Much has been written about the one day of the year when UCSD acts like a real college — that is, Sun God.
Sun God is a day for wanton revelry, total madness, and (if my observations are correct) utter drunkenness. Sobriety is discouraged, to say the least, so the memories of the revelry and madness are usually reduced to hazy impressions or the vague sense that something epic happened on that seventh-week Friday.
Sometimes, though, there are sober people like me who participate in the festivities and can later bear witness.
This is that witness. Names have been changed to protect the debauched.
Morning — Pacific Beach
I woke up at eight o’clock, as I was parking my car at the Broken Yolk Cafe. I was supposed to meet a gaggle of friends for omelets and five-dollar bottles of champagne. Naturally, I found no gaggle — just Lorenzo perched on a rail outside the door, his bald head shining dully in the morning haze.
“”Where’s everyone else?”” I asked.
He shrugged.
I remembered the previous weekend, when they called me at 6 a.m. as I was running late for a similar get-together. In fact, I was sound asleep when I groggily answered my phone and heard them yelling, “”Waaaaaaake up!”” Revenge is so sweet, I thought, and started calling.
My boyfriend Josh was first on the list. A 90-year-old emphysema patient with a cancerous larynx answered and croaked a hello.
“”Josh?”” I asked.
“”This is him.””
“”Josh, are you OK?””
“”I’m sick.””
“”No shit.”” (Yes, I really am that sympathetic.) “”Are you coming to breakfast?””
“”John, Tommy, Molloy and I will be there around 10.””
I expressed my displeasure with this news, told him I loved him and moved on to the next calling victims.
Michelle and Sam were unfortunately awake when I called, but running late, as well. As Lorenzo and I were grousing about the lameness of our friends, a head peeked out of the restaurant door.
“”What are you guys doing out here?”” It was Mary Ann. “”We already have a table.””
“”We”” was Mary Ann and Catherine, who seemed sleepy but cheerful. Leon soon joined us, in mismatched clothes wrinkled as if he had slept in them. And finally, just before nine, Michelle, Justin, Sam, Pete and Lucio showed up — at the same time as my blueberry pancakes, I should add.
Justin started drinking the cheap champagne out of a coffee mug, because his fake ID was confiscated at a bar last week. Sam ate a pat of butter, much to the disgust of the table. And then, at perhaps the climax of the meal, marmalade was smeared on Lorenzo’s bare scalp and then licked off by Sam. The reward for this stunt: nine dollars.
Afternoon — Campus
“”Is that an iguana?”” I asked, trying to see around the thronging masses on Library Walk.
It was, in fact, an iguana, up on his owner’s shoulder, looking quite intimidated by its surroundings.
In a flash, I was tapping the owner’s shoulder. “”Can I take a picture with your iguana?”” I asked in my best gee-I’m-so-cute-you-can’t-say-no voice. He couldn’t say no, of course, and as I petted the iguana, Catherine snapped a photo. The iguana looked at me sideways, less than excited to be headed for my scrapbook.
“”Is that a guy swimming in the fountain?”” Gina asked, pointing over my shoulder.
It was, in fact, a guy swimming in the Price Center fountain — well, flopping about in the fountain and climbing up its levels, anyway, like a salmon heading upstream. He was fully clothed, and when he got out at the top, he was dripping wet and some of the dye from his blue clothes was smeared on his hands. (Earlier, I had heard, there was a hairy, speedoed guy in an innertube in the fountain.)
“”Is that Terry?”” Mary Ann asked, arching an eyebrow toward a stumbling figure.
It was, in fact, Terry. Sort of. Terry was not himself. Terry was, in a word, trashed.
“”How much have you had to drink?”” I asked him.
He leered at me, and lied: “”One beer.””
Terry stumbled after us girls when we left the Walk and started toward his Pepper Canyon apartment.
The five of us — four noisy girls and a stumbling Asian male — attracted some attention apparently. One guy walking by sized up the group, pointed at Terry, and called out, “”Nice ratio!””
We laughed when Terry puffed himself up over this comment. “”Terry, you couldn’t handle four girls at one time,”” I said.
Linda helpfully pointed out, “”Well, he does have two hands and two feet.””
