Whenever I try to explain to an outsider what it's like to live in my co-op, I say this: "Imagine the dorms, but after the revolution." Imagine the ranks of Berkeley students, but purged of all the business majors and 99% of the Asians. Rather than the tripartite tenets of "liberté, égalité, fraternité," the neo-Communards live by but one word: Frivolité.
Some clips and soundbites:
I sat at the dining room table (and makeshift dance platform), eating a big bowl of broccoli for breakfast. Directly in front of me, the thick, brass stripper pole extended from bolts in the table to the skylight above.
They sat in the computer room, researching the LD50 for caffeine.
"Yup, she has enough," he said. "Several times over, actually. That was a pretty big baggie."
Dinner was ten minutes late and I still had about fifty falafels to go. I scooped the chickpea paste from the industrial-sized serving pan and furiously packed it into my cupped hands, making fat little pucks. I was sweating bullets and Daft Punk was playing over the speakers.
He retched a little bit as he emptied the kitchen compost into the big green dumpster at the loading dock. The fruit flies evacuated in a swarm. He vowed to send out an e-mail to discourage people from putting ranch dressing in the kitchen compost.
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