My initial thought upon bringing Puck to Georgetown for the first time was that this would be a fantastic opportunity to show him or her--and through the magic of digital photography, you--all the places where our posse did ourselves proud during four years of nose-to-the-grindstone academic and athletic achievement.
The ivy outside Village A 87 where Sell "reverse drank" a funnel of Milwaukee's Best.
The square of cement outside Reiss that leapt up and shattered G's navicular bone on an innocent trip home from the Tombs. Running backwards.
The second floor balcony of 3413 R Street from which Paul dumped a spaghetti pot full of rancid kitchen leftovers on my unsuspecting head.
Unfortunately 3413 is a swank, privately owned home now, likely complete with a lobbyist and a golden retriever in the backyard. Wonder how long it will take them to realize they're sitting on about 13 years worth of toxic waste worthy of a SuperFund designation. And the rest of those halcyon locales of yore really don't look like much to an eye bereft of our shared intellectual experience. Stripped of its "NO OGLING" and "NO FLAUTING" signs, the front of Henle 40 sports nothing more than hardpacked dirt, chipped brick, and mistreated venetian blinds.
So instead, we went to the gift shop.
And then we did venture out to some of the more classic bits of campus. The lawns and halls trod by three generations of Conathans: Ed ('42), John ('67) and me ('94).
No pressure, though, Puck...
...there's no need to follow in ALL your father's footsteps.
