The College Man: On Home Turf

This weekend, I consented to spending four-and-a-half hours listening to Steely Dan in Papa Jones' hybrid to accompany the parents to Maryland for a long overdue visit to the College Man. After some much needed napping, an extensive NYC realty discussion and analysis and a New York Magazine read-aloud session from Mama Jones (she would have made a great first grade teacher) my parents and I arrived at the College Man's apartment around 6:30 where we examined his sweet and surprisingly clean living quarters. The bathroom was almost spotless and the kitchen, crumb-free, although there was a major explosion of titties all over the apartment walls:



"There seems to be a beer and tit theme to these apartments." -Papa Jones


It's Adam's sophomore year at U of M, and the man has learned a lot. He can maneuver kegs past his apartment security guards, no sweat. When multiple hos are primed and ready, The College Man knows where to go in for the kill.

One thing the man has not yet learned is how to make a good rumrunner. This drink in my hand is fucking toxic. But I can't hate on the kid for pushing his weekly kegger from Friday to Saturday night in my honor. I'm 99 percent positive I'm getting sexiled from his room later, and I'm being forced to listen to shitty 50 cent songs, but I'm ready to kick it College Style. Live blogging or morning reporting on this jam is soon to come. For now, stay fresh. Roll them blunts. Rock them hos. Or something.