The Elevator at Bally's

My roommate Alex, although he attends law school with me at USC, went to Cal undergrad and still harbors a deep resentment for USC athletics. We were watching the USC-Arizona basketball game the other day, and I was starting to get pissed at him for openly rooting for ‘Zona. “Honestly,” he explained to me, “if USC was playing against five convicted child molesters, I think I would have to flip a coin to decide who to root for. If it came up for the molesters, well, that must be what god intended.”

A further look at what goes on in my mind: It really made my day when I performed a search on facebook and made friends with five other guys named Scott Ball.

The guy in front of me in my criminal procedure class spent most of the class period reading some form of electronic comic book on his computer. I didn’t know they made comic books that you could read on your computer, but then again, I don’t read comic books because I’m not seven years old.

Alex and I share a bathroom, and he has his own door connecting directly to the bathroom. We sometimes converse while I am using the facility, which, I have to admit was a little weird at first, but we both realized the convenience of discussing things like whose turn it is to take out the trash was worth the price of the slight initial awkwardness of the situation. But I think his girlfriend was pretty weirded out when Alex and I carried on a full two minute conversation about the suspected fake tits of a girl in our class while I sat on the can, dropping the Cosby kids off at that pool.

I always chuckle when I see headlines like the one in the Daily Trojan today: “LAPD Arrests Pantsless Man for Masturbating in Library.”

I work out at the Bally’s gym near my house and it happens to have three stories, so there is an elevator, presumably to allow handicapped people to reach the free weights on the third floor. So yesterday I was doing some cardio on the ground floor when I saw a man get off the stairmaster, and, I shit you not, take the elevator up.