Con The Chancellor

Con The Chancellor

I don’t know how Scott’s Travel Blog has become Scott’s Sex Journal, but stranded in boring old Brisbane, is there much else to do besides booze and gossip?

Well, my story continues on from the night of chalking. Being the master politico I am, I decided to take this thousand dollar fine head-on. And I knew how: In honor of the Vice Chancellor’s impending retirement, my res-college would be holding him an honorary dinner. He’s in power, he’s drunk, he’s putty in my hands.

Step One: Schmooze with the Vice Chancellor’s wife. Corner her, grab champaign for two, and find common ground. Just so happens, the old crow has been to America. Wonderful, time to recount my memories and invent some new ones to correlate to hers. Ski in Colorado? I loved it! And of course the fall foliage in the Adirondacks is breathtaking. So, where’s your husband?

Step Two: Talk to the Vice Chancellor about his wife. Talk all about the fun things they have in common, and about how good of a conversationalist the lovely woman is. Now, don’t get me wrong. The VC’s wife actually was pleasant to talk to. She actually is a thoughtful, well-spoken, and clever woman. But I make no claims that I was doing anything besides brown nosing.

Step Three: Seal the deal. When he’s had enough of his own champaign, ask him about how he feels social justice has changed in his tenure. If I’m right about him, he prides himself on a liberal campus. But no, my lesbian friend came up to me in tears yesterday, telling me how they selectively erased her chalk and charged an exorbitant fine that cuts nearly all of the Queer Collective’s budget. Which is all true, if you replace tearful lesbian with cynical queen. But I need to tug on the ol’ heart strings. He agrees, tells me to email him tomorrow, and maybe get in touch with the Registrar here tonight, the man in charge of levying fines.

Break time. An academic and professional dinner of course comes with dinner. More wine, too. Two steaks, mashed potatoes, mediocre string quartet recital, and nearly a whole bottle of white wine on top of three glasses of cheap champaign. I’m ready to take on the Registrar.

Step Four: Pull rank. Seek out the Registrar, pry him away from the Warden (lest it all be discovered), and relay the Vice Chancellor’s “orders”. I don’t need to. As soon as I mention the price of the fine, he says “That’s not going to happen. We don’t give fines that big, especially for something like this. If UQ Union or Security ever tried to levy a fine that big, they’d have to deal with me.”

So basically, I wasted my entire night, and risked outing myself to the entire college, on a meaningless attempt to feel like a hero? Basically. In the end, the President of the Queer Collective convinced UQ Union to drop any fine.

But there’s a twist to the tale. My exploitation of authority figures was not completely unnoticed. A boy I’d suspected was gay from the beginning comes up to me and strikes up a conversation. We continue to down wine shots of fortified Port. The boy unsubtly mentions an ex-boyfriend, but my ethanol-ridden mind doesn’t realize how obvious it is.

Before I can make any move, the Warden comes up and proceeds to do what he does best: Waste our time. He even has the gall to try and assign me a homework assignment, after learning I was a school paper reporter back home. We smile and nod, enjoying flirting and touching right under the Anglican minister’s nose. Upon which apparently rests a thick set of wine goggles.

As soon as the Warden wanders off to his next victim (or dog, but interchangeable), the subtle leaves. “How about you show me your room?” I hope he got a good look at the ceiling.

But this may have been a mistake. Hooking up within the college? At the Academic and Professional Dinner? Sure, that’s an accomplishment to gloat about, but at what price? Hedonism now, but it comes back to bite me in the ass…