Not so wild, not so crazy, not so bad

We were bored in the way that college kids with way too much energy way too late at night and not much going on can be, so we decided to do something about it.

Although there were more than us that could even comfortably fit into the station wagon Kit was driving, we piled in and drove to the local casino.

Not so much to gamble, mind you, but to … walk around.

After our exploits discussing Christmas music and what travel means to our lives, this is the third collaboration with my blogging buddy Renata, about our “wild younger days.” Make sure to check out her post at Buffalo Sauce Everywhere.

And by the way, the picture above is my roommate Eric and I before a college semi-formal my sophomore year. I’m on the right, and I have no idea what we thought was so funny. 

Turning Stone Casino had just opened not far from Utica, and none of us had been there, so we wanted to check it out.

At the time, it wasn’t much more than a couple game rooms, so we got bored of the scene pretty quickly and piled back into Kit’s car in order to … ride aimlessly around the streets of where he grew up.

This lasted until Mix, groggily sitting in the back seat, rather profanely and in no uncertain terms, let Kit know he wasn’t particularly interested in the local sights he couldn’t see on account of it being well past midnight and pitch black outside with no streetlights to speak of.

I know … wild, right? Let me tell you another one.

What was the clatter? The guys were playing hockey on the Sega Genesis, and when one of the goalies made a save, he tried to pass, but the puck eluded everyone, including the goalie on the other end.

And they were going to replay it over, and over, and over, to make sure I saw it.

Between the ages of 18 and 22, it is possible to keep late hours on a diet of cafeteria food, Tang mixed so thick that it’s practically chewable and Domino’s Pizza that they were kind enough to deliver until 1 a.m. or so and for $6.

However, on this particular night, I was done. I told my pals they could keep doing what they were doing, tapped out and went to bed.

That lasted until the guys started shaking me and screaming that I had to wake up right now!

What was the clatter? The guys were playing hockey on the Sega Genesis, and when one of the goalies made a save, he tried to pass, but the puck eluded everyone, including the goalie on the other end.

And they were going to replay it over, and over, and over, to make sure I saw it.

That may or may not have also been the night where they sneaked out of my room, after I had fallen back asleep, in search of my “graduation gift” … and the less said about that, the better.

Serious craziness there, folks, but I have one more.

The Writing Center crew at a conference, although I don’t think any of the other anti-lollipop protesters are there. My pearly whites are on display second from right in the back.

Conditions were unacceptable, and something had to change.

Someone had introduced a snack bowl into the Writing Center where I worked, but it only had lollipops.

And I don’t like lollipops. A couple of the other tutors didn’t, either.

So I took to the barricades — or more accurately group chat we had on one of the computers — to protest, to say that some people don’t like lollipops and that it would be nice to have a little variety in the snack choices.

While it didn’t get me bombarded by the French army and subsequently dragged through the sewers with a gaping wound — a recipe for certain death by horrible infection, you would think, but whatever — by the hero of our story, it actually did cause a bit of a kerfuffle.

I think the lollipops came from the father of one of the tutors who worked for a snack business, and messages came back that my allies and I were ungrateful louses or something like that.

However, we got it sorted, and other snacks like Fig Newtons eventually wound up in the bowl.

I loved Fig Newtons.

Vive la resistance!

Don’t tell your friends that they can call you “any time,” because that could lead to one of them calling you with her latest legitimately crazy escapade at 2 a.m. while you and your roommate are sleeping.

I tell these stories not to brag about my wild college years, but to joke about how they were actually fairly sedate.

While there was a fair amount of debauchery — it was a college campus, after all — and people protesting legitimate political issues, I was the guy my friends called “Monsignor Bill” because I didn’t drink, do drugs or date much (that last one was ABSOLUTELY not voluntary) and therefore they thought they could “confess” their “sins” to me.

Here’s a tip in that regard — don’t tell your friends that they can call you “any time,” because that could lead to one of them calling you with her latest legitimately crazy escapade at 2 a.m. while you and your roommate are sleeping.

And this was long before cellphones meant I could find somewhere private to talk.

But here’s the important part … I was “boring” then and even more boring now — but I liked my life.

And I still do.

And as long as you enjoy your life, who cares if other people think it’s boring?

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