The details of the alleged Duke lacrosse team improprieties conjure up startlingly similar, dangerous, repressed visions in my foggy mind: college party, drinking, strippers, sexually charged environment, things getting out of hand. I don't know what actually happened at Duke, but I hope the truth comes out.
In the '80s I owned one of the larger DJ companies in the Los Angeles area and I DJ'd a whole lot of college parties that had all or some of the volatile elements listed above in plentiful supply. I am unaware of any sexual assault charges filed in conjunction with parties I worked, but we all know how much that means.
One of the reasons I sold the company in 1990 was that I just couldn't pretend that the craziest shit didn't bother me anymore; that, and I was bone tired of hauling that damned equipment around.
The following took place on a warm spring night in 1988:
There are nuclear missile sites more accessible but all of the amenities of a modern debauch are there: a portable stage, generator, Bedouin tents for private consultation, two heavily fortified bars, and a wooden parquet dance floor. These relics of party sacrament have been hauled two hours northwest of LA, over four freeways, three highways, two gravel roads, a dirt path and across 50 yards of loose, pebbly sand and tumblin' tumbleweeds.
The DJ maneuvers his stouthearted little red truck, burdened with equipment and records, from the second gravel road onto the dirt path. He curses the obviously faulty map that was hastily scribbled upon a torn record sleeve the night before by the extravagantly drunken social chairman, Dirk, a tall, athletic and square-jawed junior patrician who squints and expectorates under the influence of alcohol.
The ink of the impromptu map is smeared at more than one critical juncture. The DJ can't tell if he is headed toward the promised party land, or toward a dead end of dried drool.
The disgruntled DJ is on the verge of throwing his truck into reverse and backing his way toward civilization when he rounds a bend and beholds what appears to be a major archeological site, replete with dozens of hyperkinetic nomads in flowing regalia. He then notices the stage and the dance floor and begins to recognize some of the Arabians waving floppy scimitars at him.
There is the elongated Dwarf towering above the rabble, and Mush and Beak and John ("no nicknames, please"), the house president, and all of the other deranged but essentially benevolent frat lads. These archeologists seek not the treasures of antiquity, but an Arabian Night of revelry unattainable within the shadow of the Great Concrete Campus by the Freeway.