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About

Dear fellow Havocians,

Upon much persuasion from the lovely hostess of this high-tech drivel, I have been compelled, neigh, forced to write something in the "about" section of this illustrious website. I feel hardly qualified to take on such a prestigious task, as I lived in the legendary Havoc House just under two years, a mere fraction of the houses long run of collegiate debauchery. And ironically I am a member of the "fab four" that, ultimately, brought the creaky structure to its grizzly demise. I, therefore, feel a bit guilty about robbing this honor from someone who is, say, more versed in Havocian lore; none the less, here it goes.

My first day in the "Voc", as it was affectionately referred to by its inhabitants, was rather typical. After initially failing a Jethro Tull quiz by uttering "Yea, he's great" the bathroom door was kicked in (well, moved, as to the best of my knowledge it has never been attached by hinges) and my closest geographic house mate, known only as Piz, grabbed me by the back of my neck and started lifting me. The only thing that saved me was by desperately pleading "Ian, Ian Anderson, he's GREAT!"

After being allowed to complete my first Havocian piddle, the rest of which proved uneventful, I entered Piz's room (I had no choice, it's the only way to get back out into the hall way), where before I could non-chalantly make my exit, large explosions from outside Piz's window sent him rushing about the room frantically searching through a dilapidated dresser. He produced two fairly authentic looking army helmets, quickly slammed one on my head, while ordering me to duck down. He then proceeded to pull out various fireworks and other implements of destruction from a large box and had me light several rocket shaped devices with a zippo. For the next half hour we barraged a man named Dave-ski, who intermittently fired back from his second story apartment across Thunder Alley. That about raps up the story of my first hour living in the Havoc House, from there on in things got a little silly.

Incidentally, Thunder Alley was the name given to the small area including the Havoc, the Phi Mu Delta house, the Block and Zeta, where huge 10+ Keg parties would be held amongst all the tenants entitled "Thunder Alley Rallies," which usually lasted until someone needed HLR (Hepatic Liverary Resuscitation). Of course all proceeds went to charities, then called utility bills.

When I moved into the establishment back in '87 the only "House Rule" was you could only burn your own room down, and even that was only loosely enforced, as I accomplished just that two semester later. Actually, I my self was personally on fire on one occasion, but that was different party. It's ludicrous to try to even highlight the stories involved with the "fuzzy" seasons spent in deep fear and loathing, but suffice to say their were plenty of cop stories, high speed chases, and keg surfing. On the animal front there were bats, skunks and an opossum, and there were plenty of tooth rattling brawls, countless broken windows, bodacious babes, evil empires, lowly villains, heroines, heroin, and lots and lots of really cheap beer.

Unfortunately, little is known about the house before characters like Fred, Piz, and Munchie moved in during the early eighties. I am hoping this letter will eventually be followed by one from Fred, as he resided in the house of "Free Beer and Peanuts," semesters before I did, and must surely have further insights into the structures shrouded antiquities and bazaar mind-altering rituals. One rather obvious clue for modern Hav-archeologists is a sign on the bar that read "A party every Thursday night for the last twenty years," which would put the possible date of the mysterious "stale beer smell" at around 1965. Fred S. is currently on an arduous search for grant money to construct a beer can (Seventy five feet in height with a twenty two foot diameter), which will be erected on the site where the actual Havoc House once stood. It is now a parking lot just past Zimmerli Gymnasium, but if you stand on the very spot where 95 Susquehanna Ave once belted out the timeless tunes of Bob Dylan and the Greatful Dead, just around dusk on any given Thursday, the concrete excudes a smell not unlike very very old Milwaukee, and you can almost hear the sound of a keg being tapped in the whispering wind.

- Michael X. XXXXXXX