HSU, APD, and DTA

Hello, internet!
I live in a small college town in Northern California. It's a picturesque place nestled in redwood trees, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The university specializes in churning out hippie-type degrees like Environmental resources Engineering, Forestry, and Wildlife Management. Our county has the largest proportion of artists to any other professionals in the state and we have a reputation for producing some of the finest herbal supplements in the country.
The town itself is small, centered around a grassy plaza. All kinds of events take place there, arts festivals, live music shows, weekly farmers’ markets in good weather, and sudden flashmob drug-fueled parties at every holiday. This uncommonly sunny January morning (traditionally it rains straight through October to April) I can hear strains of a Janis Joplin/Beatles cover band being broadcast over speakers from the inviting crossroads. Young, hemp-sack toting couples are strolling the street beneath my second story balcony, enjoying the good weather they may or may not have lit incense or sacrificed an out-of-towner in the city sewers for. I live in a one bedroom apartment just three blocks from the city center on one of the two main one way streets that span the 'burb. And now, I gaze across the street to regard the great paradox of all that I've described to you: the Frathouse of Dreams.
The cigarette buttes on the steps, the flattened Keystone boxes displayed in mosaic on the living room walls, this beige building might be overlooked by the unaccustomed eye, but in my daily sights it has become both a joy and a much loathed thing. In charting my experiences with and observations of the house and its dime store urbanite denizens, I begin this blog unmaliciously and purely for my own amusement purposes.

Viva la FH!