There are idea guys, and there are bad idea guys. Dave and Shawn came up with the worst idea of all time to top off a drug-fueled, destructive freshman year in the cramped dorms. A dark, funny story about the consequences of no consequences. Freshman year, 1995. Acid, broken rules, more acid, broken buildings. Fights against other halls, fights against university systems. These guys were just trying to get through their first year of school, and they didn't realize all the chaos they were causing. Culminating in a meeting with the Dean of Student Affairs and the threat of expulsion, that was handled in the most insane way possible. This (mostly) true story is a drug-soaked journey through the mid-90s college experience. *** You could smell the weed on him from down the hall. The skunky, piney smell from him would stay in a room for an hour after he left. He went to school here, but never went to class or did anything school-related. He wasn’t interested in parties. He never came to a football or basketball game when we invited him. He was from Alaska, and school was free for Alaskans or some shit. He would just show up with that backpack filled with bags of weed, glass to sell, and some of the other treats. The excitement was that we never knew what he’d show up with. Big Dave’s room would be crowded with about eight to ten guys buying everything Sketch had. “Hey man, can you get any Alaskan Thunderf*ck?” “Dude, I get whatever he’s got. It’s always dank. I know there’s Trainwreck next month.” Sketch had the best supplier in town, and never gave away anything about who it was. “Will you get any microdot?” “Just Windowpane right now. I’ll try.” “Any coke, man?” “What are you? In a fucking frat? He doesn’t sell coke.” “I mean…I can get some.” All this crosstalk while bowls are being loaded and passed around. The room filled with smoke quickly. The rooms were small enough that we were still hotboxing, just like in a car or van. There should have been a lesson learned about this early on. By this point, we obviously didn’t give a shit about any rules, but at the beginning of the year we did. The first weekend in the dorms, most of the guys brought weed from home. The best they could find, just to show off. The Bay Area guys thought they had the best. It was sticky and purple, and seemed like it came from a lab. The local Eugene guys showed up with bright green, smelly, and crystalized weed. Being the lone Portland guy, I had a huge responsibility to represent. I had the densest, smelliest, stickiest, nuclear green weed to bring. I smoked it the week before I moved down. Instead, I brought some Northern Lights, my personal favorite at the time. It was pretty easy for me to get since my buddies’ uncle had the largest growing operation in my hometown. Night two in the dorms. About eight guys came into my room, everyone brings their bags, all different varieties. We smoke until the smoke is so thick that you can barely see the guy sitting beside you. Our eyes are dark red, we’re laughing about everything. Telling all the one-upper stories that eighteen- and nineteen-year-old guys do. The year became constant, never-ending, one-uppering. “Dude, my buddy and I went to a kegger in the woods in Ferndale, Washington, and they walked around naked and did the ‘Dance of the Flaming A**hole.’” “Well, down in Cali we’d have keggers every weekend, and the actors from my dad’s movies would show up and hang out. I can’t say who, but it happened all the time.” This shit went on forever. We don’t even know each other’s names yet.