Opening Statements
Jonathan Herzberger
Issue date: 11/30/09 Section: The Melting Pot
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A new student center is (allegedly) nearing completion. Initiatives in the fields of education and medicine present new and exciting opportunities for students in those fields. President Berkman is a man with a vision - and agree or disagree with his choices, he clearly has an idea of the direction he wants to take the University. Hell, the new UC is even scheduled to have a full-fledged bar inside, giving students access to cool, sudsy refreshment between classes. Clearly, there's only one thing missing from this equation, one next logical step that we as a University, and indeed as a community should take:
We need to open a old-timey bordello saloon.
Think about it: we're already going to have a bar on campus. A BAR IN THE STUDENT CENTER in case you'd missed that the two previous times it's been mentioned. But that's not far enough, people: we can do better.
Picture this: you've just gotten out of a particularly stifling class; something around the 300-400 level. It's dull. It's dry - as is, consequently, your throat. You need something to take your mind off of the upcoming 12-page paper critically analyzing people you are convinced were either mad, or complete and utter hacks.
You need a diversion.
So you walk toward the location where the student-bar is supposed to be - but you find yourself suddenly distracted by the sound of ragtime piano, and laughter. Rather than cheap beer, you find yourself craving either some kind of whiskey drink, or something out of a jug containing more than two X's. You step through the saloon-style doors, and are greeted by girls in peacock headdresses, juggling mimes, magicians and a laughing man in a top hat, white gloves, carrying a black and white cane, and balancing a monocle near one eye.
As you enter, his walrus mustache quivers with glee.
(With apologies to Andrey Bely), in front of your nose you find a stream of bowler hats and black veils is pulsing, foamy with bluish green and warm orange of feathers worn by the night beauties. The raucous refrain of a vigorous can-can dance hits you like a psychic wave, as tuxedoed goatees and crooked noses in white vests and toppers line the hall, their hands posed on canes. You find yourself led back to a room, red velvet and blue eyelashes accost you from seemingly every direction in this fever-dream of an establishment.
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