I get to campus around 8:15, lock my bike up, and then swing by the line of newspaper boxes on the way to class.

My usual reading list for the day is The Independent Florida Alligator and the Gainesville Sun. The Alligator I read for the sports page and the editorial page, and the Gainesville Sun for the comics.

The Sun is the only paper on campus that offers the comics. Papers like The New York Times and USA Today are far too busy being serious and important to have anything to do with those silly comic strips.

I’m something of a true believer in the comics. I grew up reading them and fighting with my brothers for the Sunday page. It’s easier to start off your day with a smile by depending on the comics instead of the tragedy and drama that fills the rest of the paper.

Recently, the newspaper crop has been mysteriously running short on the UF campus. If you go here, then you know that most of the newspapers other than the alligator are in bins that require you to swipe your Gator 1 ID in order to get the paper. In theory, that’s a great idea.

However, many of these bins have been malfunctioning lately. I’ll swipe my card 16 different ways, swear, and usually leave in frustration and distress. If I ever remember to bring a pry bar to campus, they’ll rue the day they crossed me!

Meanwhile, other bins seem completely out of service. Papers in past semesters typically do not disappear before 10:30 or so, by which time we’re in fourth period. But when I make my way around at 8:15 in the morning, some of them are completely empty!

There’s only a few solutions to this, but pretty much all of them mean we’re getting ripped off. Either the Gainesville Sun is going around, pillaging their own bins to put the papers into coin-fed ones, or they’re switching around the days of and amounts of papers that get put into each one.

There’s some kind of nefarious scheme going on here. I will not stop until I figure this out. Our comics liberty cannot be endangered.

I’m glad I was gone. I hate it when people flock to town like it’s their own personal Woodstock. Which, for these people, it was. Which brings us to the story that broke yesterday. Here’s the set-up:

The big party this weekend was called Fest. For those of you who haven’t heard of it before, it’s kinda like a convention for garage bands and their groupies. A good excuse to listen to some music, knock back liberal amounts of alcohol, go crazy. That sort of thing.

The police, of course, are patrolling the streets.

As they’re doing this, they come upon a crowd dancing and partying in the street. There’s about 100, 200, maybe even 500. Stories differ.

The police didn’t try to shut down the party, or stop the show that was going on, but they did try and move people out of the street. Perfectly reasonable.

Some people were either too drunk or having too much of a good time to pay attention. Some guy dressed all in silver spandex refused to move after being politely informed to get out of the road. So Gainesville Police Officer Jones got out of the cruiser to arrest him.

Another man interfered with the arrest, and as he attacked the officer, he was quickly Tasered and slapped in handcuffs as well.

Witnesses from the scene dispute that the man attacked Jones, saying “We’re not going to tolerate police brutality in this town.”

But no one disputes that most of the “witnesses” present were not, in fact, slobbering drunk at that point. And no one disputes what happened next.

Mayhem broke loose as the drunken mob attacked the officers with “hands, fists, feet, cans, and bottles.”

This is disgusting.

The police in this town have a hard go of it. I’ve read the stories over my years here, and every time the police do anything, people complain. These are the men and women who, every day, protect the streets of this city, sometimes with their lives. Their lives!

And how do we treat them? Like ingrates.

The reaction of the police was swift. If they protect anyone the best, it is when they are coming to the aid of one of their own. That’s the kind of fierce devotion you would want of someone, were you in a tight spot.

More than 20 officers responded. Five people were arrested.

Currently, there 14 comments on the Alligator article that went up yesterday. One of them accuses police of using “cowardly methods” to arrest people, and that attacking a police officer from behind sounds like a good idea. What kind of an upside-down world are we living in, where people think it is fair to say these things?

A response to his comment went like this:

“Cowardly methods? How do you propose police do things? They have no idea if anyone is armed at any point and time. And hundreds give their lives every year for their community. If they took a risk every time and were not tactful more would die.

I am glad for all the officers do, it’s not an easy job I don’t think. I would have to put myself in their shoes.

Bottom line, people will always complain about police because it gives them something to talk about. People generally don’t like being told what to do and nobody likes to be arrested. So whether they are wrong or not, these subjects will be biased.”

