An Epic Claremont Romp

Considering that at least one of your humble Stag staffers spends some of his free time tilting at windmills related to his old college, it's worth remembering what's so special about the character that great place. Because, truly, it's the sort of character that lasts, that endures, that stands the test of time:

Because, dear reader, some stories stick with you, some stories matter:

This, dear reader, is one of those stories.  Read it.  Read it thoroughly.  Read it now.  In the off chance you're not convinced, here's a taste:

By the end of the year, in the absurd and deluded belief that if I were politically active more girls would unbutton their blouses in my presence, I ran, unopposed, for sophomore class president, won, went home for the summer, and worked. My employment was at a new amusement park in Anaheim, and my position was that of a steamboat captain. You want spoiled? I was living on an island, making people happy at a spanking-new Disneyland, dining after work on hot dogs on sticks, and reading, as I recall, a total of one book the whole summer.

I returned to school in September, and things went well until October, when the dean of men gave me a call. There was a problem: homecoming.

Homecoming is a large deal at colleges, because colleges need money, and happy alums give money. Homecoming is Nostalgia City, complete with a football game, a dance—and, more to the dean’s point—a homecoming parade.

The dean had a question: Was the sophomore class’s homecoming float finished?

I said: What?