Prepare for a tale of high adventure between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis, before the rise of the sons of Aryas and right before the first time Veishea was almost canceled.

It was 1988, and all over town, students were binge-drinking like it wasn’t anybody’s business — because it wasn’t. We were operating under the strange notion that we were adults and could do what we bloody liked.

Back in them days, Veishea was a four-day event with a parade for the old folks, displays on campus for — the people who set them up, a battle of the bands on campus, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” on the terrace and drinking at night for all to enjoy.

Not to taunt the shrinking violets who dismiss civil libertarians as alcoholics, but they should understand that it IS possible to oppose violence and stupidity and still believe in the individual’s right to engage in legal activities.

There is even a place where sophisticated people drink and aren’t judged as immoral for it, and it’s called EUROPE! So please dispense with the moralizing because it’s almost as boring and sad as people who brag about how they intend to get smashed.

Anyway, it was a warm night back in the spring of ’88, and no one was expecting things to get out of hand. I was at a party on Hayward, drinking Jim Beam with my friend, Pete, and some English guy called Darrell who ran off with my bottle and left me with a bitter distaste of all things English ever since. We ran into a football player who snuck us into Cy’s. I couldn’t believe I was really there. When I go there to this day, I feel the same way.

At 2 a.m., they kicked everyone out of every bar in town while the cops did the same to a buttload of parties on Welch, some with hundreds in attendance.

This brilliant move guaranteed that thousands of drunk students would be on Welch Avenue. at the same time, madder than a busload of nuns at a cussin’ contest wondering what everyone was doing on the street at the same time.

Out of the darkness, a spark ignited a 30-foot bonfire in the street in front of what is now Stomping Grounds. Pete almost crapped ’em because he was buttoned down pretty tight. Crowds made him nervous. He’s the kind of guy who would be GLAD to let his wife buy all his clothes. Nice enough but a real butt-plug.

By the time a couch landed on the fire, Pete had had his fill of anarchy. Much like Piggy in “The Lord of the Flies,” he was the sensible one with glasses who knew he’d get his ass kicked in a state of nature so he took off like a lemur — and how!

Pete was afraid the cops suddenly would arrest all 1,500 of us. Like a drunk Svengali, I convinced him to give me his keys because he was in no condition to drive. I told him to go home if he wanted, and he did. Five minutes later, he came back looking for his keys because he thought he might have lost them. He asked if I had seen them anywhere and would I help him look on the ground. I faked it. So Pete walked all the way back to South Fifth while I stayed on to do some “rioting.”

Even our “riots” were lame. We moved down Welch chanting “All the way to Lincoln Way” (unaware of what a bad rhyme that was) slowed only by the cops who wanted to contain us. When they stopped, we left. I drove home in time to see Pete trying break into our apartment. He was so relieved he hadn’t lost his keys and never realized they were in my pocket.

There was a sense of community in that crowd. Critics called it a primitive display of barbaric behavior and it was. We need a tangible sense of community. Most of us grew up (tight) in Iowa. We need to loosen up before necrosis sets in. Most cultures dance or hunt or something together. Not ours. Unless you count the debilitating effects of square dancing or the meat-market club scene in real cities. Most cultures engage in group activities that release tension and builds solidarity. What do WE have to blow off steam? Jack.

Let’s face it, the Veishea chokehold would be illegal in the WCW. The only thing more frustrating than never celebrating life is to call what we do around here “celebrating.” That kind of double talk is where Orwell made his money.

Every once in a while you have to cut loose — footloose. Let’s not cancel Veishea; let’s acknowledge that students have two things: cable and some legitimate complaints.

Let’s use Veishea to work out our issues in the largest student-run group counseling session in the United States. Maybe someday we all can get together and celebrate “us” without some “tsk”-ing old man and a dozen armed cops there to disapprove.

Until then, thank God for “Cinemax After Dark.”

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Greg Jerrett is a graduate student in English from Council Bluffs. He is opinion editor of the Daily.