Despite whatever the story is, these fools and ingrates only see what they want to see: excessive police force. What a stupid and pointless way to interpret the world around you. If you refuse to trust the people who are entrusted to protect you, where does that leave you?

It was almost 2 o’clock for the second time that night.

(You remember, of course, that Daylight Savings Time kicked out around 2 in the morning. So we worked until 2 a.m., it went back to 1 a.m., and then we quit at the second 2 a.m. It’s complicated.)

Anyway, at this point, I was doing what I had been doing all night long: looking for good music on the radio. I occasionally let Dispatch know that we were still alive.

We were stuck at a red light on the edge of campus when I heard the heavy metal song I was playing for mood music get a lot louder.

I looked at my driver, and then at the radio, and then at the station wagon that had pulled up next to us. It was then that I realized they were listening to the same song.

As the song ended, the girl in the passenger’s seat leaned out the window and shouted over to us:

“Hey, are you guys having a good Halloween? What are you supposed to be?”

“We’re SNAP drivers!” we chorused.This joke worked wonders on her.

“I’m Cruella de Ville,” she said, showing off furs and matching gloves. “I’m going to steal your puppies!”

(I think she worked on that line a lot)

“You can’t have my puppies!” I retorted. “But you can have my ferrets.”

(I was lying. I didn’t have any ferrets. But if I did, they would be trained attack ferrets)

“Screw your ferrets!” she screamed, clearly vexed.

(I disliked having my imaginary ferrets insulted)

“They’re nice ferrets though,” I said.

(Nice enough until you get to biting distance)

She paused to consider this.

“All right,” she said, compromising. “I’ll take your ferrets AND your puppies!”

(It seemed like a fair deal to me)

Then she and Jasper sped off, and we were left laughing as we drove off into the morning.

I already worked in a couple while I was waiting for my first class to start, and I can probably squeeze a few more in by lunchtime. I think people are beginning to wonder why I came to campus in flannel pajamas and a bath robe.

After a 6-month long epic that I don’t have the time to get involved in, I am working for SNAP (Student Nighttime Axillary Patrol), the on-campus taxi service for students who don’t want to walk in the dark.

This lends itself to all kinds of ideas for mischief.

My first, and really the most obvious idea would be to string up some Christmas lights on the inside and drag along a set of Trivial Pursuit cards. Then I’ve got my own Cash Cab, University of Florida edition.

The best part is, if they get three wrong, we say good-bye a bit early. But Discovery wouldn’t spring for the start-up cash and film crew, so I’ve had to sadly part with that idea.

Even if tonight doesn’t get me many of the thrills I’m expecting, I’m sure my second day of work will. I might have to bring some candy along with me for belligerent trick-or-treaters.

Surreptitiously because I’m probably supposed to be studying how to write a resume in German. I’m pretty sure our Professor was joking though.

And besides, there are more important things to cover at the moment. There are rats in the computer lab.

On Wednesdays, we have our class in the Architecture Computer Lab. There’s a main lab, and a few labs to the side that can be reserved for classes.

(All German teachers have an irrepressible urge to reserve computer labs whenever possible, I’ve found. They just can’t help themselves.)

The good bit is that the desks we sit at are shaped like game pieces from Cranium, or something, so it’s easy for me to operate incognito, when necessary. But somebody removed hearts and Solitaire from the hard drive of every computer in here. A flogging offense, in my opinion.

The class before ours ends at 11:30. I come in at 11:31.

There are still architecture students feverishly working away  at their computers. I don’t mind this too much.

If you’ve ever met an architecture student, you know that they are, without a doubt, the most stressed students on campus. Their lives revolve around anxiety and overwork. Because of this, they develop tunnel vision.

You can recognize one because of their habit of staring blankly at computer screens. It is as if they’re desperately trying to conjure up a satisfactory assignment through sheer concentration.

Nothing exists in the world outside of their project. They rarely talk or recognize other human beings, and mumble in low, fearful tones when they do. A tapestry of anxiety and distress can be seen wafting over the Architecture building most days.

I have pity on their plight. Which is why I don’t swear at them as I trip over their belongings on the way to my desk. I’d receive only a soft whimper in penance.

