In fall 1988, I was in the process of flunking out of college. I think I had about a 1.7 GPA at the end of my freshman year and was on academic probation, encouraged to knuckle down by the powers that be. I did not, of course.
Anyway, was living in a dorm across from the Sigma Nu house, where every chance they could they would blast the then-epochal "Sweet Child o' Mine" out the windows, every time there was a spare moment. Like 10am on Saturday. Between that and the DING DING DING of the flag pole cord in front of the nearby event hall whipping against the pole in the wind, no wonder I was losing sleep and chose to drink constantly instead of going to class. Or something.
Anyway, was living in a dorm across from the Sigma Nu house, where every chance they could they would blast the then-epochal "Sweet Child o' Mine" out the windows, every time there was a spare moment. Like 10am on Saturday. Between that and the DING DING DING of the flag pole cord in front of the nearby event hall whipping against the pole in the wind, no wonder I was losing sleep and chose to drink constantly instead of going to class. Or something.
What makes me feel lucky is this, though: while I was never a G'n'R enthusiast even in the slightest, I do count myself lucky because if I were in school today, there is a chance that I would live across the street from some shit frat that would blast that "Red Solo Cup[s?]" song - which I have never heard, but of which I live in live in abject fear.
Plus you'd have to have all the very latest iPhones and crap to get laid.
Plus you'd have to have all the very latest iPhones and crap to get laid.
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