Ye Nob Hill Inn : Part 1

The Real Animal House: The Awesomely Depraved Saga of the Fraternity That Inspired the Movie
by Chris Miller

Thirty years after Animal House showed the world the meaning of toga, Chris Miller, a.k.a Pinto, takes us back to a different world. A world where a legendary frat brother really might go to a sorority house for a sympathy date after reading an obituary. Or slather himself with mustard and crawl around the dance floor looking for women to bite. Or practice for the distance-booting event. Or find unheard of ways for improving the party punch recipe. All while working towards the ultimate college goal: losing your virginity at last.

Writing with a freshness and joy that makes Dartmouth, 1960, feel like rock 'n' roll heaven on earth, Chris Miller tells the story of the Alpha Delta house as no one else could. Seal, Doberman, Otter, the legendary Moses (he of the burning bush...) - these titans and dozens of others come alive again, taunting cops, surviving their own lunacy, and challenging the squareness of a stifling time. The Real Animal House is the perfect antidote for a conventional age much like today.

Chapter 1

"THE MOST IMPORTANT THING when you go to college," Ace Kendall declared, "the single most important thing"- he paused for effect -"is never, ever to join a fraternity."

I shifted in my seat. Ace's assertions were making me uncomfortable. They tended to do that. "Yeah, well, easy for you to say. They don't have fraternities where you go. At Dartmouth, that's all there is."

"Hey, man, go hiking. Write a poem. Plant a tree. There're all kinds of things to do without wasting your time drunk in some smelly frat-house basement." When Ace smiled, he looked like a devil, only a blond one.

"Ace, what are you talking about? You're drunk now. You like being drunk."

"True, but this isn't a fraternity. This is Ye Nob Hill Inn." Indeed it was. The jukebox, with its great forties jazz sides, was blasting away. Jan the bartendress was shaking up drinks. The electric Ballantine beer sign was making its bouncy arcs of color on the wall. Having all recently turned eighteen, my three best high school friends and I were ensconced in a booth, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.

"And," Ace went on, "I'm with friends I chose. Guys I came to know naturally, over four years at Roslyn High. Unlike in a fraternity, where you have to like whoever they pledge, whether you really do or not."

"Ace, what is this animus toward fraternities?" said Josh. "Can't you ever live and let live?" Josh, up at Rochester, was already in a house, one of the Jewish ones. He was a weight lifter who made fun of weight lifting. Still, he enjoyed it when his highly developed pecs, abs, biceps, triceps, lats, and what-have-you drew attention on the street.

"Oh, he's just trying to be boho." Froggie, in his Ivy League clothes and Ivy League haircut, looked like a model in a J. Press catalog. He was quoting what some dopey girl at a party one night had said when Ace attempted to recite Beat poetry. He hadn't gotten far.

Now, as then, Ace chose to ignore the comment. "I'll tell you. But first . . ." He signaled to Jan, who came right over. She was large and hearty. She and her husband, Eddie, ran the joint. Eddie looked like Jack Teagarden. Jan was Rocky Graziano with breasts.

"Hey, check it out." She nodded at the elevated TV, where Douglas Edwards was delivering the late news. "Man's got a badbreath face."

I considered it. Yes, by God, Douglas Edwards did have a badbreath face. It was something about his lips. Jan was often perceptive this way.

Ace ordered another round and Jan went off to get it. "Okay, fraternities. You have to be a conformist, man."

"You're right," said Josh. "Every last guy in my house is a Yid." "You know what I mean." Ace touched his soul patch reflexively with an index finger. "Plus, they discriminate. They're breeding grounds for prejudice and elitism. Bet you don't have any Negroes. Bet you don't have any guys with beards."

"We took a quadruple amputee last month, though," Josh said. "And there's this ax murderer we have our eye on."

"At Amherst," Froggie put in self-righteously, "there's at least one dwarf in every house."

"I stand by my point," said Ace. "If you're black, or weird, or, you know, a homo or something, you don't get into a house."

"A homo?" the rest of us cried. "Sure," Ace said. "They can't help being homos. Black guys can't help being black guys. Why shouldn't they get in fraternities too?"

I myself would soon have to decide about joining one. It was not an easy choice, and Ace's assertions were making it harder. But - "Ace, Dartmouth is this little island in the middle of nowhere. I don't need to plant trees - there's millions of them. Plus, the closest girls' school is an hour away. Half the time we're buried under blizzards. How am I supposed to live as an independent up there? If I joined a house, I might have some fun. You know, friends? Parties? Rock 'n' roll?"

"But those things are the bait, man. It's how they lure you in . . . and then, whomp, the jaws close and you're lost! First thing you know you're a corporate robot in a gray flannel suit who does what he's told, has two and a half kids, and lives in the suburbs. In a house made out of ticky-tacky!"

Copyright © 2006 by Chris Miller

About the Author

Chris Miller burst into the public consciousness in 1978 when he turned his fraternity memories into National Lampoon's Animal House. The movie detonated a cultural and cinematic explosion that's still echoing - for kids today are as nuts about the movie as the crazed collegiate hordes who turned the school year 1978-79 into one long toga party.