union doesn't close at 4 p.m. and an undergrad can work on his assignment in relative peace, thanks to library staffers who actually do their jobs overseeing their more colorful visitors.
Until then, I have Larry for entertainment. Rock on, Larry. Rock on. read more