11:41, and the teacher from the last class, now ten minutes over, is still helping her harried students as they swarm around her like rats from a sinking ship.

She helps the best she can, but the most of them are trodden underfoot as she makes a break for the door.

I watch them go with sorrow, not envying their predicament.

But by class time, there are a few that remain.

This, I mind.

Taking up the space that I’m paying for as a part of my education is rude. Even worse, a lot of them act as if I shouldn’t mind them being there.

They try to camouflage themselves, muttering a few words that might be mistaken for German from time-to-time.

Those get spotted pretty easy. Others prove harder to catch.

Like chameleons, they blend in to their environment to avoid detection by their natural predators. Some wear clothing that allows them to appear like their surroundings.

One student tried hiding in a very-improbably placed trash can. The lazy ones can slouch down in their chairs to an astonishing amount.

In a just world, at the beginning of class time we’d be allowed to beat any Architecture students that were still camping in our classroom with wiffle bats until they departed.

No asylum will be given until after class.

Thing is, I can totally see Urban Meyer doing/saying this. It has the advertisement believability factor written all over it. Now that other ad about March of Dimes, or whatever? The wife totally volunteered him for it, is my bet.

I’m on the record as a supporter of Urban Meyer. Well, who isn’t in this town? The man is dedicated, focused, and probably scares the crap out of our opponents through his calm, businesslike manner of chewing through SEC defenses and running our opponent’s offense ragged.

His license plate is probably something like: “ICEMAN.”

Besides that, the rings are plenty iconic enough for me.

I was at a gala Thursday evening. It was the first time I’d ever been to a gala before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

The dictionary defines a gala as a festive celebration. While it’s hard to imagine the Germans as a festive bunch, they certainly were on Thursday. (The Alligator covered it here)

The pretzels with mustard helped, I think.

The gala has been in the making for awhile. Since last spring. But the event we were commemorating was almost 30 years in the making.

When I first heard that we would be commemorating the fall of the Berlin Wall with an actual replica of the wall somewhere on campus, I was more excited than a mongoose in a reptile shop.

I was hoping that, under cover of darkness, we would cobble together a bunch of cinder blocks and wall off the entire Plaza of the Americas from the rest of campus. Just like the Ruskies would’ve done.

Even better, I was hoping to get a chance to use my lucky sledgehammer when it came time reenact the fall of the Berlin Wall.

I was later told that no, it was only going to be an artistic replica of the wall, not a functioning one. I muttered a few choice words in the mother tongue, and canceled my Amazon.com order for high-powered searchlights and barbed wire. Red tape ruins everything.

German students also went out and painted the 34th Street Wall, which only differs slightly from the Berlin Wall. Mainly because nobody has ever been shot trying to get over it.

We actually talk quite a bit about the Wall in my German courses. My professors have plenty of stories to share about their experience, or the experiences of their family and friends.

The time of Reunification, or the Wiedervereinigung, was a whirlwind time in Germany. Everyone who lived in the East packed up and swarmed over to the West, sometimes leaving much of or even all of their possessions behind.

I’m a little hazy on why there was a rush to get out of East Germany, but one of my German textbooks helped explain the matter:

1961- Berlin Wall erected. East German government bans every type of beer except Harnburgh. The party appears to be over.

1989- East Germans, hearing rumors about the classic taste of ice-cold Spaten, knock down the Berlin Wall, party nonstop and run up a 6 million-dollar bar tab.

Sounds like a good reason to party to me.

ESPN has already summed up the situation in something around 4,000 words altogether. Which is great, if you have completely given your life up to following college football. But for the rest of us, what you mainly need to know is that the refs have been suspended (The main article is found here).

The media and fans alike have jumped on this thing like Pancho Via on a piñata. ESPN’s Mark Fish wrote an article about Marc Curles, the ref who made the bad call. In the article, Fish called him a “bonehead.” The fans have not been as forgiving.

They’ve called this guy at home and at work, left him threatening voice mail messages, and sent him vitriolic e-mails. All the blame in the world is falling on this guy, and he’s being very humble and apologetic about it.