We pondered the logistics of this while we trekked across campus.
Later — Pepper Canyon
We had talked Terry into drinking two glasses of water by telling him they were vodka; he didn’t seem to notice the difference in taste, and it really didn’t make a difference in his behavior.
“”Where’s Josh?”” he asked for the third time in the last hour.
“”He’s sick, Terry,”” I said. “”He’s seeing ‘Star Wars’ with his roommates.””
“”Where’s Herman?””
“”He’s meeting with the chancellor. He works in his lab. I told you all this before.””
“”Where’s John?””
“”He went to a barbecue with friends, Terry.””
“”Where’s Genieveve?””
“”Smoking out with Lorenzo in her car.””
He paused and seemed to process this. “”Where’s Josh?””
“”They’re all off having a huge orgy, Terry!”” I exploded. “”You’re not invited!””
Terry drank another rum and coke. Ten minutes later, he jumped on LuAnn and they fell to the floor, tickling each other. Suddenly, she shrieked and pushed him off her.
“”Oh … my … god,”” she said. “”I just touched Terry’s … ahem.””
(Later that night, still scarred from the incident, she would say of Terry’s “”ahem,”” “”I couldn’t tell what it was at first; it was so flaccid.””)
After we had recovered from rolling around on the floor laughing at LuAnn and Terry, the others started arriving. Michelle and LuAnn informed everyone that they would make out for $500, and the pot was soon at $400. While we scrambled to find donors to comprise the remaining hundred bucks, Justin showed up with a pack of his roommates.
“”Wow,”” Linda said entirely too loudly, “”Justin has cute friends.””
The room was silent for a moment, and then Justin’s friends cheered in self-congratulation as we laughed Linda into humility.
Then LuAnn took her shirt off, which should be required at any party.
Evening — Warren Apartments
LuAnn’s toplessness had earned us an invitation to a barbecue held by one of Justin’s friends in Warren. We traveled pack-style, squeezed dangerously into an elevator and were soon filing into an already jam-packed apartment where music was blaring and the residents looked at us strangers with suspicion.
“”There’s no TP,”” Linda announced after trying to use the bathroom. We decided to leave.
Two RAs and an RSO were outside to meet us. “”Can we see your IDs?”” they asked.
We cooperated without complaint until an RA started writing down names and ID numbers on a folded, hot pink sheet of paper.
“”What are you going to use that for?”” Justin asked.
“”It’s standard procedure,”” the RA replied, not looking up.
“”Well, does this mean we’re going to be disciplined or something?”” I asked. “”Just for being at a barbecue?””
The RA stammered, “”I, uh, I don’t know, I just know that I have to write down everyone who is here.””
“”I don’t really see why you would need that, if we’re not being charged with anything,”” Justin said. He was bordering on belligerent. He would later tell me that this RA had busted him for some petty (nonalcohol-related) incident last year and he had a grudge against her.
Flustered, she again repeated that it was something she had to do, and she didn’t know what would be done with the information.
When she was done, we stalked off, indignant, muttering about privacy rights and probable cause, and how we would have given her more trouble if only we hadn’t been with Terry — who had acted cool and collected during the altercation but was still drunk as a skunk and highly underage. The authorities watched us as we rounded a corner and headed toward Round Table, where we would later meet up with the rest of our party.
Night — Campus Loop Shuttle
“”Party Bus!”” Tommy kept yelling. He said it every time someone new walked onto the shuttle. “”Party bus! Welcome to the Party Bus!””
Meanwhile, I was looking out the window into the night outside. Campus seemed so peaceful. The construction site at Revelle was deserted, and the lights at Muir were eerie. Occasionally, we would quickly pass a small cluster of students, who would then disappear into the blurring darkness, and the shuttle rolled on.
As we drove by the Marshall res halls, Tommy said, “”Hey, Michelle, it’s the old stomping grounds.””
“”Yeah,”” she said wistfully.
As we disembarked at the RIMAC stop, I paused in the cool night air and looked around. Girls in trendy, barely-there shirts were whispering to each other solicitously. Guys were arguing about whether Cake was, in fact, cool. And I was awfully glad I was going to remember everything.
Oh, and in case you were wondering — the concert was lame.
