A L S O_ T O D A Y

Dark Hotel
Sternelli's grand -- and fatal -- climax with Virginia; Burroughs breaks the code

T A B L E_ T A L K

The state of sexuality on American campuses: Are students doing it more or less? With what consequences? Contribute your thoughts in the Education area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y

Breasts on the brain
By Lori Gottlieb
Putting mammary-hungry college boys to the test
(12/09/98)

Is Mike Davis' Los Angeles all in his head?
By Veronique de Turenne
He's been lionized as a prescient Marxist prophet of end-of-the-continent doom and gloom. But a growing number of critics charge that the author of "City of Quartz" has feet of clay
(12/07/98)

Getting the boot
By Jon Bowen
Kicked out of college for immoral conduct, the only son of a Baptist preacher takes a vacation from reality
(12/04/98)

In the Bad Line
By Isaac Zava
Purgatory is standing with a hangover in a queue of non-tuition paying students
(12/02/98)

Ask Camille
By Camille Paglia
More darts at Foucault's scrawny haunches
(12/02/98)

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CAMPUS GROUPIES | PAGE 1, 2, 3
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The University of California at Berkeley, in particular, gains a large part of its eclectic reputation from the oddballs who stalk through the free-speech area of Sproul Plaza. Sproul welcomes them, if a small plaque embedded in its leaf-strewn walkway is to be trusted. It reads: "This soil and the air space extending above it shall not be a part of any nation and shall not be subject to any entity's discretion." In other words, an intellectual free-for-all.

Eddie Richards came to Sproul Plaza in order to spread the Word of God. Most schools play host to at least one token religious zealot, but Eddie sings the Lord's praises as sweetly as a seasoned choir girl in a lilting Jamaican-accented chant. "God is good ... God make the sun shine ... Life is good ... God is good ..." Socratic it's not, but it's the stuff that feeds Eddie's soul.

In a worn duffel bag he carries an ancient rock magazine. Inside, Eddie is pictured with two of Berkeley's other motley pseudo-performers. There's Homeless Drummer, who bangs the skins at lunch time for amusement and spare change, and will gladly tutor you for $6 an hour. And there's Hate Man, who wears a dress paired with hiking boots and will sometimes join in on Eddie's riff. "He's the reverse," Eddie says of Hate Man. "You say, 'I love you,' he get mad. You say, 'I hate you,' he happy." The three are shown crossing Telegraph Avenue barefoot, smiling. A crowd throngs in the background, smiling, holding up half-smoked joints in approval.

The warm sentiment carries over to today's students. Most cheer Eddie on as he shares God's word: Punkers nod gaudy-colored mohawks, skateboarders flash a thumbs-up as they skid by, a future pretender to the Bill Gates throne spares a grin as he hustles by on his way to some computer class. It's all so congenial, until you notice the distance they keep. A ring of empty space surrounds Eddie ... a halo.

The prophet is far from lonely, though. In fact, he was invited to 16 graduations just in the last year. And he prides himself on being a recognized campus force, getting acknowledged in the student yearbook, people knowing his face and voice if not his name. "People pass by, they know me, they say, 'Hey, Eddie, how you doing?'" Should an emergency arise -- the bus breaks down and he can't get to campus, he's having trouble collecting that month's check and needs to go to the Social Security office -- he's missed. "They say, 'Hey, Eddie, where you been? I didn't see you yesterday. Where were you?'"

Aw, hell. I did my share of ditching class and avoiding campus while I was in school, and never once did strangers inquire about my absence. Eddie -- who's not a "legitimate" part of UC-Berkeley -- probably touches more people with his words than any run-of-the-mill student. Even if they do stay several feet away. Even if they do question his sanity.

An hour south at Stanford University, Joe Euclid draws a different sort of fan club: the pigeons. They surround him at his outdoor table along Tressider Student Union as if he were the second coming of Mary Poppins. And with good reason; Joe's an invaluable source of nutrition, dropping pastry crumbs and coffee splashes from his shaggy gray beard. Accustomed to his presence, the greedy birds perch on Joe's cluttered work space, pecking at the ancient typewriter, nosing inside a crumpled paper cup, staring warily at precarious newspaper stacks.

If Eddie's an entertaining campus sideshow, Joe's the one students avoid at all costs, spreading the rumor that Ted Kaczynski -- who he eerily resembles -- has come to town. He's the cautionary tale, the object lesson: If you don't study for that test, that's how you're going to wind up.

Passersby tend to give Joe a wide berth as he bangs away feverishly on the falling-apart keys, occasionally shooting him a sympathetic if nervous smile before quickly moving on. But don't feel sorry for Joe -- he lives at the edge of Stanford's campus in his broken-down mobile home, but he's got big dreams. He's out to prove the existence of mental telepathy. And once he does, professors will flock among the pigeons at his feet, hoping for a crumb of his knowledge.

The research project's been ongoing since 1982, when the Angel of God came to Joe and showed him the way. Ever since, he's dragged his makeshift office to the patio outside Tressider, poking into falling-apart books and typing madly with two fingers, poking and typing, typing and poking. Since 1982. And now a light's appeared at the end of the tunnel. "I should produce a writing which is fit for publication by the end of this fall," he says, not without a hint of pride. "I just keep doing these rewrites and rewrites. And it all starts with ... this." He holds a tattered Webster's Dictionary as tightly as I'd seen Eddie grip his New Testament.

Like Jesse, Joe serves as a reality check for the Calvin Klein-wearing, Daddy's-Mercedes-driving set. Yes, Virginia, these people really do exist. In the suburbs, they're swept off the sidewalks along with yesterday's front page. In wealthy cities like Giuliani's New York, they're routed from their park homes by politicians obsessed with the ballot box. But within the university's golden gates, they find their own home, an outlet for their muttered thoughts, a faint hope for dreams that will in all likelihood never see fulfillment.

The polarized dichotomy between the haves and have-nots gives rise to a strange and reciprocal freak show: The campus hangers-on watch the students just as much as they are the subject of stares. And sometimes, as with Joe, they behold the students with just as much repugnant fascination. After all, it is the homeless, the crazy, the indigent, the just-plain-lazy, who are the closest anyone can ever come to true freedom. They have no classes to attend, no scholarships or grades to maintain. It's Jesse's choice to hop the bus and sprawl on the lawn every day, Hate Man's decision to bring antipathy to the student world. Eddie preaches, Joe hunts and pecks, Homeless Drummer slams down the sticks -- all of their own volition. They retain ultimate control.

N E X T_ P A G E .|. Student purgatory: Everything but a diploma