You’re at a 10. We need you at like a 2.

I had looked forward to the first weekend of the school year all summer. There’s more beer than even we Gauchos know what to do with, and nubile, young freshmen roam the streets in a haze, supplying supple targets for my well-placed water balloons. With a pre-party that would make Steven Tyler blush, my friends and I hit DP, a veritable substance buffet. A little THC in one bloodstream, some Sailor Jerry’s in another. In our last minute rush to hit the streets at a high rivaling Elizabeth Taylor in her prime, some of us had even treated ourselves to various painkillers. A nice evening, really. Then we got to DP.

Needless to say, my group was the most benevolent out there. We were too inebriated to be anything but. I cannot, sadly, say the same for many Tupac wannabe’s roaming our bungalow of lovin’ we call I.V.

I’m all for heckling freshmen. I make a point to throw a few water balloons every year. And hell, it’s funny to direct them to El Colegio when they ask for directions to DP. But what’s with this guy on the next balcony over screaming, “freshmen are faggots” over and over again like those are the only words his mother taught him? Where’s the connection between being a collegiate first year and a wildly offensive slur for a member of our queer community? And whoa, why is he rushing into the street to battle any freshman who retorts? I applaud the freshman that dares respond to heckling. The kid’s got cajones.

Moving down street level, some dude informs a scantily clad lady that she’s a whore. Okay, so she isn’t wearing much, but who is? It’s the first weekend back! And wait…is he really trying to mad dog her because she rebuked his comment? I don’t know who this guy was, but if he’s reading this, bro, you can’t go Tom Sizemore on a girl because she responds negatively to you calling her a whore.

And oh, one last thing. For the love of God, if someone spills beer on you, or your girl, let it pass. Believe it or not, it’s not a good reason to fight. Accept the apology that you know is coming, and hoist another brew. Because you really don’t need to roll around on a piss soaked carpet with a guy who looks like he lives in the weight-room, all because he tipped a Natty on your girlfriend’s tube top. Really.

My neighbors last year were UCSB students in the ’70s. They regaled me with stories of constant nudity, guitar on the beach, and people so high they couldn’t summon up the feeling of anger. I know we still have that here, but we need more.

Maybe I’m out of touch with I.V. now, because I’m a senior living out in the Trigo boondocks. Or maybe I don’t understand this new aggression because I spend my time around people so stoned they can’t put down the game cube controller long enough to take a decent bong rip, much less fight anyone. Whatever my perspective may be, I think we can all agree some people here could use a mellow-out session. Put “Get It Together” on continuous loop on your iPod, smoke some herbage, chronically masturbate if you have to, but stop trying to be John McEnroe. It’s a turnoff. And it’s ruining I.V.

Mike Rathbun is a senior history major.