But in college football, or any sport for that matter, the pressure should not be on the referee to make good calls all the time. Without the appearance of a foul, there are no penalties. But because players can often look like they’re committing a foul, even if they’re not, are penalized.

So in general, lay off this guy. Sure, it should’ve gone the other way, but if there wasn’t the appearance of a foul, there wouldn’t have been a bad call in the first place.

Our second headline of whining for tonight comes from the great state of Utah, where the Republican senator (“Borin’” Orrin Hatch) is demanding that Obama open a Justice Department investigation of the BCS rankings.

Like the rest of the fans that are clamoring for the SEC ref to be turned off the gallows, Hatch is just like the people who take the sport too seriously.

College football shouldn’t be dictated by bureaucrats in Congress, or mid-level pencil pushers. The games are resolved on the field, and once resolved remain resolved. No amount of bickering or arguing will change that.

The players, the coaches and the refs decide the games. ESPN might have convinced everyone else that they can hijack the course of sports, but the game is still over.

Go Gators. (*wink*)

To reserve free tickets to the play, visit the Florida Player’s Web site at this link.

The play, if you haven’t heard of it before, is a dramatic, compelling revision of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. As told by two morons.

I may have exaggerated a bit. But here’s the official pitch:

Two intermittent characters from Shakespeare’s Hamlet spend their time “offstage” spinning coins, playing at questions, and generally not getting very far.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern find that their only clues to identity and purpose come from snippets of action provided by the other characters.

Amidst their struggles with Hamlet, the Player and her troupe of tragedians, the duo unwittingly moves toward their predetermined fate.

That’s from the official UF Web site.

But back to business: my roommates have declined to attend. If anybody else wants to come with me, I’m going to the 2:00 show on Saturday afternoon.

The Florida players site says all the other shows are sold out, but you can still show up awhile before the show starts, and you might get in.

And if you don’t get in, don’t take it too hard. At least you aren’t these guys:

Guildenstern: I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself.
Rosencrantz: Or just as mad.
Guildenstern: Or just as mad.
Rosencrantz:And he does both.
Guildenstern: So there you are.
Rosencrantz: Stark raving sane.

I try to stay away from University courses that stray too far from facts.

The kind that rely too much on “feelings” are not good for my rage.

Instead of basing discussions on intellect, you see, anyone with a flit of emotion floating around in the microcosm they call a cerebrum can blurt out whatever darn fool nonsense they please.

Take rationality out of the mix, and all you get is a bunch of worthless half-baked notions that don’t add up to much of anything.

Sometimes these classes are unavoidable.

Like ethics class.

I know I just wrote about it, but today’s class was so engaging that I can’t resist.

We were discussing press coverage of politics and politicians. I was busy beating the Monica Lewinsky incident to death, while my esteemed colleagues were busy doddering about in simplistic agreement.

What kind of actions from politicians, the professor asked, could pose a threat to the public?

This reply came from the old man in the back:

“The President of the United States… letting somebody come into his office… to deliver… a pizza… and have the run of his office.”

The entire class hangs on every pause from this guy. He shares his ideas with the same thoughtfulness as a Classical philosopher, speaking as if he’s delivering golden orbs of wisdom to all those who hear.

Sometimes I walk out into the hall when I can’t suppress the laughter anymore.

“Does anybody else notice that strange sound coming from the hallway?” the professor will ask. “The one that sounds like a hyena being tickled to death?”

“I’ll go check it out,” I’ll say as I walk briskly out the door to go laugh again.

To my surprise, he managed to top his capacity for ideas of the bizarre later on. I don’t have much experience with older people in the classroom (who aren’t teaching the class, that is), but this guy is a piece of work.

While the rest of us were puzzling over national security, this conversation took place:

“Doesn’t the Monica Lewinsky coverage ignore her feelings? I mean, it was really negative for her,” sighs the frizzy cupcake of a redhead with the squinty eyes down in the front row.

“I think national security is more important than her feelings,” barks the neanderthal with the prominent forehead and mason jar of coffee who doesn’t raise his hand in class.

“That’s right!” says the old man in the back, gesturing excitedly. “Monica Lewinsky could have been an Iraqi spy!”

The rest of us simply sigh in surrender.

“Next topic!” says the professor.