Dorm It Creatures

Personnel assigned me & Bark to the Juniper dorm, room 17.  Before we could unpack & settle into our new abode, the resident coordinator (or "RC"), Kraster, needed to "give us the spiel."  This "spiel" unwound into a rather lengthy monologue, becoming a parody of itself as it progressed past the expected information concerning bathrooms & fire-drills, to overstated directions on trapping mice.  The RCs are a special breed for sure, fulfilling the niche of hallway patrol & vacuum technician on-the-clock, while gathering with one another for Dungeons & Dragons whilst off the clock (assuming, that is, that they can evacuate their World of Warcraft thrones every now & again for some in-the-flesh interaction).  No, not exactly the type of folks many of us had imagined would abandon their native hamlets for Yellowstone. . . but as we freshman were soon to discover, it takes a gumbo-pot of personalities to pamper the 4 million or so tourists that filter through The Park each year.  While some UYNP students were young die-hards like me & Bark, disenchanted with suburban life after our experience at accredited universities, & thus pursuing the pilgrimage to the great Rocky region of America's West, others were there on vastly different account.  For some, The University of Yellowstone served as a respite from the demands of "elsewhere" society.  For others, a place for steady employment.  And for one, it just might be a spot zany enough to manifest her deepest desire of shaving symbols into boys' chest-hair.  As it turned out, the Mammoth Hot Springs campus was rampant with man-canvas:

What appears as a polyandrous tagging system was merely Iona's way of saying "Nice to meet you." (from left to right: Bark Scarz, Peer "me" Broozer, Tweed Allen.  Iona Del Toona crouches crotch-level center).

This femme fatale with the gift for giving voice to epidermises that lay shy within the pelts of Yellowstone newbs was none other than the legendary Iona (pronounced YO-nuh) Del Toona.  Although Bark & I had had separate first encounters with this fellow UYNP freshman who haled from southern Cali, she'd inquired with each of us as to whether she might "shave some shit" into our chest-hair during introductory small-chat.  While we each had initially felt taken aback by such an advance, it took only a few days into the season (and few beers down one evening) to coax us into follicle-freeing festivity.  By the end of the hoopla, Bark's torso read "YNP" for Yellowstone National Park, while I represented our Mammoth Hot Springs campus with "MHS" across my chest, and our docile Utah-bred friend, Tweed Allen, bore JPR from tit-to-tit, for our beloved Juniper (and yes, that's a bison atop his navel^).

Iona beams with satisfaction as fresh flies willingly heave themselves into her web of perversions.

We didn't have any real intention for the dorm room.  I took it Bark wasn't in the pattern of partying so much, and I've always been the type to enjoy having a quiet place to hibernate at night.  Yet eventually, after many-a-shindig and the addition of our girlfriends to the room's resident count, Juniper # 17 became this:

If you're wondering, "Is that thing in the back-corner holding a fan & empty Twisted Tea bottles a. . . bar?"  Well, the answer is yes. . . of course it is.  It found us though, really.  At one of Bozeman, MT's well-stocked pawn shops we'd spotted it.  I thought it was cool but didn't really consider buying it. . . it was Bark who couldn't get it out of his head.  The treasure needed a home. . . and Juniper needed a bar (even if the employee pub was only 20 yards away, which it was).  And this micro-bar was the uber-steazey prize of the era: a snowboard had been cut into 3 pieces to act as the top bar & lower citrus-cutting counter, a clear glass Oakley case stood tall in the center for bottle storage, while plywood filled in the front walls & multi-tiered side shelves to hold margarita salt, shot glasses, zesters, whatevers.  Notice also the mini-fridge to the left of the bar, advertising the delicious Montana brews it likely held within (and Twisted Tea. . . Jimmy Pauly of Jersey had turned us all on to the Brisk-with-a-Bite sensation, and taught us that it wasn't some foo-foo concoction our sense of manhood would be threatened by sip-after-sip).  We dubbed our bar "The Juniper Berry" but never managed to set strict opening & closing hours.  It was mostly open:

A spontaneous rave erupts at The Juniper Berry (Randy Ammerd, left, boasts his glowstick fondling skills to the crowd).

Approving the evening's progression.

"Slap-the-sack," a game already inherently wrought with danger, devolves into its violent doppelganger "Get-slapped-by-the-sack."  (from left to right: Austin Mest, Mary Schenken, Gareth Mastodon, Peer Broozer).

Action.

Reaction (can't mess with the classics).

The glory days of freshmen Yellowstoning:  We didn't really sleep at all the first month.  The ecstatic energy derived from everything happening during this paradigm shift into citizens of Yellowstone was enough make a super-volcano surge forth (which it didn't, thankfully).  And even though the time spent in-dorm was fractional compared to the time spent at our jobs, or in the pub, or out at town, or traversing the wild yonder, we sure as hell couldn't waste it with slumber.