We all know the life cycle of the couch, or Americanus cushionus longus: showroom, front room, basement, boulevard, university-area porch. The last steps are still a mystery; researchers have never observed the process by which a couch migrates from a boulevard in Burnsville to Dinkytown, but apparently the cushions send ultrasonic signals to cash-strapped collegians.
Now some say the final destination results in community eyesores: as reported by Steve Brandt in this newspaper, Minneapolis council members are considering ordinances that would restrict the natural habitat of couches, and forbid their placement on porches.
If you ever lived in one of those dim, filthy rooming houses -- a grand old single-family dwelling carved up into 36 rooms smelling of beer and socks -- you probably had a sofa on the porch.
A smelly, mouse-ridden thing covered with ghastly fabrics that look like they had skinned Gene Rayburn or some other '70s game-show host.
The couch was a necessary element for having a morning brewski while skipping class and watching the girls pass by on their way to productive lives. That's why we call them failure sleds. You have a couch on the porch, you're twice as likely to drop out, and five times more likely to make up fake statistics and publish them in a newspaper.
Yes, I lived in a house with indoor furniture outside. The hockey players who lived on the ground floor had stuff that looked like it fell off the Joads' truck, and we tired of looking at it; one winter night, in a fit of enthusiasm, we arranged it all on the front lawn, with extension cords to power the lamps.
The athletes came home from practice and saw their stuff sitting in the snow. Ha ha! Great practical joke.
They beat three of us senseless, but it was all in the collegiate spirit of "hijinks."
