--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, Peter <drpetersutphen@...> wrote: > > Yes, very poor judgement, but that usually goes along with > being drunk. Also, nobody just wanders into a party even > in a college town. There's always some guy there asking > who are you with before letting you in at even the wildest > frat parties. Also, did this occur on the west side of town? > I lived there for a couple of months once and left. Very > funky, low-rent, redneck place.
While I admit that it's very possible that the nature of American college towns has changed somewhat since I lived in them while attending college, I beg to differ, Pete. :-) Back in college, I had a good friend named Wyatt. Like me, he had hair halfway down his back, in an era before that was in the least "acceptable." Unlike me, Wyatt had this amazing "partydar" that allowed him to detect a party from a thousand yards away. We were poor, hippie college students, looking for free booze and and equally cheap women. Wyatt had an unerring sense for both. He would guide me through one of the suburban neighborhoods of Riverside, California on a Friday or Saturday night, stop, sniff the air, and announce, "Party here. Viable party here." Then he'd walk up to the front door, knock, and just lead us in. No one *ever* stopped us. Not once. His darshan was such that it just wasn't possible for the poor rubes to resist. We'd walk in to a party full of 1966 or 1967 straight people, drink their booze, eat their canapes, and abscond with their women at the end of the night. It was just "What one did" for fun on a weekend at the University of California, Riverside in the late 60s. I'll never forget one night when Wyatt led us into a party hosted by Seriously Rich Persons. We knew the moment that we crossed the threshold that we were out of our depth. These folks had Mercedes and Ferraris in the driveway and Picassos on the wall...*real* Picassos. We couldn't afford to eat at McDonalds. Wyatt noticed, too. But then he accepted a martini in a crystal glass from one of his "hosts," thanked him, took his wife by the arm, and walked over to one of the Picassos on the wall. Wyatt was an art major. He knew exactly what he was looking at, and that it was an original. But what he said was, "George...did you paint this? It's really good." We were home free. We left the party that night full of booze and with two of the hosts' daughters on our arms, the hosts believing that they were in good hands. Suffice it to say that their beliefs were unfounded. But that was the 60s. Even Wyatt -- All-American Party Crasher though he might have been -- might not be able to "pass" when party-crashing in Fairfield.
