Iggy Pop

I went to a college that held an aristocratic sort. His name was Andrew. Ignatieff. Like in Iggy's brother. His story was that his was a superior type of famiglia which had come to our country after fleeing the Bolsheviks. He did do the haughty, snooty aristocratic thing very well, but came a cropper did he, after one too many tiny crystal goblets of port in the Senior Common Room. He fell down two stairs, and in so doing, caused great shame to fall upon the family, and the family jewels. His blood ran thick with the royal jelly, fortified by port, and absolutely no physical exercise. I always wondered if he had a Lord of the Stool, because his girth precluded stretching that far.

Many fled the UCC upper-class twit scene to our little school. They carefully disguised Land Rovers, Aston Martins and Loti to appear as Chevy pick-ups or Ford Fairlanes, using a very expensive kit available only at the Bimma dealership on the Bridle Path, a dealership disguised to look just like Bubble's trailer. Without the cute kitties, but with society matrons on the look-out for riff-raff poseurs disguised in tweed. The staff disguised their tweed with very expensive fake polyester in a day-glo green. Therefore our parking lots were tricked out with pick-ups, sedans big enough to be aircraft carriers, and undisguised VW microbuses. Harry. He was a UCC man, editor of Arthur, the campus newspaper, and a straight A student who appeared to never study much. Harry, not surprisingly, was a quiet man whose main occupation seemed to be perfecting his Vapid Philosophy Professor Walk. Head down, shoulders pointed forward and hunched, hands behind back, muttering to himself, bouncing off items he had walked straight into. I invited him to join our Fantasy Football League one year, but he had to decline because all of his sport time allotment was taken with County Cricket Match scores; who had bowled whom and whatever else that mystical attempt to make time stand still by the brute force of pure ennui kept track of. How did they drink all that tea and manage not to leave a gaping hole in the outfield while off on a pee break? I asked him that, my only question about cricket. Scowling, he lumbered off, leaving a surly wake of upper-class miscomprehension of the simple minds of simple folk.

Dunnery III. Also an A student, however uncool and direct in method, ie. studying. Dunnery loved to do all-nighters just for the hope that three in a row might leave him sufficiently bereft of REM that legal hallucinations were possible. He needn't have bothered. His whole Universe was the dream of some poor soul in purgatory for the first night. TBC ...