I should have drawn into a co-op. I love the outdoors, all my friends live in one and I’m an English major. All of these factors make me a prime candidate for co-op life. And yet, the co-op life has not been for me. I guess I’m a co-op groupie. Of course, the last time I was a groupie it was for this dark heavy metal band back in high school. We were so into it, we had this suicide pact...and well, I sure miss those guys.

But the fact remains: I don’t live in a co-op. I think it comes from a deep-seeded fear of using jars, bowls or gourds as drinking receptacles. It began as a child, when my mother caught me drinking from my cereal bowl and said “Don’t be a dirty hippie.” And then she beat me with a Phish record, which also probably explains a lot.

Co-op people are usually friendlier and nicer than I am. That bugs me. For example, if you had a really bad day in a dorm, you would shut your door and listen to your music. Not so in a co-op, because it’s all shared space. Your door cannot be shut because your door has been removed by magical community gnomes. By midnight, these same gnomes will have baked you bread and knit you a scarf.

When I visit co-ops, I can never leave. Most of this draws from not knowing where I am. Many co-ops reject the conventional idea of numbering rooms in the same way that Flicks rejects conventional ways of making money. Co-ops prefer room names like “Enchanted Cupboard,” or “Happy Place” or “Sex Palace.” None of these rooms live up to their name. The cupboard has no magical Indian, the Happy Place was full of guys working on problem sets, and the Sex Palace had two members of the Stanford Solar Car Project. The names are a bit misleading, in my opinion. I think my room would be called “Bastion of Bitterness.” Or possibly “Squid Factory,” but that’s because this is a humor column and I think that just sounds funny.

I can’t do the vegetarian thing. And the whole “consensus” thing? Yeah, that isn’t happening. For those who don’t know, some cooperative communities make all major decisions by consensus — everyone must agree on the course of action. Personally, I think any group over two creates a mathematical impossibility of agreeing on something as simple as pizza toppings, but I guess bigger issues like living arrangements are much easier to get everyone to agree on. And if everyone agrees hairy naked guy should put on some fucking pants when he cooks, can he still vote no and the motion not carry?

Some co-ops bake bread, which is awesome. Unfortunately, it is always healthy or natural, which to me equals “non-tasty.” It never is the coco-puff banana bread I enjoyed as a child, which my mother carefully made from the finest in Wonder Bread, non-organic bananas and frosted chemical compounds in nugget form.

Also, co-ops are naturally social places. They are always well stocked in tea, have open kitchens and sometimes make other things. They are exciting places — with dancing people and face paint and fire dancers and fire couches and (later on) fire men. I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of life. I don’t mind living in Lantana, where I don’t know my neighbors, their names or their “World of Warcraft” alter-egos.

Alright, maybe I missed out on something big and grand at Stanford. Maybe I should have drawn into a co-op, sucked up the weekly jobs, turned in my plaid jackets and chain belts for tie-dye shirts and creative facial hair. Maybe I should turn down the RX Bandits and give hugs while listening to some kind of hippie crap — I dunno, something about a disaster involving string cheese?

I’d make a terrible hippie, but I do feel like co-op life would have been pretty awesome. As an ally of the co-op scene, I’ll still go to your houses, drink your tea (from a cup, dammit) and be friends with all of you. I invite everyone to visit a co-op and meet the interesting people, enjoy the unique viewpoints and try to leave the friendly atmosphere — no really, I’m still trying to find the fire exit here. Send help, and bread.

Chris thanks his co-op friends for helping him write this column. Send complaints to cholt@stanford.edu.